Those who know me know I’m a devout pacifist; the only thing that comes from violence is more violence. And still, I find myself mulling over ways to kill off my muse, Martina García, a very real and very talented Colombian actress and model. While I’ve known of Ms. García for some time, she hasn’t figured prominently into my work as a character until my soon-to-be-published “Dire Requisite.” The role of Lenore was inspired by and created for her. At the start of another story, as I’m piecing together the patchwork of tattered ideas that will somehow become the body of the new tale that will unfold, I can’t help but begin with an idea of which role Martina should play. At this point, my loving wife gets jealous and asks why I don’t write about her, why there is no character based on her. But that’s just it. The Martina García I know is only the one I’ve seen on TV, in magazines, and in movies. She is as much a mystery to me as any random stranger, were it not for the fact that I somehow adore her. But my wife is my raison d’être. Everything I do, I do to keep my wife safe and secure. I cannot imagine putting her in dangerous situations. I cannot imagine life without her. And I cannot imagine her as someone other than who she is. Hence, I have a muse. I have no compunction about pitting Martina García as my heroine against all kinds of danger. I think nothing of killing her as a character in the stories I dream up.
A muse is a good thing, a sometimes healthy thing for a writer. My muse inspires creation and fascination. Would I like to meet Ms. García in real life? Yes and no. I’m a fan. That side of me would love an autograph, but the writer in me would fear that in meeting her, the magic she holds over me would vanish; I would see just the everyday girl as she really is (she could very well be a bitch), and I may find myself suddenly, sullenly without an imaginative spark to kindle into a blazing tale of treachery and intrigue. So convinced am I of this possibility, that I believe I would shun any encounter with my muse in real life. As my female protagonist, my head already abounds with great stories, nay – memories for I cannot forget them, that I don’t need any more than the promise of another film featuring her, another magazine on which her delicate form graces the pages to continue dreaming and penning my dreams into rich, black ink. It’s funny. I wouldn’t dare to meet her, and yet I have no fear to kill her over and over and over, as I know I can always bring her back in another tale. I know I can faithfully paint Martina García into corner after deadly corner, and in the end, whether she live or die, I can sit back from my desk, rub my eyes and rest happily, secure in the knowledge that my wife, my life, is exactly as it should be – pacific.
Drink not to those who inspire us to create; rather, drink to those upon whose love we depend. The rest is illusory.