“Okay,” I say as I settle in for the bus ride home. I ran errands for Fiberwytch in the morning, but my afternoon is all for NaNoWriMo. I’ve got 10k to write between today and tomorrow (and funny how suddenly that doesn’t seem like so much. ‘Oh, I’ll do 2500 at one go, take a break, and do the next, today.’) “I’m going to knit, and listen to the music that is the soundtrack to this year’s NaNo, and figure out what scenes come next. How the heck am I going to get another 30k out of the stories I have left to cover.”
“You could start by covering some of the stories I wanted you to write about.” Poseidon looks out at the scenery as the bus pulls into traffic. The wetlands are saturated from the rain of the last few days and ducks are paddling around in puddles.
I open my mouth to offer a retort, but I can’t, because He is right. So far, I’ve written “safe” stories. Stories of His being sneaked away at birth to be raised, hidden from Kronos. Stories of Him learning the mysteries of the deep, of meeting Zeus, of working with Zeus. I’ve dared very little. I’ve glossed over bits of the more daring parts, and even those aren’t very daring.
“We’re not supposed to plan the stories out too much.” It’s a lame defense. I know it even as I speak. “I don’t want to edit as I go. I want to keep going forward.” Of course, we both know that I don’t need to write chronologically, I just have to write.
I turn the volume up on my music and catch Him looking at me in the reflection in the window. There’s too many emotions in His expression: bemusement that I think turning up the volume on my music is going to keep His words out; a mixture of frustration and amusement over my seemingly eternal dancing around topics He’d rather I’d take head on; patience, endless patience; stern determination that He’s going to get His way.
“You’ve skipped too many areas between My childhood and My going to study with Hekate,” He says. He leans against me so that our shoulders brush, a gentle, sweet touch to take away the sting that a reprimand might contain. He is careful, is Poseidon — He is huge, my god, and even the smallest words can crush. “I’m not too particular with the order in which you tell most of them, but Hers are not the only Mysteries I learned before my brothers and I went to war. . . ”
I know what He’s talking about, but I’m worried that the story won’t be interesting enough with so much, “and then I learned much from this goddess and that goddess.”
He grins. “You are not hesitating for fear of whether or not there is interest in the stories,” he calls me on my lie. “You are hesitating because they are stories that diverge from what has come down historically. It diverges from what is considered ‘the Lore.’ What is it w/We say about ‘the Lore’?”
I hit the repeat button to listen to a particular song again and try in vain to turn the volume up louder. It’s as high as it’ll go.
“Go home. Write. Get out of your own way, and remember most of all, you are writing these stories for Me. Can you deny Me what I ask of you? Will you deny Me?”
I snort laughter, because what else can I do on a bus full of people, and let Him tell me the stories He wants me to write . . . just as I would any other character wanting their story told.