I have mentioned that the personification of my muse is something of a wild-eyed chain-smoking conspiracy nut that whispers crazy things in my ear. The thing is, like most muses, he's less than reliable when it comes to giving me what I need when I need it. More often, he gives me what I don't need when I don't want it.
Take a couple weeks ago. My plan was to go deep into the word mines and come out with a more polished draft of Maradaine Constabulary. Plan went awry, since I started hearing whispers of a grand empire that once spanned half a continent. Then there was a cataclysm, massive magicks shattering civilization. The only thing spared were a handful of outposts on a barbarian-populated island several hundred miles off the coast. (Massive magicks don't cross the ocean, you see.) Then, these whispers tell me about centuries passing on this island, until its civilizations grew to a handful of relatively peaceful monarchies in a renaissance of discovery and exploration. So now they cross this ocean to find a land filled with dangerous and fascinating creatures, wild and uncontrolled magic, and the ruins and remnants of a lost civilization.
What do these whispers have to do with Maradaine Constabulary, or even the city of Maradaine, or the world it's on? Nothing. Not a blasted thing. But it becomes a thing that gnaws and picks and hisses in my ear until I write some notes, give it enough of my attention to mollify.
Will I end up doing anything with this? Hard to say. History tells me that as an idea, it's going to sit in the back of my brain to germinate and ferment for a while before anything useful comes out. Which is good, because I still have to get finished with the rework of Maradaine Constabulary.