Whenever I write, it seems to happen. That old pen, the one with the dragon wrapping around it that sits hidden in the back of my closet, always comes to mind. It isn’t really something that stands out usually. It is simply a fancy desk pen: the kind that smudges and bleeds ink and doesn’t write well. Yet…I saw a glow from there one day while I had taken my good pen to paper…

I later realized something: that’s where he lives. My muse resides inside a pen I never use. Ironic huh? Wanna know what’s worse? He calls himself Pendragon. Real original. Of course that isn’t his name, only the translation. I can’t pronounce his real name…it is in some language I can’t read…or speak. But that’s not really important…

I do know that he is old though. Pendragon isn’t some arbitrary name. He protected a pretty famous family when England was new. A dude name Author? Yeah…I thought some of you would know about him. He was their family guardian…so he took up their name. It was Merlin that created the pen as a habitat for him. And away the dragon was sent…how he ended up here…is a mystery that I don’t intend to unravel…or undo.

He has three forms and takes them depending on what I take to writing. His first, and most noticeable, is that of a giant dragon-like the ones from a medieval picture book you read to kids. He has this pair of dazzling violet eyes that contrast sharply to the golden scales that cover most of his body. His spine is covered in sapphire scales though, as is the inside of his wings and some odd streaks down his chest. He is simply magnificent in this form…and what flows from my pen is something that equals his form: fiction of heart and mind on a novelish basis. He flies above in the skies-probably scaring people in airplanes-as I write. Battles of grandeur, duels of legend, feasts and failures all flow from this form.

When I take to my poetry…or to my essays, his form shrinks to that of almost a cat and he sits and watches me write. Sometimes he will dash around the room, clambour over things, and scare my cats. Other times, he will rest in my lap and let me stroke his scales as I move one hand across the keyboard in rapid succession. Other times, if I’m not at home, he will perch on my shoulder as I scribble in my illegible script on a legal pad. This is his most common form…the form in which I see him the most.

But the form I know him best in is when my romantic soul rises to the surface. He becomes human…almost. His golden scales soften and make for almost flesh…his eyes round a little more, his sapphire scales turn to hair, and his size becomes almost perfect for sitting in a chair and chuckling as I write. It is then that I feel most at peace. It is then when I write at my best. It doesn’t happen often…but I know that form best. And sometimes…when I really need the encouragement…and the support…and the ideas…he comes up behind me…wraps his arms around my chest…rests his head on my shoulder…and hums lightly…stirring my mind…and my heart.