April 4, 2006
The Muse
As any writer who’s been at it longer than five minutes will tell you, divine inspiration is wonderful, but the only thing that gets the book written is planting your butt in the seat and keeping it there.
Still, I have a muse. A lot of writers do. And while traditionally most muses are women, mine is a man. I would like to say that my muse is a beautiful Adonis, lounging about my brain on silk and velvet pillows, dressed in some sort of loincloth. He smiles and says encouraging things, cheering me on. But, alas, my reality is quite different.
My muse can only be found in an empty pub, the late afternoon sun pouring in the windows and glinting off the beer bottle clutched in his fist. He might be attractive, but in all honesty I can’t see his features through the perpetual cloud of blue-gray cigarette smoke, clinging to him.
For the most part, Muse laughs and heckles me from his barstool. He shouts things like, “You talentless hack!” Or the slightly less original, “You suck!” I do my best to ignore him, responding occasionally with an, “I don’t need you, anyway.” Or the slightly less original, “Shut up!”
But sometimes I throw my hands up and say, “You’re right. I do suck. I am a talentless hack!” Then, just when I’m about to give up and forget that I ever wanted to be a writer, Muse winks, stubs out his cigarette and leans forward.
Oh, the wonderful things he whispers.
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