It happened rather suddenly and in a way that was both electric and disturbing. We were watching a harmless little film called, "Stranger than Fiction" when something joggled my brain.
"Hey..." she whispered.
"Remember...remember when you wanted to write the great American novel?" the voice quarried.
How could I have forgotten?
It's a sad truth that living; my life/their lives, have run away with my time and writing just isn't something I do much of these days.
Writing for free
Writing for pennies
Writing for the sake of writing
It was the fear that first crippled and angered my muse. She was a fragile thing, after all. Asthmatic, diabetic, arthritis riddled was she. Poor, old, fairy godmother in a torn and tattered dress with wings of pink silk and shoes of brown leather.
Still I ignored her. I told her I didn't have time for all that silly tripe. I told her I was busy. I had a job. I had a family. I was important and have responsibilities. I told her I wasn't much of a writer and she'd be better off nagging someone else.
She shot a glare at me from her crinkly, tanned face. I noted that her hair, which had been a fiery red, once upon a time, was now a dirty gray.
When had she aged and why did I have to have this ancient, moody, bitter old sow for a muse? Truly, don't others have beautiful, sultry muses who inspire instead of nag? If so, where can I get me one of those?
Barnes and Noble?
"You've sold out. THAT is your problem." she croaked as she folded her wand and stuffed it none to carefully into her satchel.
"There was a time when words flew from your fingers and stories flowed sweetly from your lips. Now...now you simply live...What a waste." she grumbled as she stomped out the door.
So, thanks to that little film and the writing bug it awakened within, I'm looking for my muse. You can't miss her. She has a terrible temper and a somewhat foul mouth. She's been known to swill tea by the gallon and still believes that Dean Martin is all that and more .
Aside from the her pink wings and her crinkly face you'll note that she has the most amazing shoes. Soft leather, slightly pointy toes with a four inch heal that rivals any hooker's shoe on the boulevard. They change color depending upon her mood and actually twinkle from time to time. Many a five-year-old girl have squealed with joy upon seeing them.
I have no idea how she moves in them, but she does, and with a grace and flow that would shame a beauty queen.
It was such a little thing. Just a bit of good writing from a not so popular movie and now here I am.
If you see my muse, tell her I said, "Hey." Let her know that I just might be willing to sit down with her and have a chat...if she's in the neighborhood...and has the time. Tell her I've got a cup of tea and lemon tart just waiting for her.