The
Muse
Definition:
Any of the nine daughters of Mnemosyn and Zeus, each of whom
presided
over a different art or science.
So,
there he sat once more, staring at a blank screen and wondering what
to write.
As
the cursor pulsed hypnotically he thought he caught a whiff of cigar
smoke.
Sniffing
the air again he said "that smells like those cheap King Edward
cigars my
Dad
used to smoke."
"These
ain't cheap! This is a Macanudo and cost about four bucks.” came
the voice
from
behind him.
He
spun around in his desk chair. "Who the hell are you and what
are you doing in
my
office?" as he reached for the phone to dial 911.
The
scruffy man spoke again, "I wouldn't call 911 if I were you,
besides Al, you don't
mind
if I call you Al do you? You are the only one who can see me. I am
your muse!"
he
said with a bit of a flourish.
Allen's
hand wavered, then his eyes narrowed as he took in the stranger's
words. He
hated
to be called Al, ever since that Paul Simon song. The stranger sat,
kicked
back
in the leather recliner, smoking a cigar and looking for all the
world like he
owned
the place. He had a three day growth of stubble and tufts of gray
hair over
his
ears but none on the top. He wore faded denim jeans, sandals, and a
sleeveless
tee
shirt that did nothing to hide his beer belly. From every hole in the
tee shirt
there
were more tufts of gray hair poking out. What made Allen hang up the
phone
was
not the mischievous smile that danced in those clear blue eyes, it
was the wings
that
were peeking out from behind him.
Just
then Allen heard his wife’s muffled voice through the door.
"Allen?
Is everything o.k. in there? I thought I heard you shouting."
He
called back to her, "Everything is fine, I was just trying a
piece of dialog out loud
to
see how it would sound." Allen never lied to his wife, but he
decided to make an
exception
in this case.
As
Allen looked more closely he saw that this muse was indeed making
himself at
home.
He was sitting in Allen's favorite chair, the overstuffed recliner.
Next to the
chair
sat a stack of magazines, a small cube refrigerator plugged into the
wall and
humming
away with a large ashtray on top of it.
He
looked at the muse and said, "It looks like you are taking up
residence." The
muse
just grunted and picked up a magazine from the stack and began to
read.
"Hey,
muse", Allen thought this is pretty lame but what else should he
call him. "You
got
a name or do I have to call you muse?"
The
muse slowly lowered his magazine and said, "Look Al, I‘m here
to inspire you
not
to make small talk. If you have to call me something make it Joe.
That ain't my
real
name but it will do."
Allen
thought the only thing you are inspiring me to do is have my chair
fumigated.
"Well
Joe, I like Allen and not Al. How did I end up with you anyway? I
thought that
all
of the muses were women. "
"Well
Al, thousands of years ago there were a lot less writers, poets, and
artists. You
get
the picture. Nowadays everybody and his brother thinks he can write
just
because
he has a freaking computer. So for quite a few years now they have
been
recruiting
some of the lesser magical folk to fill in. We have all been through
extensive
training, I've got a certificate somewhere. Anyways, as luck would
have it
you
got me. I think I will call you Al, it's part of my charm! I call
Stephen King,
Stevo,
just cause I know it irritates the shit out of him."
Allen
just stared at Joe.
"What!
Is my fly down or something?" Joe asked.
"You’re
Stephen King's muse?”
"Yeah,
it ain't a big deal. He puts on his pants one leg at a time just like
you and me.
Now
I‘ve got a lot of work to do, you see this stack of magazines, I
got to read all
these
stories and fill out a report on anyone who might have potential."
"I
thought you were supposed to inspire me to great creativity!"
"You
have been sadly misinformed Al. I am here to make sure you write.
Good, bad
or
ugly, it's all the same to me. Although I might suggest trying that
vampire thing
you
were thinking about in the shower this morning, it seemed like it had
potential.
You
should really write these ideas down when they come to you.”
"Wait
a minute, you can read my thoughts?"
"You
bet your sweet bippie I can, but most of it is pretty boring stuff.
Every once in
a
while you'll get a flash of inspiration, and it’s like a sky
rocket. You know, a lot of
noise
and flash but they don’t last long. You need to learn to listen
more to your
intuition
and me, when I tell you to write this shit down! Now start writing
something
and don't bother me anymore." Joe said that and no more for the
rest of
the
evening.
Allen
did manage to knock out about two hundred and fifty words that
evening. At
five
cents a word that would be twelve fifty, or five dollars an hour.
Great thought
Allen,
I'm working for less than minimum wage and putting up with Joe to
boot.
The
next night Allen went into his office. Looking around he saw no signs
of Joe. He
heaved
a sigh of relief. He then went to check his email. Waiting in his
mailbox was
something
from Joe. Reading it just made him aggravated, but he wasn't sure if
it
was
at Joe or himself. All the mail had said was "Stop wasting time
reading email
and
get to work!" Joe showed up about an hour later, much neater
than before.
Allen
said, "You got a date tonight?"
"What
makes you think that?" asked Joe as he bit off the end of a
cigar and spit it on
the
floor.
"I
mean look at you, khakis, a polo shirt and penny loafers. Socks would
just about
round
out this ensemble," Allen said. Then sniffing the air, "You
even splashed on
some
eau de fried onions."
"I
was at a staff meeting before I came here and we ordered out some
cheese steak
subs,
O.K.? Why don't you save some of those witty remarks for your story.
By the
way
how far along are you anyway?"
Allen
just shrugged and said, "Far enough, I was just getting to it
when you showed
up."
"That's
funny Al, I could have sworn you read my email about an hour ago.
Enough
of
this chit-chat, get to work."
Allen
when to work, partly to show this muse he could knock out the word
count and
partly
because he knew he had been goofing off. By the end of the evening he
had
nearly
one thousand words total. Not bad for two days he thought.
Just
then Joe's cell phone rang, waking him from a well deserved snooze
and making
Allen
jump in his chair.
"Hello.
What? No I can't, I have this Allen guy to take care of," said
Joe looking over
at
Allen. "O.K. if Wheeler says I have to, then I have to. O.K.
I'll be there tomorrow,"
and
he hung up.
"Hey
Al, I won't be here for a few days, you think you can get some work
done while
I'm
away? I shouldn't be gone more than three days."
Allen
was curious about what had called Joe away but would not let himself
ask. He
was
just glad to be rid of Joe for three days. Being glad that your muse
was leaving.
Was
that a good thing? Allen wasn’t sure. He turned toward Joe and
said, "I think I
should
have this nearly finished in three days." You may not need to
come back at all
Allen
thought because he didn’t dare say it out loud.
"Oh,
I’ll be back alright. Don’t you worry about that."
Allen
had forgotten that Joe could read his thoughts if he wanted to.
"I’ve
done enough for tonight. I’m going to bed. Night Joe."
"Night
Al."
The
next evening Al sat down at the computer to resume his tale. He had
only been
staring
at the screen for about five minutes when the lure of solitaire
beckoned him.
He
was in the middle of the game when he received an instant message.
This was
extremely
odd because he had no instant messenger client. A small window popped
up
in the middle of his screen with the following message: "From
Joe, Al stop with
the
cards already and get to work. The red three goes on the black four."
Allen
closed the message and saw the play that Joe had meant. Then he just
put his
head
in his hands and almost began to cry. He could not get rid of this
muse. He
decided
the only way to be rid of him was to finish the story.
That
evening he hardly got one hundred and fifty words strung together in
some
sense
of coherence before he gave up for the night. It was well after
midnight and
he
had been struggling with his story for more than three hours. "Way
less than
minimum
wage," Allen said to nobody in particular.
The
following day was a crummy day at work for Allen. He was tired and
didn’t want
to
write that evening. It had been two days since he had seen Joe, he
kind of missed
him.
At the appointed hour he went to his office to write, but his heart
was not in it.
Instead
of sitting down at the computer, he slumped down in the recliner and
promptly
fell asleep. It was nearly midnight when his wife tapped on the door.
"Allen?
Are you o.k. in there? Allen?" Just as she was opening the door
Allen woke
up
enough to respond.
"I’m
o.k. dear, guess I just dozed off here in the chair."
"Well
it’s time you were getting to bed, you have to go to work
tomorrow."
"I’ll
be right there." A big fat zero for word count today he thought,
guess he’d have
to
double up tomorrow night.
On
the third evening without a muse present Allen was beginning to think
he had
dreamed
him up while napping in the recliner. He’d had some inspiration in
the
shower
that morning and written it down. It was the best idea to come his
way for
some
time. Like a man grasping for a life line, Allen had held on to this
idea all day
just
waiting for the chance to expand it. He wrote non-stop for nearly an
hour and
when
he was done, he checked his word count. Close to twenty four hundred
words
total.
Not too shabby, he thought. That spurt of furious creative energy had
worn
him
out though. He saved his file and went to bed early that evening,
pretty well
satisfied
with his work.
At
the office the next day, Allen’s mind was not on his work. He was
writing and rewriting
the
ending of his story in his head. When he got home from work, his wife
was
out running errands so he went straight to his office. As soon as he
walked in
there
was a cloud of smoke, and Joe.
"Hey
Al, did you miss me?"
Allen
went right to the computer and began to type. "I don’t have
time for any of
your
chit-chat tonight Joe!"
Joe
grunted, blew a smoke ring and went back to his magazine.
Allen
typed away, oblivious to the presence of the muse. After about three
quarters
of
an hour he said, "done!" Saved his file, clicked on print
and watched the pages
chug
out of the printer.
He
handed the copy to Joe, who looked at it briefly and flipped to the
last page and
then
handed it back to Allen. Joe nodded his head and said, "I like
it, but what do I
know?"
Allen
just looked at him, trying to figure him out. "Why couldn’t
you have left it at "I
like
it"? I just don’t get it, I write my ass off and get a
critique from "Mr. Wishywashy."
"Look
Al, I think you've done good work here, but it ain’t for me to
judge. Think of
yourself
as an oyster, and me as the bit of grit. This story is your pearl.
Just like the
oyster,
you had no choice but to make it, it is what you do. Now whether this
pearl is
big
enough or round enough or shiny enough to end up around the neck of
some
wealthy
widow, I can’t say. It may only become a stick pin or cuff link. It
may not be
worth
mounting. I don’t know. What I do know is there is something inside
of you
that
makes you write, otherwise you wouldn’t have gotten me. Anyway, you
have
passed
your test. You can work with me or without me, but always know if you
get
really
stuck I will be here for you. While I was gone you could have just
quit, but you
didn’t.
You’ve got pluck, as we used to say. I got to get going, Stevo is
still having a
few
problems. Yeah, that’s where I’ve been for the past three days,
helping him out.
I
told him most of your vampire story, but I didn’t know how it ended
till tonight. He
said
he liked it so far, but wanted to know how it ended before he
pronounced
judgment.
So I’ll let him know how it ends and I’ll see you later."
With
that he was gone, only the faint smell of cigar smoke lingered. Allen
stood
there
with the story in his hand. He couldn’t believe he had finished his
first story,
that
Stephen King had liked it (so far), or that Joe could talk that much.
With more
bounce
in his step than he’d had in a while, Allen took is first story to
the person
who
counted the most, his wife. If she liked it, that was all that
mattered.