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.
No comments:
Post a Comment