I was minding my own business and reading the blogs when SFMystery had to bring up the subject of muses. I hadn’t talked to min in a good long while, and *pop!* … there she was, perched on my monitor, chubby legs crossed daintily at the knee. Normally, that would be charming, but MzMuze has never been to charm school. The only time I heard her laugh was when she put the idea of a story in my head where an elephant grabbed up a man and dashed the brains out of him on the cage bars.
She was still wearing her too tight tweed skirt, and a pink Rayon blouse, and a pair of scuffed mules completed the outfit. And she was scowling at me. But then, she always scowled at me.
“So there you are. I don’t think I’ve talked with you since Thanksgiving, last year.”
“You haven’t wanted me around.”
“Mmmm. Wonder why that is? It couldn’t be because you were overly charming.”
“You’re the one whom your buddies took up a collection to send you to charm school. As I recall, they four dollars and sixty cents. It wasn’t even enough for a round of drinks, and that was 1960 dollars!”
“I am sure that they were just being light hearted with me.”
She recrossed her legs, exposing what looked like white mushroom tops squeezing out of her hose, and tried a little flounce that didn’t quite work on top of the new LED monitor. The CRT finally died and I had to upgrade, but it was broad enough to hold that chubby butt.
“Hey, butthead. I can read you mind, remember?”
Quickly recovering, I shot back, “Garter belts went out five decades ago.”
“Hey, I’m your fantasy, heartthrob. Dress me anyway you like!” she sniffed.
“I need a muse, not a girlfriend.”
“You need a slave driver, King sloth.” She sneered.
“I just haven’t been in the mood.” I lamely retorted.
“You are never in the mood, from what I hear Snookums say.”
“Leave Snooks out of this!” I growled.
“Well, she’s the one who said it. She also said you spend entire days on the PC, and merely write drivel.”
“Yeah. I just can’t seem finish anything.” I answered dejectedly.
“That King Wendell piece showed some promise.” She said brightly.
“Yeah. But it turned out to be another epic. I just want to crank out thousand word essays. But there is only so many ways you can describe morning coffee.”
“Why not start a less ambitious project?”
“I tried short stories, but where do you market short stories these days?”
“Yeah. That is a rather archaic form. What about a formula novel? It might be an interesting write, and possibly one that you could complete.”
“You mean ‘boy meets girl’ ‘boy does something stupid and loses girl’ ‘boy rescues girl’ ‘they have passionate sex and live happily ever after’?”
“Yeah. Something like that. It is too late for you to write a new “The Sun Also Rises”. Hairy chested beer guzzling authors are out now anyway.
Well, do something besides lay around licking your ….”
“Hey!” I warned her.
“Well, it’s true, and you know it!” She said, gloating. She knew when she scored.
“I am sort of blogging again.” I whined.
“Yeah. I can tell. You almost write in complete sentences now.”
“It is called writing dialogue.” I corrected.
“It is called crappy grammar. But I barely concede that it is better than no grammar at all.” She said, waving me off.
“I’ll try to put something out after the Shabbat meal. Interested?”
“I am always interested, lover …”