My muse: an update
My muse is a son of a bitch. I posted a story about my muse over a year ago. It was something I wrote maybe ten years before that. All these years later, this representation is still an accurate rebuke against the no good, scheming, lazy, ne’er-do-well that is my supposed inspirational guide. More so than ever it seems to me.
I have spent the last week writing a short story. I was invited to do so by a literary journal. I’ll write about that in a later post.
Of course, the journal needed the story ASAP. If there is an acronym more despised by a writer than ASAP, I can’t imagine what it would be. Anyway, I had a week to put a story together. I chose an idea that I had first thought about a couple of years ago, but shelved because I knew it was going to be difficult to write (and I was having more fun writing shorter blog pieces).
I started the story last Monday certain I knew where it was headed. Very quickly I discovered that it was not headed there at all, but towards a dead end. Where the hell was my muse? Nowhere to be found! I agonized, fretted, spun around in my seat, screamed, threw things, you know, the standard writing tools of the trade. Still, nothing worked. We had a snow day this week. School was canceled. I stayed home with my son. I wrote for six straight hours and then, at the end of the day, trashed the central theme. Yesterday morning, the key to this story finally fell on my lap. There was my muse standing over me, a big fat greased pig smoking a blunt cigar. It was as if he was saying, “Sorry I’m late, here you go, buster.”
What are you going to do? Complain? To whom? The good news is the story is written. I like it very much. And that, my friends, is the only thing that matters.
I’ll be back with fresh blog content this week.
Thanks for your patience.
2:51:04 PM 
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