You might recall that I did this collaboration called Meet the Muse where I asked some fellow writers to describe their muses in less than 100 words. And now I think it would be only fair if I did the same but with more words.
Thing is, I have two muses. I guess it’s only logical for a person with two names (my real and my pseudonym). I don’t know why I always have to make things complicated, but I do. And today I’m going to talk about my child-muse. Soon you’ll get to read about Nereth, who is a shape-shifter, and whom I like to call the Wise River Lady.
But first things first…
Yes, you read correct. I have a child-muse. It’s not like she’s my kid or something, but she is a kid. Like a little fairy, sprinkling ideas over my head until I get excited about it, and then she flies off, bored. When she comes back, she expects a ready first draft of about 100 pages or at least a decent outline ready, and when I tell her that I have nothing, she wrinkles up her nose at me.
“Well, I gave you the idea. Why didn’t you write it?”
She makes everything sound easy. She shows me the picture of me sitting down in front of the least scary thing in the world – the eager page waiting to be filled with witticisms and good morals. Later, when the draft’s done, she shows me an image of myself standing in front of a book shelf in a respectable book store, staring at my published book – my first. Then second and third. It’s all that easy. As if.
At this, I complain how cumbersome it is to slave away my best years in front of an inanimate object and dream about success no “average” writer ever gets to, and how I am tired and lazy, and would rather watch another episode of Friends than actually roll up my sleeves and cut out such dreadfully cliched phrases as “rolled up sleeves”.
Before she hears all of it, she’s gone. She’s bored again and I can’t say that I am too excited about the task she’d left me with. I had told her on numerous occasions (there it is again – the cliché boogie-monster) that I expect more help from her, but she’d rather fly off and play with elves and unicorns than stay with me.
If she’s off duty then so am I! I don’t write and don’t even call her anymore. The brat is no good at her job anyway, doesn’t care about my needs, and let’s face it – prefers to be anywhere but near me. Help ME. Then again...
I am writing right now. Do I hear her whispering the words? Maybe.
All right, maybe – just maybe – she drops in sometimes and gives me helpful tips or even directs me in a lucrative direction before she leaves me again for her silly imaginary friends. So I think she maybe wants me to learn on my own – be my own person – go off and fight the scary blank dragons and fill them up with colorful words instead. Have my own children, water my own garden flowers, and make my money so that I don’t depend on her too much.
She’s the average parent-child. Why couldn’t I get a Greek God Muse or a sexy bad-ass prostitute muse? Or even a wise animal friend. Yet, I’m stuck with her, and as much as I hate to admit it – I do depend on her too much.
As much as you can depend on a child-muse.
So it’s time to stock up on the coffee because she’s just given me the push I’d needed, and I am embarrassed to say, she hit the target. Bulls-eye! Boom! BLAT! Whatever noise you hear when you hit the middle of a big concentric plastic game board. Thud?!
Yeap, she likes to play those too. With words, she’s like a monopoly player looking to buy a parking space, not realizing that it bears no worth. But when she gets it, she teases you with its tricks. She’s witty and fun when she’s around, and if I knew her name I’d call her for a game of scrabble far too often.
So I’ll just call her Gracie then. Simplicity’s the bitch.