A Conversation with my Muse

"What the hell is this crap!" he cried.

A russet-haired old man peered over my shoulder at the soda-stained papers scattered on my desk.

"I did not raise you to write such substandard garbage! You can do better than this dribble!" he growled.

"I'm trying," I said "Its just not coming. I guess I have writer's block----"

"You don't have writer's block, you pussy. Writer's block is just another word for fear. You have to forget your fear in the writing." he said.

"What do you want me to do? I'm a failure at this, and I'll never succeed. Why would anyone publish some hack teenage wanna-be!" I replied.

He stared at me dumbfounded for a moment before his eyes hardened.

"Failure? You don't know the meaning of failure! I've never let you give up yet, and I damn well ain't going to let you start now. Tiff, you have great promise to write good stuff. You can write your feelings without reverting the usual "nobody-loves-me-nobody-understands-me" shtick. Don't just write, tell a story." he said.

I stared at my paper. A line appeared in my head. I deliberated on whether I should follow it.

"Go for it." he whispered unexpectedly.

"Follow the path and see where it leads. Once you have it down, then comes the fun part: Rhyme, alliteration, iambic pentameter, imagery, stream-of-consciousness, use it all if you want. Overdo it, underdo it. I don't care just as long as you just do it!" he said.

"That sounds like a disaster in the making" I replied doubtfully.

"Trust me. I got this special dust that provides the inspiration, with help from your experiences, of course. Soon your characters will come alive, and they'll help pull you along as well." he paused. "Or if you keep up your attitude then I'll just go back to my room to admire my bowling trophies, and laugh about how my average is 50 pins above yours."

"And I'm just here for the inspiration. I"m not here to do your job for your, so make sure you edit and rewrite that before you show me again, understand?" He stared at my back as I ignored him.

"These young people today...no respect...and me being with her since she was a baby...before she could ever write!...jeez I could be having drinks with Calliope or what's-er-name...." he grumbled. He stood and stared sourly at me as I continued my story on another paper.

Squinting his eyes, He smiled and sprinkled a dust that glittered like tiny stars over my head as I concentrated on the paper before me. He turned and limped back to his room mumbling under his breath.

"About time....I'm too old for this Muse business... a couple of millenias old and they assign me to a new charge....and after 17 years she finally writes something about me...."