Muse-ings
The Muse got off the couch long enough the other night to look over my shoulder as I flailed away at the keyboard trying to make cogent thoughts materialize from the flotsam and jetsam of my mind. I not only have brain damage, I think I have mind damage as well.
She still doesn’t understand why she is needed as a see-Alice for my flagging writing abilities.
“What’s the big deal?” she taunted. “So you have these 26 symbols you have to almost randomly group into sound-maps called words that stand for an idea or thing. Then you freight-train those groupings into sentences, paying attention to which cars you attach and/or sequence with other cars. Then you clump all those into paragraphs, which you stack on top of one another like cold cuts on rye, and Boom! You gotta story.”
I stared at her in disbelief.
“You really think it’s that easy to write?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said, stifling a yawn. “I sometimes wonder why I became a Muse out of college. I mean who needs the frustration? I shoulda gone into public relations.” She headed into the kitchen, no doubt to get a beer. I silently prayed there was only light beer left, which she hates. Some Muse.
I turned back to the keyboard, sans inspiration, and cut open a vein.