The Muse gives me her best
I was working on a piece that addressed the issue of the failing financial health of newspapers when I felt the presence of my Muse at my elbow.
For most writers, knowing your Muse is at your side as you type is a wonderful and rare thing. If it weren’t for her onion breath and the fact that her presence at my side probably wasn’t to inspire, I would have been thrilled. I was fairly certain it meant we were out of beer.
“Those publishers are in the middle of an Egyptian river,” she cackled, while running her fingers through her greasy hair and chewing on sunflower seeds. She was reading over my shoulder again, though she knows I hate that. Inspire me and then get the hell out of my way was what I wanted, but I didn’t get either one.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“It’s obvious,” she said. “They’re in deNile….” Then she exploded with laughter. She loves her own jokes. She spit out a few sunflower seeds on my keyboard during a particularly boisterous paroxysm.
I just sat, arms crossed until she regained control.
“That’s not that funny,” I said. “Lots of really good people in the newspaper business are trying to find a way to keep newspapers alive.”
The Muse sighed.
“They been givin’ it away for years on the web, and now they want people to pay? HA! That ain’t gonna happen. Yer wastin’ yer time.”
“Well, thank you very much for your help and inspiration,” I said.
“Don’t go all sarcastic on me now Captain of the Good Ship Jejune. Get me some more beer and then you can go back and save the news biz with your mellifluous prolixity.” She headed back to the stain that represented her spot on the couch.
“Say,” I said to her receding back, “the agency never called back about stopping the contract renewal, did they?” I was so disgusted with this Muse that I couldn’t wait to send her back.
“Yeah, they called yesterday while you were on that beer run. Don’t worry, I said you wanted another three months. Now get back to writin’ that crap before you miss yer deadline and yer editor — whatsizname, Shrike — calls again.”
At least she knows her literature. I headed out for more beer. What else could I do?
(To be continued)