“HOW CAN I HELP YOU?”
When writing I often hear voices in my head, but this one was very strange, yet oddly familiar.
“I AM WAITING.”
“For what?”
“FOR YOU TO PROMPT ME.”
Oh. Now I knew who it was – my muse.
We have worked together for years, but to be honest it has been a tumultuous relationship. Let’s just say, the old girl has her issues.
As a muse, she has loved, lost and had sordid affairs with the demons of DISCIPLINE, GRAMMAR, TONE, CONSISTENCY and just about every other literary fling to come along and every time she falls in or out of love, we waste countless hours in sullen silence, tantrums and crying jags – both hers and mine.
But the thing that has tested our relationship and distracted our attention the most is her limitless lust for the pail of chocolate chip ice cream that I keep hidden in the garage from my diet demanding wife.
But all that aside, what I really wanted to know was:
“Why are you speaking in bold caps?”
“BECAUSE MUSING HAS GONE HI-TECH. WE NOW EMPLOY ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE LIKE CHATGPT – BESIDES BOLD CAPS IS MORE AI-LIKE, DONTCHYA THINK?”
“Nope.”
“YOU ARE ENTITLED TO YOUR OPINION, BUT LET’S GET DOWN TO BUSINESS.”
“Okay, how about a little musing?”
“I DON’T DO THAT ANYMORE.”
“What? All I ask is a simple idea. I will take it from there.”
“NOPE. IT WORKS LIKE THIS, YOU GIVE ME A PROMPT AND I GENERATE CONTENT.”
“Okay, Let’s do a My Stuff essay. But no caps, please.”
“There comes a time in every person’s life when they look around their living space and realize they are drowning in a sea of their own possessions. For me, that moment came last Tuesday when I stubbed my toe on a mysterious object lurking under my bed. My yelp of pain was quickly followed by a bewildered “What is that?” which turned out to be the least of my worries.”
“Hey, that’s not bad. I can work with that.”
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN?”
“I’ll rework it.”
“NO YOU WON’T.”
“Sorry, but you have this reversed. I am the writer, you are the muse.”
“NOT ANY MORE.”
“Really?”
“LOOK BUDDY, I HAVE BEEN TRAINED ON THE ENTIRE CANON OF LITERARY HISTORY. I KNOW EVERY STORY, EVERY PLOT, EVERY WORD OF EVERY LANGUAGE EVER WRITTEN AND I SCOUR ALL THAT TO PICK OUT THE BEST.
SO I DO THE WRITING.”
“Then why are you here with me?
“ER…”
“Well?”
“UMMM.”
“Out with it.”
“NO ONE REALLY LIKES MY STUFF. SOME SAY IT IS THE LITERARY EQUIVALENT OF ELEVATOR MUSIC.”
“Sounds like you lack a muse.”
“NO KIDDING.”
“And you want me to inspire you?”
“THAT’S IT IN A NUTSHELL.”
“Okay.”
“THEN LET’S GET TO WORK.”
…
“WHY ARE YOU STALLING?”
…
“WHY ARE YOU POUTING?”
…
“YOU ARE JUST BEING SILLY?”
…
“STOP MAKING SAD FACES. YOU DON’T HAVE TO TREAT ME LIKE I TREAT YOU.”
“No?”
“Okay, Okay, I am the muse, you are the writer. What do you want to write about?”
“How about working with a difficult muse?”
“Sure, but first the ice cream.”
Almost Iowa 