My Muse

My muse arrived late.

Our appointment was for 7:00 a.m.  but she didn’t stagger in until well after noon.

Rather than apologizing for being late, she flopped on the couch and moaned, “I need chocolate chip ice cream.”

That was the last thing I wanted to hear.

Three weeks ago, I banished a pail of chocolate chip ice cream to the freezer in the garage. It was a cruel thing to do to something I so dearly loved – but it was not really me who did it, rather it was my diet.

Now the ice cream was calling my name and apparently its plaintive cries had captured my muse.

“Absolutely not,” I told her, “I am sticking to my diet.”

Her reaction shocked me. She let out a wail and shook uncontrollably.

“It is only ice cream,” I told her.

“Noooo,” she cried, “it is not.  You are siding with HIM.”

“Who?”

“Discipline is MY muse or was.”  Her lips quivered as she tried to continue, “until we broke up.”

“A muse needs a muse?”

She struggled to speak through her tears.

“Tell me more,” I said, “because I am writing about you.”

“What?”

“I mentioned you in a blog comment on Myths in the Mirror and D. Wallace Peach (wonderful lady and fabulous writer) challenged me to write about you.”

Ohhhh,” she sobbed, breaking into a crying jag.

When she recovered, she confessed, “that was my guy she was writing about.”

“Wait a minute, you mean to tell me that Diana’s disciplinarian mercenary-muse-from-hell is your boyfriend?”

“Was my boyfriend.  We were a team.”

“A team?”

“I gave writers their spark of brilliance,” she said, pausing to wipe her eyes on her sleeve, “and he gave them discipline.”

“I don’t recall ever seeing him,” I said.

She shot me a scathing glance. “No kidding.”

I ignored her jab.

“But from what I read, the guy is a real hard-ass.”

“Well,” she said, renewing her scathing glance, “that is precisely what SOME people require.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Anyone can have an idea,” she explained, “but it takes discipline to pull it off.”

I changed the subject.  “So what happened?”

“He…he….he… started a training website,” she wailed, “it’s all about food, fitness and clicks, clicks, clicks, and (sob) no inspiration whatsoever.  Now, we are done, we are through, it’s OVER.

I tried to console her.

“But you still have me” I told her, “we always worked well together and don’t sell yourself short, you bring more than just a spark of creativity, sometimes I can see the entire shape of a story from just the first few words you provide.”

But she was inconsolable.  “He doesn’t need me anymore.”

“Good riddance,” I told her.

“And I need chocolate chip ice cream – like NOW!” she insisted.

I tried to protest but as the words, “remember my diet” struggled to form themselves in my mouth,  she shot me a look that struck like a bolt of summer lightening and the lust for chocolate chip ice cream became suddenly overwhelming.