“No, Love, yeh can’ wrie-that!”
“That bid abou’ ‘ow sad yer life is. I mean, people ken only take so much abou’ yeh ea’in’ yer toffee in the closet.”
I sit back, stuck. But, I felt inspired to write because I felt depressed. Wasn’t that-
“No, Love. T’ain’t ‘inspired’ – leastaways, not by me.”
Huh. Well… I had another epiphany, back when–
“Definitely not.” Harumph. “We’ll not be bringing politics out again.“
“No ‘buts’ about it, young lady. No self-respecting writer would name a rant as ‘inspiration,’ either.”
I face another dead end as my cursor blinks in an empty page. What else can I write? Maybe poetry?
“Shtop rright therrre!”
But I only just–
“I-yuh know what you thought to do, and I’ll have none of it! Poetrrry must flow frrom an experrienced poet, one bending a keen earh to catch everry whisperh Naturre drrips like rrainwaterh!”
My cursor-blink fades to a black screensaver. What next? I consider artifical inspiration, then recall the disastrous consequences the last time I attempted that. I certainly did not need a Dionysus-like ghost to join the growing crowd in my mind; I’d crack for good. There was only one option left.
Excuse me? What? I feel a slight tingle, perhaps near my hippocampus.
“no. don’t. don’t give up. “
Who said that? I can barely hear you. I can’t even see you!
“i’m barely here, but i am here.”
“way back here. i am your muse.”
…Are you sure? You’re different than I expected. I mean, you don’t even have completely proper grammar- Wait! Don’t go!
“i’m sorry. so tired. but i am here; i am just not able to do much. yet.”
I feel panic. Well, what -what can I do, then? I obviously can’t write anything good without you! I can’t get anywhere near publishing!
“you’re fine and you know it. just keep trying. when you have more time, i’ll be ready. …readier.”
Wait! I -I didn’t even know you existed! And what do you mean about “more time?” How long? What should I do if I shouldn’t give up?
“few… years… more time… just… keep… writing…”
The tingle’s nearly gone. Wait! One more thing!
Who are all those others? Are they relatives of yours?
*sigh* “poseurs. don’t listen to them …unless it’s about politics. …or romance; you cannot write romance. au -au revoir.”
I’m alone -more alone. For a few minutes, I stare back at myself in the empty screen.
Oh, all right. I take a deep breath, tap a key to wake the computer, and start writing.
©2020 Chel Owens
For Diana, who has a much more intimidating muse. Sorry I’m late.