I have this friend, and she is a great writer. She's currently experiencing a bout of writer's block and has challenged her writer friends to join her in a little writing exercise that has been successful in getting the writerly juices flowing for her in the past. See her latest post...it's hilarious!
With how infrequently I've been writing of late, I'm not sure that I qualify as one of her writer friends, but I'm going to give it a shot anyway. So...here goes!
*************
A Conversation with my Muse
“A challenge has been issued! A gauntlet thrown! Take up thine pen and
write!”
My muse charges in wearing a suit of armor, complete with
helmet, and brandishing a sword.
“You sound ridiculous.
Also, I’m pretty sure it’s, ‘Take up thy
pen…’”
With a small poof, the
armor disappears. Disgust oozing from
every imaginary pore, she rolls her eyes and flips her dark, waist-length,
shining hair behind one shoulder.
“Ugh. Like it
matters? You never write anything
anyway. Oh…and bravo to you, smarty
pants, for google searching my antiquated grammar to see if it’s correct. Way
to stop inspiration in its tracks.”
I stare straight ahead at my computer, refusing to be goaded
into an argument.
“Just leave me alone,
please. I’m working.”
“Scrolling through Facebook is not work.”
“I’m not…”
“…Besides, you’re always working,” she interrupts. “It’s always spreadsheets and emails. ‘Oh…I’m
too busy. I spend all my time filling
out paperwork trying to get a mortgage…I’m super important and adulty. Oh no…the baby is crying, better feed the
baby! And now I’ve got to keep my
toddler from banging on the window with a wooden hammer.’ You’re nothing but excuses!”
“Um…I’m
sorry…those are real things that I
have to do.”
“Says you.”
“Says any sane, adult human-being,” I reply, now too
exasperated to remember that I was trying to avoid this conversation.
“Aaand…there’s the adult card again. Right on schedule.”
“My gosh, you’re argumentative today.”
“I don’t even know why you keep me around. All you do is ignore me.”
Sighing, I closing my eyes and rest my forehead in the palm
of my hand.
“Well, don’t be insulted, but I don’t exactly keep you
around. In fact,” I say, looking up
again, “nobody invited you. And yet, here you are. Just be grateful I don’t kick you out. You’re not exactly holding up your side of
the relationship. When was the last time
I got anything good from you?”
“Excuse me? Did I not
give you song lyrics last week?”
“You gave me half of the first verse. Half. I
finished the rest myself because I
like to finish things. And it was
terrible.”
She huffs, “So the fact that you’re a talentless hack is
supposed to be my fault? And don’t act
like that’s all you got from me. You
also got that line about wishing you still had a thigh gap, but your husband
keeps buying you donuts for breakfast, so you’re pretty sure he’s not too
worried about it, so you keep eating the donuts and totally give up on the idea
of trying to get the thigh gap back??…remember?”
“Again…one line. And
probably the most humiliating and depressing idea you’ve ever given me. Sure…let’s write about how I have no hope of
ever looking good in a pair of shorts ever again. That’ll really capture an audience.”
“It was funny,” she pouts, a little hurt.
I don’t know why, but I feel guilty for hurting her feelings. In truth, her idea had been kind of funny. Short, and very insubstantial, but funny.
“In a very sad, pathetic way, yes…I suppose you’re right,” I
soothe. “You can turn a phrase when you want to. But I really need more than that to go on.”
She throws her hands up, shaking her head, “Look, I can’t do
all the work here!”
“Neither can I! Says
the woman with a full time job, husband,
two children, a house to clean, dinner to make, bills to pay, laundry to fold,
a baby to breastfeed…”
“Again with the breastfeeding. Like that’s
a reasonable excuse when you’re essentially just sitting there the whole time…”
“You know what? If you can write or type something with a
baby attached to your boob, then that must be very nice for you, but
unfortunately, I’m just not that gifted.”
She raises an eyebrow and purses her perfect, sultry
lips. She’s about to be a real
bitch. I can tell.
“Not to be a bitch,” she says, unsurprisingly, her eyebrow
twitching up again on the last word, “but
I noticed you don’t seem to have any
trouble EATING while you breastfeed.”
…
“Too far?” she asks, a trace of uncertainty and remorse in
her tone.
…
“Are you not talking to me now?”
…
“Don’t be so sensitive.
Can’t you take a joke?” She fakes
a laugh that turns into a nervous cough.
…
“Okay, I’m sorry,” she says after another long pause. “I shouldn’t have said that. About the eating. I know you’re hungry. Because of the breastfeeding. And the stress. And the feelings. And you’re sensitive about your weight. Which isn’t that bad, by the way.”
…
“Don’t be a baby about this!” she demands.
…
“Please just write something. Anything.”
…
“Don’t make me beg.”
…
“Okay…I’m begging.
Are you happy? I’m begging. I’m down on my knees. Just give me something. A story. A blog.”
…
“A word?”
“Fine.”
“OHMIGOSH!” she gushes enthusiastically. “Thank you!
You’re my best friend! I will so
pay you back for this. You are the
best. Seriously, the greatest! So, what are you going to write?”
She’s beaming at me. In
her mind, we’re friends again. Her
lovely face is lit up with hope.
“You asked for a word.
Fine.”
Her smile falls in an instant, replaced immediately by
deadpan disgust.
“Seriously? That’s
it?”
“I’m not in the habit of writing things for people who
cheerfully insult me.”
“I said I was sorry,” she whines.
“Noted.”
“Come on.
Please? A blog?”
I try to ignore her again, but I just can’t. Truthfully, despite my lack of free time, I
do kind of want to write something…to be creative again. But I just don’t know what to say. I’m an amateur at best, and I’m no good at
all without her.
“About what?” I ask. “And
is this how this is supposed to work?
Aren’t you supposed to be inspiring me instead of begging me to
write? You’re not very good at this, are
you?”
“Well, if that’s not the pot calling the kettle black, then
I don’t…”
“Never mind,” I interrupt. “Let’s not get off track. Inspiration, please?”
“Hmmm. What’s
something you like?” she thinks aloud, tapping a perfectly shaped fingernail
against her chin. “Your kids? I mean, they’re super cute. Everyone loves them. You love them. It just makes sense. Write what you know, right? And you’re such a good mother.“
“Flattery will get you nowhere with me.”
She says nothing, but bats her unrealistically long
eyelashes.
“Fine. One blog. About my kids. And it’s probably not going to be any good.”
“Oh… it’ll be wonderful!
How could it not be? You…”
“Would you leave me alone so I can write?”
