This is my muse. Lovely, isn’t she?
Truth be told, she scares the crap outta me. She’s got this hourglass, she’s already flipped that sucker. Time’s running out. Tiny particles of crushed writers’ skulls, I think that’s what that stuff is, streaming through an impossibly skinny middle part, disappearing above and mounding up below and I am feeling mighty anxious. Can you tell? Can you blame me? This is the woman who warned me way back at the beginning of all this, what did she say? I’ll get you, my pretty, and your cruddy little novel, too! Sounds lame, right? I thought she was kidding around. Turns out, she doesn’t. You know what she eats for breakfast? Crap chapters and shards of broken glass, chewed up and spit out, razor-sharp teeth dripping tobacco juice and lost dreams, staining meager manuscripts. I got a lot of those.
My muse is bad as they come and now she’s delivered an ultimatum–another one. One of many. I’ve been sitting here shitting bricks for the better part of two months, no wonder I can’t finish my book! Anyway, she said, KK, my patience has worn as thin as your plot and I gotta tell ya, it ain’t looking good. So here’s the deal: You have until November 1st, 2013, to finish this draft of EFFIN’ ALBERT. Actually, you reach November 1 and it ain’t done, you’re gonna be really, really sorry.
See, that’s the worst part–she left me hanging so now I’m thinking all this horrible stuff is gonna befall me like, for instance, I’ll be working on ALBERT and working on it and, you know, working on it. Which means it won’t be getting done. HOW’S THAT FOR A BLOODY NIGHTMARE? And folks will be asking me how it’s going. And I’ll have to say, Um, I’m still working on it.
Bottom line, I can’t let that happen. So I’m gonna buckle down. I have to, I must, I’m not kidding ’cause my muse doesn’t mess around, boy. She’s really, really serious and she looks so mean, right? And another thing–she doesn’t like proscrastinators. Can’t abide ’em. I heard she grinds ’em up and eats ’em for breakfast, spread like rancid Oleo on burnt English Muffins.
I’ll tell you this right now: anybody who thinks their muse is tough, c’mon over, I dare you. Heck, I’ll introduce you. Maybe she’ll like you enough to stick with you for a while, give me a little peace ’cause right now, I’m wound tight as the rubber band my muse wrapped around my throat, which means my face is way past purple at this point, you talk about scary looking. No wonder I don’t have any friends but that’s okay ’cause I’m a writer now and writers write, they don’t have time to socialize.
I have to go, my muse just appeared and she’s wielding her red pen and a box of push pins. She’s looking at me funny, not ha-ha funny, either. Which means one of two things: either I’m writing tonight, or I’m wishing like hell I did. . .