I’ve lost my muse. My supernatural writing mentor vanished two weeks ago, leaving me alone and devoid of inspiration. Unfinished blog drafts sit neglected on my desk; a half-written movie script collects dust instead of Oscars; even my shopping lists are dull and lacking in pace.
Have you seen my muse anywhere? He’s an overweight, hairy guy called Dave. I know muses are usually beautiful Greek goddesses, but Dave was cheaper. I thought we would work well together. He wasn’t bothered about grammar rules and all that verb-participle stuff, but he liked a good laugh and a cold beer. So I took my chances with Dave.
Maybe it’s my fault. I didn’t appreciate him when he was around. To be honest, he spent most of the time asleep on my couch, waking only to scratch his ass and shout “Have ya written anything yet? No? Get on with it! Write about bees or something.” Then he would fall back into a drunken coma. Did I mention he liked his beer?
Dave might have been drunk and asleep most of the time, but whenever I felt my inspiration slipping away I could rely on him to slap me on the back, belch into my ear, and give me a few words of wisdom:
“Get drunk. Works for me!”
“Copy someone else’s stuff!”
“Go for a walk. I’ll come with ya, if we can stop at the hot dog stand.”
“Why don’t ya write about bees?”
Sometimes Dave would disappear for days on end. He would always let me know where he was going; he was good like that. He would leave post-it notes on my desk that read “Bored. See you Tuesday” or “Gone to a rock festival – back when sober”. Oh well, at least Dave’s absence gave me an excuse to procrastinate. I’d work on that storyboard when he got back.
One time, Dave attended a muse convention. Muses from around the world came together, shared their literary horror stories, and took the piss out of their protégés. There were drinking games and hot dog-eating competitions too. Dave returned from the convention hungover and smelling of mustard. I had hoped he’d learned something, and would be bursting with inspiration.
“I got nuthin’ for ya. Wake me up in a few days and we’ll work on that bee story.”
This time, Dave didn’t leave a note. He just left. Maybe he read my latest script and lost the will to live. Maybe he was tired of all my penis jokes (and no man, not even Dave, can persuade me that a penis is not funny). Maybe he is now asleep on someone else’s couch, smelling of beer and mumbling about bees.
If you have my muse, please, please can you send him back? I promise to be a more attentive student. I promise to get that story finished. Tell him I have hot dogs.