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 this chicken... I mean, man?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.”
“Drink more.”
“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.

Writer's block? Blame hot dog eating competitions.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.


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20 Responses to “Losin’ My Muse”

[…] This post was Twitted by hamishjoy […]

Sorry, nope. Believe me, if I get a muse wandering in that fits that description, he’ll be booted with a bee in his ear.

That ought to send him home.

I used to have a muse that roomed with the Tooth Fairy. TF kept telling Thalia (my muse) that I was neglecting her. The problem was that Thalia would try to talk to me while I was mowing the lawn when not only is it hard to hear, but I’m all sweaty and far from pen and paper or my computer. She also dropped in when I was in the shower where there were similar problems plus it was just embarrassing (I’m not proud of how I look in the shower).

hes here, and he wont get off the couch. i could send him back but if youre offering hot dogs how bout if i just come over myself. we could work on a report ‘compare and contrast hot dogs and penises’. i will research the hot dogs and you can do the other part, okay?

I think I saw him in Toronto last night. He looked a little wasted, which would explain why he was soliciting a tranny prostitute.

If I see him again, I’ll send him back your way.

Dave was here a few days ago but then we ran out of beer & hot dogs so he moved on.

I’m a muse looking for work. I’m not Greek but then I don’t have a hairy back either. I work for free-almost. Tragedies are my game…I prefer bratwurst to hot dogs and I’m house broken. Cool?

Kobayashi ate your muse. I heard he used a hefty amount of Tabasco as well.

Oh…THAT’S who that was — I’m not sure which way he went, but he left in a hurry when he couldn’t find beer or hot dogs here.

Word on the street is that Dave is in hiding. Apparently, he was two timing you as he was also Dr. Conrad Murray’s muse.

Your muse is gone, so what? Go get a new one at the MUSEum, silly girl! What with the recession and all, muses are a dime a dozen these days. You’ll be back and writing more funny crap than you shake a stick–or a penis–at, I guarantee it.

Also, as an aside, penises are funny indeed, but not all of the time. I don’t want to explain why right now, but trust me on this one, OK?

P.S. — For being muse-less, I thought this was a really well-written post, and funny. But who cares what I think? I don’t even care what I think.

I do believe the follow up comments works.

There’s a guy laying face down in my back yard. He mumbled something about bees and then asked for ketsup because he was tired of mustard? I’m like “The hell? Get off my lawn!”

Hey, I’m with Mike. You did a hell of a lot better losing your muse than I did this week.

Sounds like you’re better off without him.

Great post.

I’m looking forward to reading the bee story…you have finished it, right??

Judging by this typically very funny post, I would say you probably never even needed your muse. SHOCKING! But true. So forget Dave and his ass-scratching, beer-drinking, hot dog-loving ways. You’re your own best muse, after all. And I bet you smell a lot better.

Yeah, there’s some weird circular ironic thing about a post that goes on and on about how your muse is missing.

😉

I’ll keep an eye out for him. If I were you, I’d check the bus depot or other public transit.

He sounds like someone you’d meet on public transit.

This might be why I used to get so many ideas while commuting.

The Daves… they’re out there.

[…] what woke me from my creative slumber? Well, certainly not my muse Dave, who was last seen vomiting over the side of a Mersey ferry. No, it was the guilt I felt when I […]

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