2.2 The Muse

If you’ve seen any of my posts on twitter in which I talk or reference my muse, you may notice that I don’t ascribe to the delicate waif-like nymph who whispers ideas in my ear whilst giggling joyfully and frolicking through the treetops in a whimsical dance.

Some people claim their writing muse is a sylph- light as air, creeping in to torment them for a brief wave of feathers and elusive promises before drifting off to the clouds.

Others have little digger-gnome muses. These gentle beings pop up out of the ground, bark out an idea, remain fixedly glaring at you for a little while until it has stuck- but inevitably, like a whack-a-mole, dash before you can catch them and shake a solid grounding from their lips.

The best muses, I always thought, had to be the naiad-types. You know the ones, you’re in the shower and suddenly the ideas just pour into your head; overfill your body with inspiration, ideas, and drench your creative works from head to toe. These muses get a vessel of ideas and just pour it on you until you are spluttering and gasping, wondering how ‘oh, elephants you say?’ turned into a 300k expose on animal rights in circuses.

My muse is an old, angry drill sergeant who screams at me incessantly. The only time he’s quiet is when I’m writing. Sometimes I’ll be running a lap through a chapter and he will stop me, demand I give him twenty words on his next idea, then let me resume the running. He talks like Major Payne.

Running doesn’t help. He’s a machine of rage and determination. He simply cannot tolerate my inactivity. If I am not writing, thinking about new projects or having just written, he peaks in over the top of my monitor, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “Are you having a good time, watching television?”

I’ve tried to avoid meeting his eyes, but he’ll just sing-song, “I bet you’re resting your sore hands…”

“Please, I finished ten-thousand words today, I went over my quota by a lot.”

This, is usually what he wants. My muse springs over the monitor, walks up to me and points at the nearest notebook, “Maggot, did I say you could quit? Did I stutter when I said there was a fantasy plot that wasn’t going to write itself?”

I carry around a notebook because sometimes I’ll be busy at my place of work, fixing computers, liasing with clients, and I’ll here that distinctive Major Payne guffaw. You know the laugh- Ha, He, Ha, He. It sends a shiver of fear down my spine.

“I’m working, I have bills to pay.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do, maggot. Now start writing, or I start yelling.”

Sometimes I get home from work with a novel he’s painstakingly shouted into my brain from chapter one-to-six the whole day.

I do have a few advantages with my Drill Sergeant Muse. He never demands I outline. I must simply follow the instructions when they come in. I think this is because unlike other muses which throw a few thoughts and ideas out, my muse will outline the idea, then scream until I start writing it. I don’t need the outline; he’s already provided it. That is pretty handy for a pantser like me.

NaNo 2017, I did outline for the first time in 13 years. It was a bit surprising when I turned to my muse, saw him quietly contemplating the outline, “This?” I asked. Muse is rarely sedate.

He nodded then, that shy, crooked grin came out, he didn’t do anything at first. For once, writing was a smooth travel. The first chapter went in a straight line. I got to the end of chapter two and Muse whispered, “Maggot, you better put a research point in here.”

I obeyed.

I got to the next chapter, still thinking I had finally, for the first time, tamed him. I was such a fool.

Muse pulled out his gun, flicked the safety, placed it against my temple, “Now add a goddamn chase-scene, an explosion, and two women wrestling in mud.”

I paused, “But it’s a cozy.”

He laughed, pulled the trigger and removed the word cozy that I had lovingly applied in my original outline, “Not anymore. If it’s still cozy, it ain’t happy. It’s a noir gritty mystery, maggot. Add the mud-wrestling!”

I obediently added the mud wrestling.

My muse likes explosions, sudden twists and the smell of napalm in the morning. He croons to the dulcet tones of characters running through a jungle to fight a tiger, a tank, and then come face-to-face with Cthulhu.

I hear other people telling me how naughty and misbehaving their muse is; or how hard it is to pin down sometimes. Sometimes, I wonder if my muse just went through military boot camp and came out a changed man. But the I remember what he was like when I was a young teen, surviving on lollipops and fanfic.net. My muse just got more mature with me. He’ll still lean over my shoulder and grip the keyboard, his voice a husky growl, “Now make them kiss.”

I do. Because a happy muse is a happy writer. And at the end of the day, you can trade muses; but I don’t think I want the waify sylphs or gophers. The drill-master suits a lazy writer like me.