The Muse

The computer’s screen was as blank as his brain.  He sighed. Writer’s block was the official name for what he was suffering.  A pain in the butt was what he called it.

The writer slammed his fist against his desk in frustration. An empty coffee cup fell to the floor in a thud.  His sleeping dog opened an eye and looked up at him in disgust.  The dog really wished he could talk — he would have given the writer a few story ideas.  But he didn’t speak English. And the writer only spoke broken dog.

So the two of them sat together on a Sunday night in complete silence. Both were at a loss for words so the dog did the only thing he could do: He went to bed.

Man’s best friend his butt.

“I could really use a beer,” the writer thought. But he had sworn off of alcohol after he had gotten laid off.  Or downsized. Or screwed. Whatever you wanted to call it. The bottom line: He didn’t want to drink for the wrong reasons.  And it would have been easy to do so tonight.

Instead he drank a soft drink and watched the lightning flicker outside his office window.  The storm was approaching and lightning was dancing from cloud top to cloud top.  He had prime seats for nature’s finest light show.

He wished a bolt of inspiration would strike him as well.

His muse was playing hard to get.  She was like that sometimes.  Always a flirt but always playing hard to get.  Creativity was at best a fickle lover in the best of times. Apparently she had left him for someone else tonight.

He took another sip of his soda and felt the carbon dioxide come up through his nose in a burp.  It would have been tempting to play around on Facebook or Twitter, but he stayed focused.  What he was doing was the equivalent of fishing with no bait. He just kept casting, hoping that something would happen. Maybe a fish would get stuck on the hook. Or something.

Creativity. It was so hard to explain to those who weren’t creative.  He liked to say it was two circles. Conscious thought was the inside circle. And where he got his ideas was the outer one.  Occasionally he was privileged enough to reach out into the outside circle and pull and idea back in.  Tonight was not one of them. His muse was absolutely no help.

His dog came to the door and barked in disgust. It was time for bed.

The writer turned away from the computer screen and looked at the dog.  “In a minute.”

He tried to reach out for an idea again and got his hand slapped.

A friend had once asked him if it was hard to come up with ideas.  “No,” he said,” It’s like running. The more you do it, the easier it gets.”  That’s why he wasn’t panicking.  He knew an idea would come.  It always did. Some days were just easier than others. Like today, for example.

He started typing.  Yet another cast without bait.

Then, out of the blue, he felt her hands on his shoulders. He felt her whisper in his ear. He could feel her breath against his neck. His muse had arrived.  She took him by the hand and led him to creativity. He reached out and grabbed an idea.  His fingers began to pound the keyboard.

The writer’s block had been broken. Lightning struck nearby and rain started falling. The dog walked out of the room in disgust. He knew that the writer wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon.