No Lazy Time post today. In its stead, please allow me to entertain you with this short excerpt from my NaNoWriMo submission. A little more humorous than the last piece I posted. Certainly, there's a lot less Hitler in it. This is a rough draft, so no hating. Enjoy!
Taming the Muse
“I really fucking hate you,” I said as I
stared at the blank page on the computer screen for what seemed like an
eternity. I had been trying to write this stupid story for days, but nothing
was coming to me. Nothing. At this point, I would have made do with one line of
a dirty limerick, but the words were stuck somewhere in the ether. The blank
page stared back at me, mocking me with its crisp white surface.
“A piece of paper is an inanimate object,
Emily my dear. It has no sentience, can not feel your ire, and therefore does
not give a bloody crap what you think of it,” Grim said in that British Cockney
accent I had thought was kind of cool when I first met him, but now just
grated.
I glared at him. “I wasn’t talking to the
blank page.”
Grim smirked at that and shrugged while
taking a hit from his joint. “Touché.”
He was floating inches above the mattress of
my bed in my crappy one room apartment, staring at the ceiling while smoking a joint.
Every now and then he would blow smoke out of his nose and make rings, or a
smiley face, or silly animal shapes. And he was listening to
easy listening music. Fucking Kenny G, man. I mean, ugh! The music alone was
screwing with my powers of concentration and the reefer smoke wasn’t helping
much either.
“Why do you listen to that crap?” I asked
waving away a smoky cloud that kind of looked like a deformed rabbit. “I
thought you grunge types were into old fashioned alternative shit.”
“First of all, I’m Goth, not grunge,” he said
primly. “Second, Kenny G makes me mellow, man. Like puppies and…and ocean waves
and…fluffy white…what’s the word, Love?”
“Clouds?”
He snapped his fingers, “That’s the bunny.”
I rolled my eyes.
He wasn’t what you expected when you thought
of the word “muse”. Most of the advertisements on television had gorgeous long
haired men or women with eyes that looked right through you and ethereal voices
that nearly made you weep from the mere joy of hearing them. Just being in the
same room with them made you write whole novels in one setting, I had heard. Those
were your top of the line models, of course. Nothing close to what my budget
could afford.
And then there were the bargain basement
muses like Grim. Tall and skinny, with scraggly dark hair that always seemed to
need to be combed. He wore the same faded black trench coat, the same black
t-shirt with holes in it with a band name I didn’t recognize that probably
hadn’t played a gig since Nirvana was a thing. His nails were darkened with Manic
Panic black nail polish that might have been cool in the mid-nineties, but was
now just a pathetic grab for attention. His eyes didn’t see right through you,
mostly because they were usually too red from drinking or smoking crap he
shouldn’t. He was a walking, talking anachronism from a decade when writers
just didn’t give a shit. Hell, half the stuff he came up with, I couldn’t even
understand.
He wasn’t much to look at, but I had never
really cared about that. I could care less if he was a card carrying member of
the Trenchcoat Mafia-whatever the hell that was-or a gothed out little British
shit and a lazy shit for all that. He could be a piece of freaking plywood for
all I cared, just so long as he produced one goddamn idea worth writing about.
He had been under contract as my muse for a full year, and I still hadn’t
written a word. At least, nothing marketable.
“I don’t know why I ever took you on as a
muse,” I said pushing the keyboard away from me in disgust.
“Because you’re broke and I came cheap.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said slumping down in my chair
with a grimace. “I knew I should have listened to my mother when she told me
not to go for that English degree. ‘Be a doctor,’ she said. ‘Be a lawyer,’ she
said. Hell, she would have been okay if I had taken Funeral Science as my
major. People die every day. At least I’d get paid.”
“Yeah!” Grim nodded as he took another hit
and pointed at me. “Write about that.”
“Changing my major?” I said frowning.
“Where’s the story in that?”
“Nah you dizzy bird! Write about some chick
that takes Funeral Science as her major.”
I stared at him blankly. “And?”
He rolled his eyes. “Just make up a
character. Have the character enroll in an embalming class or whatever is they
do. Let the chips fall where they may, as you bloody Yanks say.”
“We don’t say that.”
“Whatever.”
He made a rude gesture and went back to
contemplating the cosmos via the ceiling. He was levitating high enough now
that his nose was practically touching it.
I got up from my desk and started pacing the
room. I thought the idea over. It might work, but…
“No, no. That doesn’t help me! Where’s the
plot?”
“Not my department, Love,” he said letting
out another puff of fowl smelling smoke that made me choke. “I’m only under
contract to give vague impressions of an idea. It’s up to you to come up with
the meat of the story and to hammer out the details.”
“You got the vague part right, that’s for
sure.” I made a rude noise. “Okay. Make a main character. Make a main
character…We’ll make her a failed writer.”
“Will she look like you?”
I shot him an evil look, but that only made
him laugh. Or the pot was really getting to him. “She’s a failed writer who
goes back to school after her mother harasses her to find a job that actually
pays real money.”
“Why Funeral Science, though?” he asked. “Why
not a doctor or lawyer or taco sales woman or whatnot?”
I thought that one over. Why would she go?
“It’s the family business. They own a funeral parlor that’s been in the family
for generations. They’ve been hounding her to learn the ins and outs of the
business for years. Now that she’s hit rock bottom and she needs to go back for
school for something, her parents tell her they won’t put a dime towards her
education unless she finally gives into fate and takes FS.”
Grim nodded. “That’s a cool character
background. The Grimster likes.”
I smiled and sat back at my desk to type all
this down before I forgot.
“Hey, maybe the funeral parlor is cursed or
something?” he said, starting to come down from the ceiling to hover over my
shoulder. “Haunted by the ghost of ancestors past or maybe the family patriarch
made a deal with the devil that needs to be paid off by his daughter’s blood or
sanity. Oh wait…” A huge shit
eating grin spread over his face. “What if it’s not the devil?”
“Here we go,” I said with a sigh. I knew what
was coming.
“What if it’s one of the Elder Gods? What if
it’s…Cthulhu?”
It’s always Cthulhu with Grim. Jeeze.
I paused in my typing and gave him a
skeptical look. “Another paranormal story? Seriously?”
“It’s what I’m good at.”
“Not good enough to get me published.”
“Straight drama is boring, Love,” Grim said
waving off my reservations. “You wanna write the contemporary shit, you might
as well get a boring job that pays well.”
“Like a taco sales woman?” I said raising an
eyebrow.
He pointed his joint at me. “Don’t knock the
profession, Love. Those blokes who own the food truck around the corner are the
shit. They make good money and they spread deliciousness and joy where ever they
go.”
“Uh huh,” I said not really in the mood to
argue.
I was typing like a mad woman now. My creative juices were flowing again. I just hoped this story was delicious enough to get me paid.
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