Like Francesca, my muse is very big, very male and very hot in a 1940's kinda way. He has two weaknesses that he admits to: garlic bagels with a schmear of cream cheese and...me. The big guy aka L. (identity protection here) is an independent man who has a habit of taking off for regions unknown for undetermined periods of time. No phone call. No note. Just "poof!" He's gone.
Over the years I've tried to curb his wanderlust. Trust me, silk cords, chains, and duct tape don't make him to stick around. Nothing works. But I did get him to agree to a mini-interview in exchange for a homemade cheesecake. (You do know that muses are tough, right?)
Anyhow, the following is a true conversation between me (author) and L. (muse).
Talia: Thanks for sitting down and talking with us, L.
L.: No problem. As long as the cake is baking. It is baking, right Tali?
T: Um...sure. Sure. In the oven. In that other room. The one we're not in.
(Talia offers the bear of a man her most endearing smile. L. shakes his head.)
T: Let's get started. Sooo tell us, what does a muse do?
(L. slumps in his chair and rolls his eyes.)
L.: Come on Tali, you can do better than that. If all you want is the official job description, put in a request to HQ like everybody else. Jeez. If you want the inside scoop, it'll cost ya. (He leans forward, reducing the space between them to inches as his lips lift into a wicked smile.) Wanna deal, doll face?
T: (feeling various parts of her anatomy tingle) Um...okay.
L: Ten pages written. Flat out. No moaning. No groaning. No excuses. You in?
T: That--er depends. You planning on sticking around?
(L. sits back, crosses his well-muscled legs and laughs.)
T: Fine. It's a deal. Now spill.
L: Well, every muse is different. Just like every writer, I might add. Some writers prefer chicks helping them, some prefer guys, and some people like Stephen King...hell, you don't want to know. Anyhow, when headquarters sees that creative spark burning, some lucky muse gets the job and off he goes.
T: It's that simple?
L: Hey, I never said it was simple. I just said that was the process. Simple, it ain't. With a bad match nobody wins. If a writer stops writing...a muse dies from neglect. (L's smile dissolves.) It ain't pretty, doll face. Don't stop writing, kiddo. No matter anyone says.
T: There's no chance of that. I've got too many ideas and not enough time!
L: Heh. I aim to please. That's the reason, you know. Why I leave. I go and round up new ideas. Writers always complain up the wazoo when we disappear. You'd think someone would get a clue about us goin' MIA. Newsflash! We ain't on vacation. We're checking out new inspiration--for you!
T(confused): But I thought you were my inspiration, L.
L: Only for the love scenes, angel. Only for the love scenes.
Have you hugged your muse today? Or at least fed him cheesecake?
Talia (and L.)