A gathering of muses

What better way to wrap up a series of muse posts than with a pub crawl. They’re dressing up and going out on the town, leaving all their writer’s behind with to-do lists. Thanks to Julie for the fun post and to everyone who took the time to participate. Happy Writing!

Facets of a Muse

A newspaper lays across my desk in my writing office, but it isn’t any newspaper I recognize. It’s not the local Enterprise or Hub. It’s called the Inspiration. The headline reads: “First Annual Muse Gathering”.

Hmmm. Why do I have a funny feeling about this?

Before I can read the article, my Muse sweeps into the office and swipes the paper from my hands. “Hey, I was reading that.”

He folds the newpaper and tucks it under his arm. “Don’t bother. It’s boring.”

Then I notice his attire. No worn jeans here–the ones he’s wearing look like they came fresh from the indigo dye factory. And is that a silk shirt? It’s a rich maroon that adds a little color to his complexion–not that I’m complaining. Oh, no. Sooo not complaining.

“Ah hem. Earth to Julie.”

Ahhh, yeah. “Where are you going? Is that really a silk shirt?”

“I’m going…

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My muse and a new look for Lady Sweet

Another muse post, and I’m relieved to say I no longer have the toughest muse on the block. Robbie’s General is a real taskmaster! One more muse post today as the whole gang goes on a pub crawl without us!

Robbie's inspiration

It seems that after Diana from Myths of the Mirror wrote her delightful post about her muse, the blogosphere is full of muses. You can read about Diana’s muse here: https://mythsofthemirror.com/2017/08/25/muse-for-hire/ – so far the scariest of them all.

I thought that I didn’t have a muse but this weekend I realised that I do. He is a general in the army and, boy, is he used to getting things done. He runs a very tight schedule and time for resting and doing nothing is obsolete. He wants things done, he wants them done right and he wants them done NOW!

My General Write is quite determined that he will be successful in life. He uses my weekends to further his own writing aspirations and he is a very tough task master. This is what he had in store for me on Saturday:

Saturday, 9 September

5.00 am – wakes…

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My Muse Almost Got Strangulated

Another muse makes her feelings known. This one from Balroop Singh of Emotional Shadows. Her muse is sensitive, emotional, words that characterize Balroop’s poetry and prose. Enjoy.

***

She has been wandering around too much, meeting strangers, expecting appreciation, gloating at her beauty and intellect as she reclined leisurely in the glorious sunshine, having abandoned the shadows recently.

Having emerged from her poetic alleys, she got bolder and her escapades with young adventurers almost throttled her as she refused to wear modest garments…some of which seemed incandescent to her new friends. They tried to impose their opinion on her, telling her not to push people away with her ‘excessive alliteration’ and ‘lengthy’ words, guiding her to be humble and simple.

It was too much for the one who has never been snubbed, who likes to boss around, considering herself to be a spontaneous charmer.

She came home disappointed and has been sulking.

Source: My Muse Almost Got Strangulated

Her Muse

Another muse. This one sweet and dreamy, a whisperer in the ear, a part of her host on a cellular and spiritual level. ❤

roughwighting

writing, creative writing, museWight Muse by Mike Allegra.

Our name is Pamela Wight, but only she is a middle-aged woman.

She isn’t always middle-aged, and she isn’t always a woman.

At this point though, her Earth self is unable to comprehend the truth. But once, long ago and yet still now (on the time spectrum that surrounds us, even though most refuse to see it), she and I are one on an enchanted island of being.

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The Day My Muse Sent Her Sister

I’m delighted to share another muse post. This one by the very funny Sarah Brentyn at Lemon Shark. Her muse sent her diva sister over to harass Sarah. Hop over to her blog for a laugh. 🙂

Lemon Shark

“Oh, no,” I gasped.

She rolled her eyes.

“What did I do to deserve this?” I whined. She’d only visited once before, when I’d stopped writing and started wallowing in self-pity. I didn’t know why, but I knew I was in for it. My muse’s sister is a diva.

“Let’s get this over with,” she huffed. “I’ve got a manicure at three.”

I turned my chair to her. “Fine.”

She put her hand on her hip. “You’re not funny. I mean, your sense of humor is so dry, it needs a chaser. Or a shot of tequila. Or both.”

“Yeah, I know.”

She started ticking off my offenses on her fingers. “You’re sarcastic and snarky.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“Every once in a great while, you manage a bit of wit but that’s it. And you’re completely crazy with your alliteration and internal rhyming.”

“I’m not the only one,” I…

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My rug-cleaning fiasco

pixabay image

Once again, I jump in feet first and use my brain second. Mistakes and failures are great teachers, and I seem to repeatedly rely on them to make life interesting.

This one involves not writing, but rugs.

It started with Tornado Boy (age barely-4) who stayed at our house last weekend. After indulging in bowls of ice cream with Grampy, he suffered a sugar-crash, decided to go to bed, and then perked up with an ill-fated second wind – the kind that’s usually headed toward disaster. Tornado Boy left his clothes in the bedroom along with his brain and decided to enjoy the balmy outdoors in his birthday suit.

Grampy and I were on the lawn, and Tornado Boy was on the elevated deck being wild and silly. Amidst his antics, he picks up the garden hose and starts blasting the lawn and garden with water, waving it around like a lunatic and trying to spray us. We’re laughing at how cute he is until he aims the hose at the open window into our living room.

Grampy and I yell to stop, but Tonado Boy is in Crazy-Over-Tired-Land, and the water is spraying a jet stream into the house. From where we’re standing, there’s no access to the deck and, completely delirious, Tornado Boy is having the time of his life. With no end to the torrent in sight, I sprint around the house, take the steps three at a time, run the length of the deck, and grab the hose. Tornado Boy looks at me with a bewildered expression and explains that he was “washing the house.”

Grampy disappears for a walk with the dogs while Tornado Boy and I face the mess.

The living room is soaked: couches, chairs, rug, computers, tables, mail… the floor is a puddle. I drag the rug outside onto the deck, move the furniture around, and use every towel in the house to dry things off. We all take a deep breath and go to bed.

The next day, after Tornado Boy goes home, I decide that I might as well wash the rugs since they’re long overdue for a cleaning.

(This is where Grammy has her turn at making a mess.)

I drag the upstairs rug out to the deck too. I go down to the barn and get the rug-cleaning machine, bring it up to the house, and fill it with water and dish liquid because I don’t have any rug cleaner and I’m out of laundry soap. I tap the ON button and nothing happens. The Hoover is dead (unsurprising since it was in the barn during the last flood).

But that doesn’t stop the determined. I squirt dish liquid on the larger of the two carpets and get out the hubby’s power-washer. If it can blast moss off the deck, it can blast dirt out of the rug, right? So I spray the carpet and start scrubbing it with my bare feet. I water some more, add more soap, and lather it up. Works great!

Then, I try to spray the soap off.

Well, spraying soap off a flat, saturated rug doesn’t work, even with a power-washer. It creates bubbles, lots of bubbles, massive impenetrable mountains of bubbles. I need to drape the rug over the deck railings so I can hose off the soap, but full of water, it weighs about 400 pounds. It’s not budging until it dries – soap and bubbles intact.

Having learned from my mistakes, I march off to tackle the smaller carpet. I drape it over the rails first, skip the dish liquid, and just power-wash it. Easy peasy. It will dry in place.  A couple hours of blogging later, I find the large carpet dry enough to drag and heave over the tops of the deck chairs for a hose-down. I check the clock, and the rugs have 5 hours to dry before Grampy gets home from work.

By the time the Subaru climbs the mountain, all evidence of the crime is cleaned up. He’ll never know. And my carpets look clean!

Now, I guess you can see which side of the family Tornado Boy takes after. 😀