I’m reading a page-turner in my writing room when I hear conversations below me in the muddy track called “my driveway.” Nobody ever ventures up this mountain besides the solitary UPS driver, and this sounds like a crowd. I peek out the window.
Muses. Lots of muses. What the…?
They fall silent and, as one, swivel to stare at me. Expectant. It appears a decision has been made.
One of them breaks from the pack, and I can’t help but groan. The Mercenary Muse (once subcontracted by my Bossy Muse) starts up the rain-slick stairs.
I open the door and look up, way up. The muse is a hulk, and he smells like a battlefield after a month long campaign. He bares his teeth in a sneer as if I’m the one who needs a shower.
“Where’s my regular muse?” I ask.
“In the ocean.” He tracks muddy prints on my floor and sits on a granite throne that appears in front of my couch. “She’s trying out your next book.”
“Oh really?” I arch my eyebrow and get a little huffy. “You’d think the author would have a say in the next story. What is she, a pirate or a mermaid?”
“A sea witch.” His grin is disturbing, though not as horrifying as his skimpy little outfit. I wish he’d close his legs. Yeesh. “I’m the Ferryman,” he adds.
My eyes snap up, and I blurt out a laugh. “Oh, no, you’re not.”
“Don’t defy a muse.” He glowers through the warning. “I am the Ferryman.”
“Gah!” I lean into his face, nose to crooked nose, angry enough to risk his breath. “No chance, big guy, not unless you submit to a complete makeover. Otherwise, forget it.”
“You’re the author.” He settles back in this throne with a smug smile and picks something from his teeth.
I wrinkle my face and cross my arms like a petulant… author. A Ferryman? And a Sea Witch? Am I actually considering this? I want to throw up but change the subject instead, “So, who are those muses, and what do they want? Don’t tell me they want scenes in the next book.”
He grunts to the negative. “They want some publicity for their authors, and I told them you’d help.”
My eyes narrow. “How?”
The brute leans forward, elbows on his knees. I’m tempted to hand him a toothbrush and bottle of mouthwash. He ignores my grimace. “They’re going to have conversations with their writers, and you’re going to reblog the posts.”
I tap a finger on my lower lip, considering the idea. The last time my blog friends joined in was a blast. And wonderfully creative.
I extend my hand. “Agreed.” We grasp each other’s forearms like warriors, and I squeak as my bones grate together.
“Agreed.” He lets go and heads for the door. “And I want your plot outlined by the end of the month.”
“But… but I’m not done with my reading challenge and now…”
If looks could squash me like a bug, I’d be plastered to the wall. He stomps down the stairs and joins the other muses. His throne fades away, and I peer out the window as the crowd disperses into the rain. I better get a post ready.
Here are the rules:
Post a conversation with your muse on your blog and link back to this post or leave a link in the comments. Don’t have a muse? Just open the door and see who shows up.
No word-limit and keep it family friendly. Include an image of your muse if you’re inclined (with respect for copyrights, please). I’ll reblog all posts received before December 1st. Thanks for playing… Meet the Muse!