Nothing gets Val's creative juices flowing like popping a thyroid pill and peeling 1.5 dozen hard-boiled eggs. That's when my muse came a-knockin' Thursday morning, ignoring the "No Muses" sign on the front door. I sat her out back like a wayward hobo with a plate of barbecue, like Idgie sat old Smoky Lonesome in Fried Green Tomatoes. I did not, however, take a few minutes out of my culinary-creation mode to accompany her, give her a snort of whiskey from my apron pocket, and tell her the story of the geese that flew away with the lake frozen to their feet. I must draw the line at creative-energy sappers somewhere. After all, I was in the middle of formulating award-winning contest entries in my head. As well as whipping up some delicious deviled eggs.
You may think that a muse would be the perfect guest at the table when one is in the midst of a head-writing whirlwind. But no. That muse may just gum up the works. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. A muse is best received during quiet contemplation time in one's dark basement lair, after holiday festivities have wound down.
Though I wanted to place my muse on the back burner, I refrained. You never know when some busybody has the Muse Abuse Hotline on direct dial. So I opted for the hobo/barbecue treatment. It's more humane. With her safely ensconced out back on the pool deck, I peeled, sliced, chopped, mixed, dolloped, and sampled. The annual Thanksgiving deviled eggs were nonpareil. If I do say so myself.
To humor the muse, I exited through the laundry room and called to her over the porch rail. "What was that you were sayin'?"
She mumbled back, through her hickory-smoked-sauce-ringed lips, "I've got the most scathingly brilliant idea for a blog post! Several, in fact..."
I left her noshing poolside, and retired to the La-Z-Boy with two note cards. Three by five. I filled both sides of each with copious notes. What else would I put on a note card? As any student can tell you, my handwriting is worthy of a draftsman. Block letters, all caps, much like a typed manuscript. I turned those cards on end for maximum coverage.
When I read them today, I felt like Jerry Seinfeld and his flaming globes of Sigmund.