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.
3 comments:
I loved "Muse Abuse Hot Line", on direct dial! Your humor is so awesome. You could be a writer on a sitcom...or better yet, do stand-up! I'd pay to come and see ya!
Gotta love those note cards. My dorm room is littered with them. Say howdy to your Muse and ask her, if you will, if she's met mine. I haven't seen her in a while and I was wondering how long she's going to be on vacation.
Becky,
Well, I have been known to tell select classes that they are a captive audience for my stand-up routine.
On my super-secret blog, I had a post about the sitcom of my life. I had a whole season outlined. I think I even posted one episode. I was heavily influenced by Designing Women, the latter years, when Carlene moved into her own apartment after divorcing Dwayne Dobber.
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Bailey,
Your Muse is safe and sound, though a bit bloated from the barbecue. She says, "Hey," with an Andy Griffith inflection. She adds that you're on your own with those research papers, as she is a creative kind of gal, and can't be bothered with academia. She'll be heading for home when you get those nuts and bolts of education squared away and bring out the play-pretties.
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