She had it coming, honestly she did. When I was struggling desperately to finish my first novel, she was there. Flinging razor tipped spears of pure inspiration, and distraction into my tortured mind. While I sat there struggling with the really tough part of writing. That being the process of editing for grammar and punctuation. But I persevered. I ignored her frenzied attempts to draw me away from the project which, at that point, had already consumed most of the previous three years of my life.
Then with my first novel finished. Squared away, to the best of my ability. Ready for submission, more or less. That thoughtless shapely wretch decided, with no warning what-so-ever, to go on holiday. There I was, ready, willing and able to begin my next major project. My word processor open. The notes I’d written in previous months, standing ready to assist in my renewed efforts at achieving literary immortality.
And where was my Muse of Weird-Ass Romance Writing? On a break, in a far off corner of my mind. Looking smug while she lounged about in a chalet on a chaise longue. Being fed freshly cooked spicy chicken wings, and Long Island Iced Teas by a excrutiatingly hot redheaded slavegirl ,dressed in the most delicious little leather Lolita Goth outfit. I’m not sure to this day which annoyed me more. The adorable little slavegirl, when her boss can’t find one. Or her using the chalet, a left over from a period where I considered working as a chalet-girl for a season, when I’d left specific instructions that it be demolished, to make way for a pulse rifle shooting range.
But anyway, the wretch hadn’t even bothered to notified the boss, ie. me, that she was going away on a holiday. At the least she could have arranged a temporary replacement. But no, she leaves me in the lurch, with only my Muse of Bad-ass Science Fiction Writing for company. And she’s a fat lot of use. Seriously, how can you get any real work done with a muse who starts giggling, blushing, and somewhat covertly touching herself every time she even thinks of blue skinned, alien chicks. I’d fire her, except she has a real genius where it comes to inventing excuses for my characters to break out the powered armor, the rail-guns, and commence with aggressive pacification of the immediate area.
So now you can see how my Muse of Weird-Ass Romance had it coming. Of course getting to her was another story. It’s not easy hunting down, and firing a muse who’s on sabbatical in a little used recess of your own mind. But after repeatedly whacking myself over the head with a half-brick, I’d achieved the sort of trance state that usually requires the ingestion of several hundred Euro’s worth of illicit substances. Well that or a decade of dedicated meditation. But who has the time for that when they’re in a murderous rage right now.
So there I was inside my own mind, pulse rifle in hand, standing outside the chalet. I decided to be merciful and shouted to give the slavegirl enough warning to clear the building before I opened fire. Nothing can match the sheer satisfaction of firing an imaginary pulse rifle, loaded with explosive tracer rounds, into a wooden building and watching the splinters fly. Well, almost nothing.
You see muses being not exactly fully corporeal, or even mortal beings, or even real beings as such, have a certain amount of immunity to even imaginary explosive tracer bullets. But having seen how pissed I was, and how awesome my imaginary powers are, as soon as the first clip ran dry she came out. Her toga flowing in the breeze, her hands in the air.
So I put her into the maw of a large cannon with several dozen pounds of grape-shot, and fired the lot at a ten foot thick wall of solid unobtainium enhanced steel. Of course she’ll be rehired, as soon as she manages to reassemble herself.
But as that will take at least several years, not least because that particular location is currently playing host to an active volcano, I will in the mean time have an Assistant Manager/Muse of Weird-Ass Romance Writing position available. All applicants should submit their applications in a plain brown A4 envelope, clearly marked with a return address, measurements and containing a picture of them in a skin-tight white leather mini-dress.
The moral of this story is that sometimes as a writer you will receive a monster dose of writers block. And when you do there’s absolutely no need to take it lying down. Just fire the appropriate muse, with a cannon, and move on with a different project.
P.S. This is blog comes to you at the suggestion of, and as a welcome to Europe present for the divine Miss Stacy Bias. Welcome to your new beginning Mamma Dyke. Love you.
My Random Ruminations. 