The Writer's Muse

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

Tony had been staring at the white wilderness of a blank text document in Microsoft Word for two hours, maybe more. Not non-stop, of course. He had made endless cups of coffee. And every now and then he had logged into Facebook, which was the bane of his life, to check the largely drab, hackneyed updates that he didn't particularly want to read but for some fool reason felt compelled to. He had also trawled aimlessly through videos on YouTube looking for ideas – an assortment of alien crap, paranormal mumbo-jumbo, videos of people committing unforgivably stupid blunders and cats and dogs doing funny things. He kept coming back to the bleak, empty whiteness of the blank document, though, and still he was completely stumped. This wasn't a new development, of course. Like most writers Tony sometimes suffered from writers' block – it was his worst bugbear, and on occasion it took some beating.

(Just type something, limp dick, anything at all. If it's total shite with no hope of salvation you can always delete it. Why not start off with a conversation between two sweet looking old dears reminiscing on their risqué sex lives? Or maybe start with what you can see right now, an icy whiteness, the sheer desolation of a blizzard on the tundra. Actually that isn't such a bad idea, some poor fucker lost in a snowstorm that blots out the landmarks that usually guide them home. Nice one..... Naah, I've started more than one story with a snowstorm during the last couple of years, and I don't want to traipse through the same tired old rigmarole again.)

Tony signed into Facebook (a-bloody-gain. You're wasting half of your sodding life on this lame social networking site). To his delight he had a friend request, but when he looked more closely his delight was replaced by confusion. (Who the fuck is the Sugar Plum Fairy? It has to be one of my friends mucking around).

When he clicked on the icon he was presented with a tiny picture of a Tinkerbell type fairy fresh out of Peter Pan. He didn't have any friends in common with the unknown individual, so there were no clues to his or her identity. (It could be a random weirdo, a total straight-jacket case intent on axe-murdering you and your entire family - the internet, and Facebook in particular, is crawling with crazies. But it's just as likely to be someone of interest, I suppose, and I could do with knowing a few interesting, inspiring folk right now). He clicked 'accept.' (If it is a weirdo it's easy enough to block the bugger). And then he went to put the kettle on (a-bloody-gain).

When Tony returned with a mug of coffee and a couple of scones he had a message (Aye aye, fasten your seatbelt, buddy, it's gotta be the sodding weirdo). And indeed it was.

'Tony, I've been aching to meet you for ages, ever since you took up writing seriously several years ago, but consciously or unconsciously you've been shunning me. I've had enough of your rejection, and I think you've had enough of writers' block, so I reckon the time is ripe to break the ideas embargo that you've erected between us and commence healthy communication. Come on, babe, don't be shy. And don't bother with the question on the tip of your tongue – Who the fuck are you? - you know in your heart who I am. You need me, kiddo, and I guess I need you, too. Who knows? This could be the beginning of a mutually beneficial relationship.'

“Whaddafuck.....” Tony had no idea who this Sugar Plum Fairy character was, but he had a feeling that it was some woman looking for a bit on the side rather than one of his buddies playing a practical joke (I don't wanna bit on the side, you old slapper, I'm a happily married man, so you might as well piss off). But who could it be? He racked his brains, but he couldn't come up with any answers. Anyway, he decided to answer the message.

'I have no idea who you are or what you want, Sugar Plum Fairy,' he typed, 'but if you're after what I think you're after you might as well stop wasting your time, because I'm not interested. Unless you're Beyonce Knowles or a non-smoking, markedly plumper version of Kate Moss, of course, then I might give the idea some serious consideration. No, only kidding, even if you are one of my dream women I'm not interested. I'm married to a beautiful, kind, loving, endlessly fascinating woman and we have three cracking kids, and I would never do anything to jeopardise that. Oh, and if you don't reveal your full identity I'll bloody well block you.'

The reply to Tony's message arrived seconds after he sent it, just as he was about to log out and carry on not writing (weird weird, seriously weird - but what the hell, you might as well read it, it's not as if you have anything more pressing to do until it's time to put the dinner on).

'You've got the wrong end of the stick, laddie. I'm not a scarlet woman out to get into your pants – far from it. I'm something that's missing from your life, my friend, I thought maybe you would recognise me straight away, but you're a bit slow, aren't you? So it looks like I'll have to spell it out for you.

I am a non-human entity, I guess you could say, but I'm not the Sugar Plum Fairy, that was just an amusing name that I used to grab your attention. I'm going to let you into a little secret. My Facebook account exists only in your imagination, purely because I planted it there, and only you and I can see it. I can help you at times like this when you haven't got a clue what to write about or where to begin. You still haven't guessed who or what I am, have you? Tut, tut. Never mind, it's not the end of the world.

I am your muse, Tony – and don't dare bang your fist on the table and say that there's no such thing! All writers have a muse whether they're aware of it or not. I am the glowing spirit that shows you where the most interesting fossils lie in the bedrock so that you can hack them out one sentence at a time, join the petrified bones together into paragraphs and display the magnificent skeletons of creatures that were and creatures that could never be in your museum of wonders; I am the bloodhound that sniffs out ancient artefacts from the gathered dust of bygone ages for your delight, and more recent examples from cobwebbed lofts and cellars and long unexplored barns; I am the bright intelligence that flits between the minds of mortals and non-mortals both here on Earth and in countless other realms in search of ideas and juicy details for you to mould into your tales and whittle into characters; I aid you in the cumbersome process of reinforcing the various happenings in your stories, I help you to polish your plots until you can see your face in them.....

All you have to do is accept me as an intrinsic part of you and give me a name, and whenever you whistle I promise to drop whatever I'm doing and rush to your aid. I suggest Suki, it's a lovely name. What do you reckon?'

'Whoever you are, Sugar Plum Fairy, you're a few sandwiches short of a picnic,' Tony replied. 'There are no spots on your dominoes, all the lights are on but nobody's at home, somebody's put a few spoons in your fork drawer and, no doubt, you're as crazy as a bag of rabid ferrets.' - and with a wry smile he logged off.

*************************

Some time later he was trying to weave the simple but deeply fulfilling insults that he had thrown at the Sugar Plum Fairy during his closing message into the piece he had started writing about two old dears reminiscing about their sex lives. The old ladies refused to behave themselves, and without his explicit permission they had started shamelessly insulting passers by. At entirely the wrong moment, just when his creative juices had really begun to flow, he had an email alert (it's work don't answer it it's sodding work they want you to come in on your day off because some prick has called in sick).

He logged into his Yahoo account in case it was Heather, his wife, because she had taken her phone in for repair and there was no other way that she could contact him. The message wasn't from Heather, and neither was it his employer. “SugarPlumFairyAKASuki@hotmail.com,” he mumbled. “It has to be one of my mates fucking me around, because no random person could get hold of my strictly family and friends email address.....”

'Dear Tony,
there's no need to be abusive, you miserable old git. I don't know, I'm bending over backwards to help you get over your writers' block, and this is the thanks I get. I know you're thinking that you've already given the infuriating curse a good hiding, but where do you think the ideas that you're currently working on came from? Do you honestly believe that they randomly dropped into your stubborn head out of a clear blue sky? Aah, you're also thinking, you can't possibly know what those ideas are, fuck-face – and if you do know (or you believe you know, which is probably closer to the truth) you'd dish them out right now to prove the authenticity of your patently ridiculous claims. Here goes then, my lovely. Ready, are you?

You're working on a piece about a couple of sweet old ladies reminiscing about their rather adventurous sex lives. Or at least that was your initial idea, but the insults that you threw at me tickled you somewhat and you're trying to subtly weave them into the plot; they're gradually taking over, though, and the two old dears have started hurling insults at passers by. Am I right, or am I bloody well right?

Love, Suki XXX.'

“What the fuck's going on?” Tony asked himself as he logged out of his email, account and went back to his story. “This can't be happening. Surely.” (Wouldn't it be great to have a muse, kiddo? Wowee, think of the work you'll get done – good stuff, not your usual so-so crap. Marketable stuff with a bit of luck..... You'd be a fool not to jump at this chance, Tony, really. Whatever this thing is it's real, it exists - it's proved that much, and it's willing to fill your head with useful stuff. Hang about. What if you're going looney-tunes? And even if you're not going mad, what if there's a catch?) “This can't be happening,” Tony repeated in a flat monotone.

'Yes it can,' a voice in his head whispered. 'It can and it is. You're not going crazy, Tony, and there's no catch whatsoever, so you might as well get used to the idea.'

“Fair enough, Suki,” Tony said. “It looks like we're an item – but don't tell my missus whatever you do.....”