I know it’s popular to think of your muse as something good and helpful. A beautiful young woman in a long flowing white dress who serenades you with dreamy ideas and swirls about your head, smelling of lavender.
Your better half. Your higher self. Your om-ness.
But mine without a doubt is a b.i.t.c.h. I don’t use that term lightly.
She’s loves to make me sweat. She’s the one who goads me into writing and then doubles over with laughter when I do, saying ‘Sorry, I thought you had talent. My bad.’
She prods me to go off on tangents of complete nonsense. She pokes big holes into my story line. She whips out her jagged scissors and snips off my ending, letting it float out of my memory.
She sits her fat ass down on my word count and refuses to let it budge.
She yawns loudly and passes out with boredom.
She complains constantly about the lack of chocolate in the house.
Some days she is so wired with caffeine her fists shake as she dances around, spoiling for a fight.
When I try to take her for a walk, like the writing books say, all she does is sit like a parrot, claws digging into my shoulder, commenting loudly on the errands I have yet to accomplish. Geez, she says, what kind of mother are you?
When I beg her to help me out a bit—‘I’m dying here!’– she belches.
But every day, when my day is done and I’m on my way out to pick up my children, I pat her on the head and toss her a biscuit. (A whole packet, actually)
Because she might be a bitch,
but She My Bitch.
And she’s the only one who’s gonna get me through this.
photo by crazybobbles (flickr)