You Lost That Loving Feeling

“Baby, stop bugging me, I’ve got a list of to-do’s longer than Tyra Bank’s legs.”

“Is that anyway to treat a long lost friend?”

“Friend? You’re a scamp, a tease, a vagabond.  Don’t bat your long lashes at me.”

“You don’t need me anymore. I swoop in on the moonlight looking for attention and you cast me aside. Where’s the love?”

“Exactly, swoop, being the operative word here. Where were you three months ago when I was lost and drowning in a cup of pity me?  My bet is your were wooing Tyra. I see she has a book out.”

“So does Snooky.”

“Please tell me you had no hand in that one. For all that is sacred, surely you have a thread of moral decency. A muse has to have standards.”

“Jealous?”

“Not even a bit. She deserves her moment in the sun. But a book deal?”

“Even I wouldn’t sink that low. I do abide by a code. Don’t arch your eyebrows at me, woman. You’re haven’t earned the right to look down on me. You don’t have people, only me. I was here at the first page whispering in your ear, urging you on, and beating down your demons.”

“You were, but you left. And for you information, I have people, my characters live in my heart and head. They don’t run away when it gets tough.”

“Who are you and what have you done with that broken down, needy women I left lost on the page twenty-five, crying in her Pinot Noir? What gives? You’re shiny, bubbly even, like a bottle of chilled Dom Perignon.  Do you have a new lover?”

“No, I don’t but that’s not a bad idea. Do you know happened to know a lanky, come-hither gray eyes, lips that taste like honey, man?”

“Hey, that’s not nice. What’s up with you.  Plastic surgery, Botox, did you join Weight Watchers? Something’s different about you. You look, don’t get offended, but you look better, like you’ve danced on the edge and lived to tell about it. You’ve got moxie and something else, something like sizzle is shooting out of your fingertips.”

“I’ll take your backhanded compliment and run with it. Now go away before I will you away.”

“ARGH!”

“What now? You’re driving me batty.”

“Please tell me you’re not one of those enlightened types. Gaud, I hate ‘em. They buy crap wine. Eat sprouted bread what is that anyway? And pretend Tofu is the new Brie.”

“Hmm, enlightened, maybe I am, but not how you describe it. I like Tofu, but it will never replace double-crème brie.”

“Come sit by me. I’m lonely. Amuse me. Tell me what’s going on inside and why you’re so cruel. Bring me wine.”

“No time for you, not tonight. You can sip my wine and watch me work, but only if you promise to be quiet as a church mouse.”

…..

……..

………..

“Are you crying?”

“NO! I have something in my eye.”

“For a writer’s muse, you’re kind of wimpy. Man up, isn’t that what you were telling me when you left me for dead on the hardwood floor?”

“You don’t need me. I exist to be needed, desired, prayed over, drank heavily for, fawned over. Writer’s don’t’ desert me, I leave them.”

“I know.”

“Why don’t you want me anymore?”

“Look who’s being needy now.”

“Bitch.”

“And proud of it. You left me high and dry for the your latest crush, likely Snooky, at page twenty-five. I was spiraling. What I needed was a kick in the pants not silence.”

“I thought you needed some time alone, to reflect, rethink your passion, find your core. Was I right or was I right?”

“You’re a jerk.”

“I’ve been called worse, baby, but you can’t argue with me. You know it was the right thing to do. You had to figure it out on your own. All writers, even the great ones, had to learn the hard way. If you’re really a writer, the kind who will go the distance, you’ll find inner strength, resolve, and that almighty force, on your own.  Besides, I never left, not once. I was here when you broke the sound barrier at word 50K, and again as your rounded 90K. I was here when you clicked back on, when you found your footing, and when you climbed out of that cup of pity. I’m here for life, baby.  Now come on, amuse me. Tell me, what’s next?”

……

……..

“Come on, you know you want to.”

“OK, I have a few minutes. Let me pour us a glass of wine. After you disappeared, I regrouped and like you said, found my core, and made a list. First…….

and finally…..

“So you came out kickboxing?”

“In a round about way, yes.”

“Pour us another glass of wine.”

When you’re in the depths of you own dark mind, how do you pull yourself out?

i write, talk in my head, walk, write, and when that doesn’t work, i write.

Tagged as: muse, passionate pursuits, the writer’s life, writer's inspiration, writer's muse, writer's voice, Writing dialogue, writing down the bones