Stephen King, in his fine book ON WRITING, said that his muse was a fat, cigar-smoking slob called Al who lived in the basement. He said that Al was messy, but he really couldn't complain. After all, Al had provided him with a good life.
My muse couldn't be more different. She is an elderly spinster with half-glasses that swing on a silver and bead chain. She wears twinsets and narrow skirts, and her stockings have seams up the back, in an old-fashioned way, not in a sexy way. Her shoes have a T strap, which buttons over her instep. She likes a butterscotch sweet from time to time.
She works in a small office at a desk that is piled high with letters and notes. She does her work, of course, on an old typewriter, since I love them so, although she also employs an old-fashioned fountain pen.
Where would I be without her? When I feel dreary, or lazy, or sleepy, she is the one who is by my side, tapping her toe and pointing to her steel wristwatch. "Stir your stumps, lazybones," she says to me, and I groan and obey.
I wonder if my fellow writers have a muse, and if you would care to describe them here? I would love to read about them.
I also would love to hand out some awards. I was given the "Blog on Fire" and "Most Versatile Blogger" awards, and I sorely want to share. Any nominations?