I was going through a dry spell. I’m sure it’s
something all artists experience at one time or another – painters have months
where they can’t stand to look at their palette, and musicians have weeks where
they don’t want to read a single note. I couldn’t even call what I was going
through “writer’s block,” because that implied that there was some sort of plot
point struggling to resolve itself or a character waiting to be heard. No, what
I had was a complete lack of anything.
No setting, no scene, no witty dialogue or imaginative description. I was
completely, one hundred percent tapped out.
And, you know, I was okay. I mean, I wasn’t curled
up in a ball and tearing my hair out, convinced that I was never going to write
again. I would have been perfectly content scrolling through my tumblr
dashboard or getting lost in TVTropes for a few hours. I’d had dry spells like
these before, and they always passed. There would have been no need to torture
myself over it, if I were just writing for myself.
Deadlines, unfortunately, were notoriously unforgiving of dry spells. I couldn’t exactly e-mail my
professor and say, “So sorry, but I can’t complete the assignment because I’m
just not feeling very creative this month.” No, I had to have something written
by Monday, which meant solitary confinement in my dorm room while my roommate
got to go home for the weekend. I’d stare at the blank Word Document for hours,
writing and deleting first sentences until my retinas finally gave up and
detached themselves from my skull.
Or so I liked to tell myself. The reality of the
situation was more along the lines of me messing around on Buzzfeed and
occasionally throwing a glance to the blue “W” open on the taskbar.
“You’re never
going to get anything done like that, you know.”
My head whipped up. An unfamiliar girl was sitting
on my roommate’s bed, flipping through one of her books. When I didn’t answer,
she glanced over to take in my shocked expression. “Well, you’re not.”
The lock on our door had problems, but somehow I
felt like I would have noticed someone walking in and making themselves at
home. “Where did you come from?”
The girl shrugged. “From you.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Pretty sure I would have
remembered childbirth.”
“Dude, I’m not your kid. I’m your muse. Your
inspiration. Whatever you want to call it.” She tossed the book aside, giving
me her full attention.
I stared at her. “You … Aren’t what I was
expecting.” I had never given much thought to what my muse would look like, but
somehow I never imagined her as a plain-looking girl with gray sweatpants and a
topknot.
The girl – my muse – seemed offended. “What’s that
supposed to mean?”
That threw me for a loop. “Well, you know … I guess
I pictured you looking more … mysterious? Otherworldly? Magnificent?”
“That’s
pretty egotistical of you,” the girl scoffed. “Look, what I look like isn’t
really important, okay? I’m here to get you to get it in gear. Your deadline is
in 48 hours … 48 and a half, to be exact.”
I raised an eyebrow, dubious. “You’re here to
inspire me?”
“Well, step one is to get you to stop
procrastinating so much.” She crossed her arms, giving me a clearly judgmental
look. “My job would be a lot easier if you actually opened the Word Document.”
I couldn’t help feeling a bit defensive. “Hey, I’m
not totally wasting my time!”
My muse gave me a sideways glance. “Yeah, taking a
quiz that tells you what Powerpuff Girl you are is going to really pay off
later.”
“Shut up. I don’t see you doing any more work. It’s not like you’re giving me any ideas,
you’re just –” I paused, thinking. “Wait … Oh! This is the idea, right?”
“What?”
I grinned, ideas already forming. “Yeah, I get it!
You want me to write about meeting you! It’s perfect!”
My muse stared at me for a long moment. “That … is
literally the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.”
“No it’s not! It’s – It’s meta!”
“I really don’t think that word means what you think
it means.” My muse pinched the bridge of her nose, shaking her head. “Look,
this is probably going to be a long night for both of us. Why don’t you steep
some tea, and – Hey! Are you typing
this?”
I nodded, looking over at her from my computer
screen. “Yeah. When I start writing, I want to make sure to get the exchanges
right.”
My muse sighed heavily. “I’m not going to be able to
talk you out of this, am I?”
“Nope.”
“I’d be able to help you think of something so much better!”
“Should’ve come along sooner, then. Forty-eight hour
deadline, remember?” I looked over at her, frowning. “Besides, it’s a good
idea.”
My muse held up her hands in defeat. “Whatever. I
wash my hands of it. Just know that I’m totally not behind you on this one.”
But I was already typing. Almost grudgingly, my muse
came across the room to read over my shoulder. She grumbled over my description
of her, but otherwise she remained pretty much silent.
Finally, she piped up. “So, how are you going to finish this thing,
anyways?”
That was a good question, actually. Endings had
never been my strong suit.
“Like this, I guess.”
“That’s even stupider than the premise.”
“Oh, shut up. I get enough of that from the Inner
Critic.”
