Tuesday, December 2, 2014

Muse, by Jill Mikolaizyk



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.”

3 comments:

  1. I loved the slight sarcastic tone in your piece. It was so humorous to read! Reminds me that I really should stop procrastinating myself, but those Buzzfeed quizzes are quite fun...

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  2. I loved it! It was hilarious and very enjoyable to read :)

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  3. I think this is a really wonderful read. The banter between you and your muse is so realistic that I could feel myself being pulled into your story.

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