I tried to goad Meb Bryant, guest and interviewee yesterday on AllThingsWords’ companion blog EatReadRate into giving up mystery/thriller novels and writing a book about her “trashy muse.” But she turned up her nose at the project. Hmm. Perhaps her muse isn’t as trashy as she envisions her. (Check out the interview and the comments at: http://eatreadrate.wordpress.com/2013/03/05/our-guest-meb-bryant/#comments )
But I think this is a novel just waiting to be written. In the best tradition of Tom Robbins or Christopher Moore, two of my writer heroes. I mean, what better character for a writer than his own muse?
Hmm, let’s see. How about this.
The Muse lies abed at nine. Perhaps a touch of a hangover, but ah, such is the life of the muse. Inspiring is such hard work at times. And sometimes involves cavorting. Which often involves drinking, among other vices.
It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it. Otherwise, think of all those poor pitiable poets, trying in vain to write an ode that isn’t odorous or a sonnet distinguishable that does not raise sonorous refrains. Or worse, a love poem to make some fair maiden less protective of her chastity.
And then there’s the novelists. Ugh. Sitting at their word processors day after day, weaving plot lines. Hera and all the Furies, is there anything worse than a plot line woven without a muse?
Thank the gods that she isn’t Calliope. Epic poetry. What in Hades was Zeus thinking?
Hmm. Nine already, and not a single worthy line penned. “Hey, you writers down there. We could use a little adoration up here. Get on it, chop chop.”
Peering down through the clouds, the Muse ponders their efforts with amusement. Will any of them pen a single verse worthy of Keats? Not bloody likely.
A worrisome thought flits across her inspiring consciousness. Could I be slipping, perhaps? Perish the thought! I’m the Muse, by definition what I do is perfect. She snaps her fingers for a glass of champagne and contemplates the sorry state of literature today.
Not trashy enough?
“Yo, can I get a fucking doughnut over here? A girl’s gotten eat, you know. What do you mean, you’re trying to write? I’m your muse, you twit! You’ll write when I say you can write, and right now I need a fucking doughnut. And some music, maybe. No, Lady Gaga’s too distracting, all that trashy wiggling around. What do you mean, she reminds you of me? Fie on thy writing for today, I’m going for a nap.”
Sluttier? Let me get back with you on that; it’s a little early to be writing erotica.