" The first draft of anything is shit."
- Ernest Hemingway
Meet The Muse
Stephen King said it best when quoting the inspiration behind the pen “The muses are ghosts, and sometimes they come uninvited.”
I believe every writer has his muse. In fact, I myself am lucky enough to have two of them. One simply cannot choose his muse. The muse must choose you and trust me, it will find you.
The first muse I am going to introduce to you is Frank. Frank is quite the character. In fact, he’s simply a dirty bastard whose sense of humor is like that of a perverted old man’s. Blunt and witty, his personality is sharp, direct, and to the point.
Frank and I have a mutual understanding. It’s a love hate relationship if there ever was one. I once asked him why he hangs around. “Sweetheart, you have a way of making my heart melt. Besides, you don’t flinch at the words bitch or fuck or any of the other dirty shit that comes out of my mouth.”
And I don’t. He is my muse. My beautiful, rude, sarcastic muse. And I love him.
Every day, like clockwork, he strides into the room with a glass of gin in hand and stares out the window facing north. He pulls an expensive Cuban cigar out of his worn out flannel shirt---grey and red plaid---and pops it into his grinning mouth.
“How ya doin’ Babe?’
“I’m good Frank. How are you?”
“You’d be a whole lot better if you’d get busy and quit daydreaming those dirty fantasies you have of you I. Now get the fuck back to work.”
I roll my eyes and a smile touches my lips. Good ole’ Frank.
He smacks my ass one good time and tells me to get ready to create something “fucking sensational sweetheart” before sitting in his favorite leather recliner. Crossing his legs, he leans back and stares up at the ceiling lost in thought. He runs his hands through his disheveled hair and his beautiful brown eyes meet mine.
“Let’s get to work you ole’ bitch. I ain’t got all day.”
I am the incessant voice within you
The one you cannot escape
Those who hold the deepest secrets
Are the ones who are kept awake.
Don't close your eyes
Sleep not, pick up the felt tip pen
And I'll tell you what to write.
Be still and listen closely
I have a crucial message I must tell
For ghosts remain restless to those
Who venture back from hell.
There are things I must say to you
Stories only a dead woman would know
Ancient wisdom forever lies
Within my barren bones.
They will ask you who you are
They will ask how you could understand
Only then is my name to be mentioned