Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
“Foul,” the brain cried. “What are we doing up so early?”
His coffee-depleted mouth struggled to respond. “It’s the muses.”
“Them.” The brain scowled. “I can do without… What now?”
“They cracked the whip. Said he had to get up early and make time to write.”
“Write.” The brain snorted. “What a waste. Go back to bed.”
“Too late,” the heart said. “We’ve already had coffee. We’re up now.”
The brain sighed. “Well, I guess it’s time to write like crazy, again, innit?”
The muses insist, “Write, write.” They follow their own order and structure, indifferent to what’s happening in his life or the real world. They don’t care what goes on there. They are there to make him write, no matter how his mind and emotions teeter with the events overtaking his life.
He awoke writing in his head, picking up the story where he’d stopped the previous day. Cats were first fed because he wasn’t inexperienced. The cats would haunt home with song until they were fed, and, you know, responsibilities, right? An agreement existed which must be honored on his end.
He settled into his office chair, typing fast for fifteen minutes. Insulated in his fictional world, he heard his wife’s activities as she pursued her post-rising rituals. Mental countdown beginning, he typed faster, racing through the scene to grab it all. The cats joined him, one on the windowsill behind him, speaking to his back, the other jumping up onto his desk, heading for his right side, waiting for him to reach for the mouse, intercepting his hand with a nose mash as he tried selecting a line to copy, paste, move. Then his wife entered talking.
He didn’t know what she said. Muses still shouted words in his head, but he knew the writing moment was done, at least for the moment.
“You overthink things,” the muses said.
“Guilty.”
“Don’t. Trust us. Write and enjoy yourself.”
The writer sniffed, a response delivered with a tincture of hurt indignation. “Easy for you to say.”
A muse sighed. “Easier for you to do, if you’ll let yourself.”
Sure, the writer thought. Sure.
He kept quiet as he typed, making as little noise as possible. Muses had turned out in a large number and were offering terrific guidance. He didn’t want to scare them off.
Michael Seidel, writer 