The Muse

By Robert Stout

The Muse

“What?”

“You need to write.”

“Why?”

“Because I won’t let you sleep if you don’t.”

“Bull. I have sleeping pills.”

“And how are they working for you?”

“Okay, I’m sleeping less than before.”

“Exactly. You need to write.”

“I don’t know what to write.”

“So?”

“How am I supposed to write when I don’t have any ideas?”

“Since when do you do anything but take dictation from me?”

“Good point.”

“Start writing!”

“I would rather sleep.”

“Don’t care. Write!”

“What if I write about writing?”

“Doesn’t matter. Write!”

“Is it going to be another novel?”

“Who cares?”

“I do. You think it’s easy. The last one could have gone in a hundred different directions.

You know how hard it was to edit?”

“La, la, la. Can’t hear you! Start writing.”

“Can you at least give me a genre?”

“Post apocalyptic story of redemption.”

“No way!”

“I know! It’s great, isn’t it?”

“No, no way I’m going to write that trash!”

“That’s okay. I was messing with you. Just write a sentence.”

“Sure. ‘In the beginning, there was nothingness.’”

“Not terribly original.”

“You didn’t say it had to be original.”

“Fine! Write a single, original sentence.”

“The alkali dust swirled around the old Mexican’s boots.”

“Better. Not great, but better.”

“Now can I sleep?”

“Don’t you want to know what happens?”

“Not really.”

“What if I told you it was about terrorists?”

“Every time you promise me terrorists, I get a two headed monster about terrorists and

comedy that I can’t finish and no one would print.”

“Look. I apologized for last time.”

“I had a good terrorist plot going and you made it a comedy about Revelations.”

“Yeah. Don’t remind me. Anyway, what’s this fixation on terrorists?”

“I think they do a poor job of it. If they were better at it, I would respect them more.”

“What? You want to respect terrorists?”

“Not really. I just want them to be more interesting than they really are.”

“That sounds like propaganda. Are you sure you’re not a terrorist?”

“You would know if I was.”

“I suppose. What if we write a nice, funny story?”

“About Mexicans in the alkali dust?”

“That could be funny!”

“Sure it could. Tell me another lie.”

“Damn, you’re in a mood today!”

“I told you. I’m tired and want to sleep.”

“What time is it?”

“11:30.”

“Perfect! We can write all afternoon!”

“At night, dummy.”

“Well, we can write a chapter.”

“You jerk! I knew it was going to be a novel!”

“How about a short story?”

“They take longer than novels. It’s hard to tighten the writing.”

“How about something new? How about a genre you’ve never written?”

“You had me write that western. I don’t even like westerns. It felt like a book wrapped

around a short story idea.”

“Okay, no westerns. How about science fiction? You like to read science fiction.”

“I like to read old science fiction. I could care less about the newer stuff.”

“I see. Where’s my jet pack?”

“Exactly.”

“We could set it in an alternative universe.”

“Pretty lazy, if you ask me.”

“Picky, picky.”

“I should be. It’s not your passion, it’s mine.”

“Without me, these stories would still be trapped in your head.”

“I don’t remember complaining.”

“If you keep tossing and turning, you’re going to hear Nancy complaining.”

“Her name isn’t Nancy.”

“Audrey Farber?”

“Stop stealing Firesign Theater material. I write my own work.”

“Just trying to lighten your mood.”

“Fine, I’ll write a science fiction story about space travel.”

“Yawn. How dull.”

“Then you suggest something new.”

“Write your first line about the space travel.”

“The great ship sailed silently through the starry void.”

“That could be fun. I could have them meet God.”

“Stop with all the God stuff! I gave you three short stories! Enough!”

“Party pooper. Fine. ‘It’s dull titanium hull showed the wear of a hundred years.’”

“I’m writing.”

“The solar sail was torn and had stopped working ages ago.”

“Uh huh.”

“The control room was dark. Not even a single status light showed.”

“Then?”

“What do you mean, then?”

“You’ve set up a situation, where’s the conflict?”

“Don’t be so impatient.”

“You don’t know yet, do you?”

“No, but when has that stopped me?”

“Am I going to need to do research on this one?”

“Maybe. Not sure yet.”

“Well, you think about it while I sleep.”

Five minutes passed.

“You need to write.”