Evil Muse
I’m not crazy. I repeat that to myself every day. I am not a raving lunatic, and the voice inside my head is only a creation of my imagination. She does not control me, and I do not have to do what she says. Heather is not a spirit in my skull; she is only what I think my character would say. So what if she serves as my Muse on a regular basis. She is not alive, no matter how much she yells at me for the pansy sappy love stories I like to read.
“That’s so cliché. It doesn’t work that way in the real world.” She argues with me as I close another paperback novel and sit down to type at my computer. I’m going back to an older story to rewrite all the Velveeta-like crap that I used to think was amazing.
‘Who cares? I know it doesn’t work that way, and it probably never will.’ I shrug as I open Word and pull up a story for editing. My muse is a punk rocker. She likes gothic clothes, hard rock, and anyone with a tattoo or a Harley. To amuse myself, I write her into my stories. I don’t write her out in all of her bad-assed glory, because I’m afraid to. I don’t know all she could get into if I let her. Will Rogers said once that ‘letting the cat out of the bag is sometimes a whole lot easier than putting it back in.’ Heather’s like that. . . she’s like a black cat that is ripping at the burlap sack I’ve tried to tie her in back in the corner of my mind.
“You’re such a sucker.” She repeats in my head as I type out a new scene of my story. My characters are deep and introverted and try not to yell. She wants them to fist fight and yell obscenities. “Boring . . . this is bullshit. Make them do something interesting and while you’re at it, just get it over with. Get up and do it. You know you want to.” She lounges on a couch in my mind that I’ve put there just for her. Heather likes lots of black leather things and she’s thrown out all of the white lace in the living room of my mind to refurnish everything in gothic posters.
“Heather, shut up. This is not boring and they are doing something.” I have to argue with her, or all my writing will end up looking like a train wreck between the Zodiac Killer and Charles Manson: all blood and depression. Just to quiet her down for a little while I add an argument with cigarettes and cursing.
“You should have burnt the bed, and had him throw the cigarette back at the bastard.” She laughs as she reads over my shoulder. I ignore her studiously for as long as I can. I even try thinking about my boyfriend of two years. Heather thinks we should think about every other guy that was in a 5 feet radius in the last week. I don’t. I think Heather should resign herself to being a one-man woman. Instead, she begins to list the attributes of the guy in the post office this morning. I hate her for it, and want her to go away so I can work in peace. “You wouldn’t have anything worth writing about without me.” Heather taunts as she crosses her fishnet-covered legs and leans back in her chair. “Just do it. You know you want to. Show off.”
Part of me knows she’s right. She’s been with me for years, and I stopped writing cutesy garbage when she showed up. . .okay so my work is darker, and she put me in a depression. . . but wasn’t it worth it?
“Okay, you win . . . I’ll do it.” I smile menacingly as I get up from my desk and get ready for class. You know, I don’t normally dress this way, but. . .
Now you understand part of why I am the way I am. Don't like it? Tough. This is me. Message me and I'll give you a good run for your money in the smart put down department. . .if that's what you're in to. :)
“That’s so cliché. It doesn’t work that way in the real world.” She argues with me as I close another paperback novel and sit down to type at my computer. I’m going back to an older story to rewrite all the Velveeta-like crap that I used to think was amazing.
‘Who cares? I know it doesn’t work that way, and it probably never will.’ I shrug as I open Word and pull up a story for editing. My muse is a punk rocker. She likes gothic clothes, hard rock, and anyone with a tattoo or a Harley. To amuse myself, I write her into my stories. I don’t write her out in all of her bad-assed glory, because I’m afraid to. I don’t know all she could get into if I let her. Will Rogers said once that ‘letting the cat out of the bag is sometimes a whole lot easier than putting it back in.’ Heather’s like that. . . she’s like a black cat that is ripping at the burlap sack I’ve tried to tie her in back in the corner of my mind.
“You’re such a sucker.” She repeats in my head as I type out a new scene of my story. My characters are deep and introverted and try not to yell. She wants them to fist fight and yell obscenities. “Boring . . . this is bullshit. Make them do something interesting and while you’re at it, just get it over with. Get up and do it. You know you want to.” She lounges on a couch in my mind that I’ve put there just for her. Heather likes lots of black leather things and she’s thrown out all of the white lace in the living room of my mind to refurnish everything in gothic posters.
“Heather, shut up. This is not boring and they are doing something.” I have to argue with her, or all my writing will end up looking like a train wreck between the Zodiac Killer and Charles Manson: all blood and depression. Just to quiet her down for a little while I add an argument with cigarettes and cursing.
“You should have burnt the bed, and had him throw the cigarette back at the bastard.” She laughs as she reads over my shoulder. I ignore her studiously for as long as I can. I even try thinking about my boyfriend of two years. Heather thinks we should think about every other guy that was in a 5 feet radius in the last week. I don’t. I think Heather should resign herself to being a one-man woman. Instead, she begins to list the attributes of the guy in the post office this morning. I hate her for it, and want her to go away so I can work in peace. “You wouldn’t have anything worth writing about without me.” Heather taunts as she crosses her fishnet-covered legs and leans back in her chair. “Just do it. You know you want to. Show off.”
Part of me knows she’s right. She’s been with me for years, and I stopped writing cutesy garbage when she showed up. . .okay so my work is darker, and she put me in a depression. . . but wasn’t it worth it?
“Okay, you win . . . I’ll do it.” I smile menacingly as I get up from my desk and get ready for class. You know, I don’t normally dress this way, but. . .
Now you understand part of why I am the way I am. Don't like it? Tough. This is me. Message me and I'll give you a good run for your money in the smart put down department. . .if that's what you're in to. :)
posted by weyrdkat | 7:16 PM
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