THE MUSE

‘Here I am,’ thought Brian Mastersen. ‘At yet another Writers’ Retreat. I don’t know why I bother. I haven’t succeeded in overcoming my writer’s block at any of the others. Why do I keep on hoping? But hope rises eternally in the human breast, or whatever. Maybe this time I’ll get lucky, but If I hear yet another platitude about keeping on going, about getting anything down so long as it’s on the page, about how your first draft is always crap, I think I’ll end up punching someone out.’

He looked around. The venue, at least, was pleasant. A large, rambling brick house with a slate roof – looked like maybe early twentieth century – set amongst parkland, bordering on a dark forest of tall pine trees, the wind soughing in the branches. The sun was shining on the bright colourful flowers in the gardens bordering the well-kept lawns – roses, peonies, carnations. People were wandering around, some chatting, others just looking about, trying to find the toilets, perhaps, or where the meal rooms were. Well, maybe he’d better go in the front door and get registration over with. As he entered the portico the bright sunshine was dimmed and he had a little difficulty seeing the desk and the woman sitting behind it.

‘Here for registration?’ she smiled. She seemed pleasant. He suppressed the snarky comment that had risen to his lips. She didn’t deserve it, even if he was in a foul mood himself. ‘Yes,’ he replied instead, a wry smile on his face. ‘Maybe I’ll be able to learn how to write.’

‘Name?’ she asked. ‘Brian Mastersen. With an ‘en’ at the end.’ She began to write in her book, then suddenly looked up sharply. ‘Not the Brian Mastersen? Of Death and Life, and Masters of Doom, and so many more?’ He actually felt himself blushing. ‘Guilty, I’m afraid.’

‘So you’re here to give a seminar?’

‘I’m afraid not. I’m here to learn. To re-charge the batteries, so to speak.’

‘Well, you’re very welcome, of course. Have you signed up for everything?’

‘Oh, yes. The seminars, the workshops, even the meals and use of the restroom.’

That got a shy smile from her. ‘I’m going to be in the workshops, too. I don’t know how it’s going to be for the rest of us having the great Craig Mastersen with us.’

‘Oh, please. I’m just a scribbler who got lucky.’ But his accustomed false modesty made a sour note, even though it was too close to the truth. Off his game. His talent run out, no new ideas, his initial luck vanished.

‘Well, I’m sure we will enjoy having you here. Here’s your voucher and tickets.’ She smiled again and he left, a group of people having gathered in a line behind him. He moved inside looking for the restroom – that comment had been accurate - he’d been on the road for a long time and he needed to empty his bladder. Once he had finished, he went looking for the seminar rooms. He checked against the schedule to see where his workshops and seminars were to be. Some of them seemed the kind of thing he could well do without. ‘Finding your inner self.’ ‘Being the best you can be.’ ‘How to turn your talent into cash.’ But he could see nothing on how to break a long period of writer’s block. Didn’t they believe in that kind of thing any more? Why had he even bothered to come? He should have known it would be useless. His publisher had rejected his last two books, and his agent was getting harder and harder to contact nowadays.

The first seminar was boring, as he’d expected. But he was looking forward to the next one. It was from an author he respected but had never met, Betty Carman. And at the beginning it went well. It was not until toward the end that she came out with a statement that he simply couldn’t agree with. ‘Writer’s block is not real – it’s just laziness.’ He wanted to walk out right there and then, but how could he without it being obvious that he of all people had it? He sat there, pretending, to the end of the seminar, and sat through the questions at the end and the speaker’s trite responses. But he was among the first out the door as soon as the seminar was over. And he missed the next one on purpose - he just couldn’t sit through the same, unending, repetitive crap again.

He remembered the white flame of the early days – his urge to get his story across, his compulsion to share his wonderful ideas and feelings with an audience, the feeling that he had something vitally important to say, that the world needed to know. What had happened? What had happened to him? Where was the excitement, the flame, the resolve, the indomitable determination?

He went outside and walked in the gardens. Despite the bright sunlight the flowers now seemed dull and colourless, the leaves pale, the dark pine forest darker than he remembered on his way in. He stood there, uncertain. What was the point of his life? He’d been so proud when his first book was published, so full of energy and enthusiasm. He’d wanted to be a writer all his life, ever since he’d discovered the magic of reading when he was a small boy. He’d been transported to strange and wonderful lands, mystical worlds. His horizons had been extended by the ideas he had come across in the stories he’d read. He’d never looked back, and had started writing as soon as he could put pen to paper. It had taken years of practice, of struggle, to learn his trade. A collection of rejection slips a mile high before he finally had his first story accepted. As a poor student he had lashed out to celebrate and spent money he could not afford. And when his first book was published he had finally believed he had arrived, that he was a real writer. And the success that came afterwards, the books that followed, the fame, the money. And then the slow wind-down of his inspiration, the dearth of ideas, the feeling that he was simply repeating himself, the staleness and disillusionment and dreary self-reproach.

He was suddenly aware of another person nearby. He turned and saw the woman who had been sitting at the table as he entered and had given him his tickets. She smiled at him vaguely, a little shyly. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said. ‘I thought I was alone. I didn’t want to see this seminar so I came outside. Have you enjoyed it so far?’

‘Not really. Nothing new, I’m afraid. And the second speaker said something that I really couldn’t agree with.’

‘What, Betty Carman?’

‘Yes. I’ve enjoyed her books, I like her ideas and she’s a great wordsmith. But I couldn’t agree with what she said about writer’s block.’

‘Really? What did she say?’

‘She said it wasn’t real – she said it was laziness. I don’t believe that. It’s definitely a real thing. I’ve suffered from it, and it’s a huge problem at times.’

‘I only write as a hobby. I’m not very good. And I’m always running out of ideas. I never know how to say what I want to say. It just turns to mush when I try to put it on paper. I’ve never been published. I really envy you.’

‘Don’t. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.’ He stopped for a moment. ‘I know, that sounds like a cliché but it isn’t. It’s difficult being expected to come up with something new all the time, worrying whether you’re getting stale, that you might be repeating yourself. Or just running completely out of ideas.’

‘You sound like it’s happening to you now.’ She faltered. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. That was rude and intrusive. I shouldn’t have said it.’

‘No, it’s true.’ Somehow this woman had pierced the protective wall of calm competence he had erected around himself. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I have any stories left in me. And everything I write seems trite and formulaic. Maybe I’m washed up.’ How had this happened? This didn’t make sense. He’d been so jealous of his reputation, and here he was opening up to this perfect stranger, who for all he knew would go around telling everybody at the retreat what he’d told her. Or worse still, sell the story to the press. And yet he felt she was safe with his confession. And he was beginning not to care any more. If he was washed up as an author, maybe he should just come clean about it and admit that he was a failure.

‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I thought . . .’

‘Yes, like everyone else. Do you know how hard it is to keep up the pretence? I’m sick of writing, of all the expectations. I’m thinking of giving up.’

‘Oh, don’t do that! You’ve brought happiness to so many people. Including me.’

‘I’ve got to the point where I don’t care. I’m burned out.’

‘I can’t believe that! You’ve written so much, so many wonderful stories!’

‘And each one seems to have taken part of me away. As if I only ever had so many stories in me and when they’ve all been written there’s nothing left.’

‘Surely you must be able to come up with something new. There must be plenty of stories out there still to be told!’

‘I don’t know where they are. I’ve tried and tried, I’ve racked my brains. Nothing!’ And he bowed his head. She put her hand on his arm.

‘I’m so sorry. Do you want to talk about it?’

‘Not really. I can’t see what good talking would do.’

‘It might help. You never know. How long has this been going on?’

‘My last two books – I’m ashamed of them.’

‘I loved them!’

‘Not me. They’re tiresome. But when I first started writing I was so full of enthusiasm, there seemed to be stories to tell everywhere I looked. And then when I became successful it started to lose its magic, somehow.’

‘So, what would it take for you to get that back?’

‘Look,’ he said, starting to feel trapped by cloying sympathy. ‘I appreciate that you’re trying to help, but it’s really none of your business.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’

‘No, I realise that, but I really don’t want to talk about it.’

‘I understand,’ she said. Though she was clearly rebuffed and confused. He was already beginning to regret his abruptness. But all he wanted was to be left alone with his misery, not to be pitied by some do-gooder. She turned and walked off.

That evening he lay on his bed, self-analysing. He really had been rude to the woman, and she had genuinely been trying to help. But it was the last thing he needed. He should apologise to her if he got the chance. He’d noticed that he’d been becoming more irascible lately; it was a fault he’d become aware of, and he’d told himself to get control over it. But it wasn’t easy – he found himself snapping at people without thought. Yes, he needed to apologise to the woman – he realised he didn’t even know her name.

He sought her out next day. When she caught sight of him she looked apprehensive and seemed to be trying to avoid him. But he pushed through the crowd and said ‘I need to apologise. I was rude.’

‘Oh, I thought I’d offended you. I shouldn’t have been so pushy.’

‘No, I was the one at fault. I’ve been rather sensitive lately. You can understand why.’

She smiled a little timidly.

He felt he needed to make it up to her. ‘Do you want to join me for the first workshop? It would be nice to be there with someone I know. I’m afraid I’m going to get overwhelmed by gushing fans.’

‘Well, I am a fan, but I promise I won’t gush.’

‘That’s settled, then.’

And he found himself enjoying the workshop. It had become a local sensation, that he had deigned to take part in a workshop as an ordinary participant. In case anybody had failed to recognise him, the team leader had begun by saying ‘And I’m sure everybody will know what an honour it is to have the famous Craig Mastersen with us.’ He had put on his TV talk-show smile and made some inane comments about always needing to learn more, and had relapsed into silence. At least he had learned the woman’s name – Maureen. He didn’t catch her surname, but it hardly mattered. He sat back, hardly speaking at all, even when invited to by the team leader. He didn’t learn much from the workshop but he had a good time.

They sat together at lunch, and after the initial awkwardness he enjoyed the conversation. In the afternoon they again shared a workshop, though again he said little and learned little.

That evening he sat in his room, thinking about the day just gone. Strange, he’d enjoyed it – more than he’d enjoyed anything for a long time. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ he said to himself. ‘Not that old cliché – the woman who turns up from nowhere and becomes the failing artist’s muse. No, I’m not going for that. She’s nice enough, she's fairly bright, but no, I don’t want a muse at my time of life. And I’m damned if I’m magically going to overcome my writer’s block just to make a good kitsch story. I’d rather bore out my own eyeballs with the rough end of a pineapple.’ And with that he went to sleep.

Next day – the last of the retreat. He saw Maureen only briefly. They had signed up for different seminars and workshops. He found himself vaguely missing her company. They had lunch together and spoke of inconsequential things. At the end of the day, he looked for her. He felt he needed to speak to her one more time. He found her outside, waiting for transport. ‘Hello, Maureen,’ he said, falsely bright. ‘I was wondering if I could keep in touch. I’ve written down my phone number and email address.’

‘Oh, that’s very nice of you,’ she said. ‘But I don’t know. My husband might not understand. But I’ve enjoyed meeting you. He’ll be very impressed that I’ve met you. But I’m afraid I don’t think it would be a good idea to stay in touch. But thank you. I hope it goes better for you. I’m sure you can overcome the problem.’ And with that her transport arrived and she left.

He never saw her again. But each year at Christmas a card would arrive with his publisher and be forwarded to him. It would be nice to say he overcame his writer’s block, that she had inspired him, but sadly it was not to be. He gave up writing novels, but you might occasionally find his work in other publications. And he managed to leverage his fame as an author into a prime place on the speaking circuit. And once he fancied that he had seen her face in the audience, but he could never be sure.