THE RELUCTANT MUSE

THE RELUCTANT MUSE

Mitch sat in front of his laptop propped on his oak roll-top desk. He opened several pigeonhole drawers at the back of the desk, looked absently inside them, and then closed them.

  He typed a few more words, then closed the roll-top desk carefully and lifted the lid just as carefully, listening as the slats of the sliding cover traveled along the tracks on the desk. He repeated this several times, after the third time he stopped and backspaced the few words he had written and typed a few more.

He was working on developing his main character, trying to flesh out his protagonist. His character so far had only a name. Her name was Carrie, and she was in her bedroom, standing just in front of her huge walk-in closet. She was just about to get dressed for work, or maybe go jogging, or to the theater, or perhaps a wedding, he wasn’t quite sure. Fleshing out a great character was always difficult for him. For Mitch, breathing life into a character always proved to be the most challenging part of the novel.  He knew that this novel was going to be an action/ adventure novel with a kick-butt heroine…or at least he thought it was.

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Carrie stood unmoving in her underwear in her bedroom. She was frozen in time just outside the door to her huge walk-in closet. According to what Mitch had typed already in his opening paragraph, it was a huge room, a huge closet with a huge collection of clothes, a huge collection of shoes, and a huge collection of wigs and jewelry. Everything about her life at the moment was huge, and that wasn't her preference. At this precise moment, she had no preferences, it was all Mitch's idea. So far, she was only a pawn in his writing career; she had no say in her life and it was darn irritating. “Come on Mitch,” she silently encouraged, “open up your thesaurus and find other words for huge. I know this is only your first draft but be inventive. Better yet, make everything small and then we don't have to go through this process of what I should wear or what I should look like. She stood perfectly still and waited. She had been standing this way for fifteen minutes while Mitch typed, erased, and re-typed. So far she had been Carrie, then Keri, Cari, Kerry, Kerrie, and then her character had gone back to Carrie. She had worked with Mitch before. “It’s going to be one of those days she thought.”

She heard Mitch type a few more words and then she stepped into her closet. Thank goodness; she had a cramp in her leg from standing perfectly still for such a long time. After a few minutes of listening to Mitch's typing, she grabbed the brunette wig and placed it on her head. She faced the full-length mirror and took in the olive skin, raven-coloured tresses, and brown eyes.

 At least Mitch had given her a half-decent body, she filled the bra and panties nicely, She half turned to look at her backside when she heard the keyboard start clicking wildly. When she turned, there was a huge, and she did mean huge baby bump where her previously svelte body had been only a few keystrokes before.

“Really,” she thought. “I’m pregnant! Oh Mitch, now come on. How well can you write a novel about a very pregnant woman if you are planning to write an action/adventure novel? Think about it!” She leaned forward and tried to touch her toes. It was a no-go. “See! I could have told you that.” Several back spaces later and a few clicks and the baby bump disappeared, and she found herself reaching for a long blond wig and quickly plopped it on her head. The olive skin was gone but a tall, tanned body replaced it. Starring in the mirror was a beautiful heart-shaped face with large China-blue eyes and unbelievably long lashes. Her bust had increased by several inches.

“Oh Mitch, not the blond bombshell look. It's so predictable, so California girl, so Hollywood.” She sighed with irritation, “So cliche.” Sometimes Mitch could be such a… dufus. Carrie aspired to be so much more than the quintessential stereotypical character. 

When Mitch was on one of his writing rants as she called it, she had to depend on Mitch for absolutely everything, every word, every movement, but please, please, for the love of God Mitch, this type of character was way, way overdone. She didn’t want to be a “TEN” she’d be happy being an “Eight" or "Nine.” Even a seven would do in a pinch. But Mitch would never write about a “Seven.”

Click, click, click, went the keys on the laptop.

She was now a redhead, well, that was interesting and very unexpected. Mitch had never tried writing about a redhead before. Oh, and she was shorter now too and she had less boob. Surprise, surprise. She looked… she looked good. Her hair was long, it wasn't carrot red, she was glad that Mitch had not been reading about Lucy Maud Montgomery's character of “Anne with an E’ or little orphan Annie” Her hair wasn’t auburn or titian, but a beautiful red-gold colour and her eyes were no longer blue but a wild Irish green.

“Well, thank you, Mitch,” she breathed a sigh of relief when after a few moments, nothing changed.

She could hear Mitch clicking away, and automatically reached for a green tracksuit and donned it before he reached the period at the end of his sentence. Mitch paused.

“Really Mitch, green. How predictable, a redhead dressed in green, and now I look like a Christmas Elf.” Click, click and the tracksuit was royal blue.

“Well, that works better at least. And the suit is comfy too in case the novel tends to be a long and wordy one.”

Carrie heard the keyboard start its ever-loving clicking and in the blink of an eye she was wearing a silver-gray business pantsuit with a crisp white shirt underneath, a Lady Rolex appeared a moment later along with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and a neat no-nonsense bun. She held a leather attaché case in her hand.

Click click and she appeared in front of the mirror in a neoprene wetsuit, and face mask wearing a pair of fins on her feet and carrying a fishing spear in one hand. “I look like my Uncle; King Poseidon,” she mused, “I’m even holding this spear which looks alarmingly like his trident.” 

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” she thought angrily. If her fellow Muses could see her now, she would be a laughing stock. If only she hadn't played hooky from school when she was younger and missed the classes on how to interrupt these erratic thought patterns and assert her power and authority; then she wouldn't feel so reluctant and ignorant as to how to break into his wayward thoughts. “This is not how this is supposed to work,” she thought. “I am supposed to be the Muse, not a puppet on a string, it really isn’t supposed to happen this way.” She wasn’t supposed to be a marionette, someone he could manipulate at will, or a … a mannequin, that he could dress up and change her clothes like he was playing with a Barbie doll. It was frustrating, didn’t he know what a Muse was? He wasn't supposed to be in the driver's seat, manipulating her every movement. She was here to inspire him, to get his creative juices flowing. “Let go, Mitch,” she pleaded silently.” Let go of your control and let me work my magic”. Why was Mitch second-guessing himself and being such a control freak?”

She stood staring in the mirror, her body frozen while Mitch wrestled with her character, only her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. “Obviously, I am not worthy of the name Muse for I have failed miserably with Mitch. He is incapable of deep thought, he is shallow, he procrastinates to the ninth degree, and can not make up his mind, for he changes his mind every ten seconds. I do not inspire him, he is unable to contemplate or even finish one single declarative sentence or paragraph. We are both a failure on so many levels.”

She continued to remain immobile while Mitch searched his mind for a cohesive thought

“All he has to do is reach out with his mind, release himself, free himself, and let me work my magic.” I can help him,” she reasoned. “ I know it … if he will just let go.”

“I am a Muse, not a witch,” she asserted internally. “I can't cast a spell on Mitch, to make him stop procrastinating, but if I could I would. Maybe then he wouldn’t make me stand in this huge walk-in closet and change myself so many times. I am not a Genie, I can't make a wish or even grant a wish that Mitch would make up his mind, and  I certainly am not a wee Leprechaun with their mischievous ways. I am not a fairy godmother to wave her wand, nor do I have a monkey paw to give three wishes which will bring terrible consequences or tell you that you only have three wishes and you can not wish for more wishes.”

 As she remained rooted in place She continued her tirade. “I am a muse, my job is to inspire creativity and imagination.  To offer an original idea, offer alternatives. I  am supposed to inspire, to captivate the writer with ideas, and original thought. This is my mandate, my role as a Muse.  Muses have held this honour since the beginning of time.  I was taught by the famous nine Muses themselves. I am a professional. It is my job, my duty to help Mitch and inspire him.” Her face remained placid though her mind continued its wild rant. “Mitch wouldn't know an original idea or thought if it hit him in the face. How can he write his action/adventure novel if he continues this way? He makes a mockery of all Muses, refusing our help and although I am reluctant to be here I know it is my duty as a Muse to help him if I can. Please Mitch, I implore you, let me help you. I am a time-honoured Muse sent from Mount Olympus on high.”

She was feeling exhausted after her internal struggle, but Mitch was at work again and her wet suit was replaced by a wedding dress. It was an ethereal,  a cloudy white tulle and lace creation complete with a pearl bodice and white satin shoes.  She turned and saw a long train behind her. She brushed the veil with soft well manicured fingers and saw the large sparkling diamond on her left hand. She swayed gently admiring the way the dress swished against the crinolines underneath, rustle, rustle. Seconds later a bouquet of white lilies and roses appeared in her hand, their heady scent filled her senses. An unfamiliar feeling coursed through her and an unexpectant smile that had nothing to do with Mitch’s writing lit her face. She at last knew the true meaning of ‘a vision in white’. She had never looked better. She lifted the bouquet to her nose just as a large spot of blood formed over her heart and began dripping down the beaded bodice. She grabbed her chest and felt herself starting to fall when the sound of the backspace bar being tapped repeatedly stopped her. The blood disappeared a little each time Mitch hit the backspace key. “Oh, Mitch, I've never been a bride before,” she thought wistfully. She stared at herself for a long time, and time passed. Mitch must be away from his laptop she thought, probably getting himself a coffee, the writing was not obviously going well today. But in the meantime, she stood like a statue admiring the wedding dress.

  At long last she felt a change in the atmosphere, as if Mitch had returned to his keyboard and was listening, as if he was giving up control. She breathed easier and felt a burden lift off her shoulders She no longer felt like a puppet on a string, pulled one easy and then the next. He was reaching out to her, his Muse, waiting for her to offer him her creative spirit, her magic as a Muse. The red hair was still there. He was obviously set on that but that was okay. He was giving her a choice now. She was back, and now the magic could begin. This was her Raison D’etre, her reason for living. She reached out to Mitch who now opened his mind and became receptive. He was open, like an empty vessel for her to fill. She heard the keyboard working again and she faced the cluttered closet and she chose a pair of blue jeans, sensible shoes, a white designer T-shirt, and a classic black jacket. She turned to the dresser beside the mirror opened the top drawer and pulled out a passport, a wad of cash, and a gun with a silencer. Now in complete control, she gave a cheeky salute to the mirror then she walked with a sense of purpose to the door. 

 The game was afoot.