The story wasn’t happening. My muse was gone. Empty page, empty head. Empty rolled over and the story was dead. Empty dempty sat on a wall, had a great fall… “Calli! Where the hell are you?”
I opened my bedroom door. Calli’s cigarette smoke wafted out. Cosmetics and clothes (mine) littered the bed and what used to be my husband’s dresser until he ran off with a Baptist prude last spring.
“Calliope. I have been waiting at the computer for four hours!”
She sat at the dressing table, twirling my big pink pearls, which I didn’t say she could wear. She said, “Luncheon.”
I wanted to rip that ridiculous gold tiara off her head. The feathers, too.
She applied (my) red lipstick, admiring herself in the mirror, ignoring my murderous glare.
The story had to get done. I had bills to pay. Well, I had an inheritance, but I still felt like finishing my story. “So, that’s how you’re going to be today. I have to meet Linda for lunch.”
“I shall come along.”
I did not recall inviting her.
“Not that dreadful peasant buffet. Alexander the Great’s,” Callie said.
The story, the story. On the phone: “Linda? Is Alexander the Great’s all right instead?”
The waiting area was packed. Calli breezed past the hostess stand to an empty booth.
“Could you please wait to be seated?” the hostess called after her.
Callie slid into the booth and swooned dramatically, head down on the table, arms spread out. Restaurant staff gathered around the medical emergency. “Crackers,” she whispered. “Please. And an iced ouzo. Two sugars.”
Linda stood there looking mad. She wasn’t the tolerant sort.
I came back from hiding out in the restroom. Callie and Linda sipped their drinks in the booth. Calli enjoyed a pillow behind her head and a blanket across her lap.
Giving up on finding something I recognized on the menu, I sipped my drink. I’d just have Callie’s salad, she never bothered with it. She ordered the lamb-stuffed grape leaves, pricey for lunch, but she wouldn’t be paying.
“So anyway,” Linda said, “Let me fill you in on the squabble you missed at writing group last night. Someone blubbered about her writer’s block and then the rest of them started whining too. Their motivations were gone, their muses were gone, blah, blah blah. I said it like it was. I said, ‘None of that nonsense exists. You’re all being lazy.’ Then, they all turned on me--”
“Peep!” Calli shrieked, eyes wide. “Peep! Peep! Peep!”
She was a startled tropical bird, with the peacock plumage around her crown and her bright floral muumuu. When anyone annoyed Calli, she peeped in their face. She really was quite rude. I tried to stop laughing.
“Oh, just fuck off.” Linda tossed a twenty onto her napkin and flounced out.
“Are you happy now?” Calli usually made fun of all my friends and husbands (three). Jealous, I guess.
“Boring, boring poseur. She’ll never get published. Why in the world do you put up with her, darling?” She ate Linda’s lunch as well as her own. “This moussaka is divine.”
“When we get home, I need your help. I have to fin—“
“Peep!”
Back at my apartment, Calli insisted on watching Dr. Phil, then two episodes of Hoarders.
I typed and deleted, then typed and deleted some more.
Next, she claimed she required a raspberry lemoni before she could help me.
I had to run to the store for the fresh berries. When I finally had her fancy cocktail prepared, she was gone.
I found her at the complex swimming pool, entertaining a suitor, swimming in her muumuu. She had the nerve to tell me to go fetch him a drink, too.
Dinner was leftover Pizza Hut.
She slipped out again after her second slice. No doubt for a night on the town with her new friend. My dressy red sandals and matching evening bag were missing.
Type,delete. Type, delete. I was getting nowhere.
“My poor darling. Falling asleep at your desk on a Saturday night. You should get back out there! Meet handsome men, have fun.”
“It’s two in the morning. I’m never going to finish this story.”
“Tsk-tsk, you worry too much. Make a pot of coffee and let me slip out of these dreadful shoes, and then we’ll see.”
Coffee in hand, Calli said, “It’s simple, darling. Let’s start with your day. Type out what you did today.”
Empty page, empty head. Empty rolled over and the story was dead. Empty dempty sat
on a wall, had a great fall… “Calli! Where the hell are you?” I opened my bedroom
door, Calli’s cigarette smoke wafted out. Cosmetics, and clothes (mine) littered
the bed and what used to be my husband’s dresser until he ran off with a Baptist prude last
spring.
“Calliope. I have been waiting at the computer for three hours!”
She sat at the dressing table, twirling my strand of big pink pearls I didn’t say she could
wear. She said, “Luncheon.”
I wanted to rip the ridiculous gold tiara off her head. The feathers, too...
Ah, my muse was back! Later, I wouldn’t believe I had written it. Of course, I hadn’t. My muse wrote. I only maneuvered my muse into writing. (“Only!” Ha!).
She applied (my) red lipstick, admiring herself in the mirror, ignoring my murderous
glare.
The story had to get done. I had bills to pay. Well, I had an inheritance, but I still felt like
finishing my story. “So, that’s how you’re going to be today. I have to meet Linda
for lunch.”
“Excuse me. Did you say you ‘wanted to rip the ridiculous gold tiara off my head?’”
“I’m sorry! I---“
“Peep!”
When Calliope peeps and I bang along on my desk with my head, the rhythm is nice. It’s the same rhythm I use when typing a story.
This is how a writer suffers for her art. And only the luckiest of us get a muse at all.
I opened my bedroom door. Calli’s cigarette smoke wafted out. Cosmetics and clothes (mine) littered the bed and what used to be my husband’s dresser until he ran off with a Baptist prude last spring.
“Calliope. I have been waiting at the computer for four hours!”
She sat at the dressing table, twirling my big pink pearls, which I didn’t say she could wear. She said, “Luncheon.”
I wanted to rip that ridiculous gold tiara off her head. The feathers, too.
She applied (my) red lipstick, admiring herself in the mirror, ignoring my murderous glare.
The story had to get done. I had bills to pay. Well, I had an inheritance, but I still felt like finishing my story. “So, that’s how you’re going to be today. I have to meet Linda for lunch.”
“I shall come along.”
I did not recall inviting her.
“Not that dreadful peasant buffet. Alexander the Great’s,” Callie said.
The story, the story. On the phone: “Linda? Is Alexander the Great’s all right instead?”
The waiting area was packed. Calli breezed past the hostess stand to an empty booth.
“Could you please wait to be seated?” the hostess called after her.
Callie slid into the booth and swooned dramatically, head down on the table, arms spread out. Restaurant staff gathered around the medical emergency. “Crackers,” she whispered. “Please. And an iced ouzo. Two sugars.”
Linda stood there looking mad. She wasn’t the tolerant sort.
I came back from hiding out in the restroom. Callie and Linda sipped their drinks in the booth. Calli enjoyed a pillow behind her head and a blanket across her lap.
Giving up on finding something I recognized on the menu, I sipped my drink. I’d just have Callie’s salad, she never bothered with it. She ordered the lamb-stuffed grape leaves, pricey for lunch, but she wouldn’t be paying.
“So anyway,” Linda said, “Let me fill you in on the squabble you missed at writing group last night. Someone blubbered about her writer’s block and then the rest of them started whining too. Their motivations were gone, their muses were gone, blah, blah blah. I said it like it was. I said, ‘None of that nonsense exists. You’re all being lazy.’ Then, they all turned on me--”
“Peep!” Calli shrieked, eyes wide. “Peep! Peep! Peep!”
She was a startled tropical bird, with the peacock plumage around her crown and her bright floral muumuu. When anyone annoyed Calli, she peeped in their face. She really was quite rude. I tried to stop laughing.
“Oh, just fuck off.” Linda tossed a twenty onto her napkin and flounced out.
“Are you happy now?” Calli usually made fun of all my friends and husbands (three). Jealous, I guess.
“Boring, boring poseur. She’ll never get published. Why in the world do you put up with her, darling?” She ate Linda’s lunch as well as her own. “This moussaka is divine.”
“When we get home, I need your help. I have to fin—“
“Peep!”
Back at my apartment, Calli insisted on watching Dr. Phil, then two episodes of Hoarders.
I typed and deleted, then typed and deleted some more.
Next, she claimed she required a raspberry lemoni before she could help me.
I had to run to the store for the fresh berries. When I finally had her fancy cocktail prepared, she was gone.
I found her at the complex swimming pool, entertaining a suitor, swimming in her muumuu. She had the nerve to tell me to go fetch him a drink, too.
Dinner was leftover Pizza Hut.
She slipped out again after her second slice. No doubt for a night on the town with her new friend. My dressy red sandals and matching evening bag were missing.
Type,delete. Type, delete. I was getting nowhere.
“My poor darling. Falling asleep at your desk on a Saturday night. You should get back out there! Meet handsome men, have fun.”
“It’s two in the morning. I’m never going to finish this story.”
“Tsk-tsk, you worry too much. Make a pot of coffee and let me slip out of these dreadful shoes, and then we’ll see.”
Coffee in hand, Calli said, “It’s simple, darling. Let’s start with your day. Type out what you did today.”
Empty page, empty head. Empty rolled over and the story was dead. Empty dempty sat
on a wall, had a great fall… “Calli! Where the hell are you?” I opened my bedroom
door, Calli’s cigarette smoke wafted out. Cosmetics, and clothes (mine) littered
the bed and what used to be my husband’s dresser until he ran off with a Baptist prude last
spring.
“Calliope. I have been waiting at the computer for three hours!”
She sat at the dressing table, twirling my strand of big pink pearls I didn’t say she could
wear. She said, “Luncheon.”
I wanted to rip the ridiculous gold tiara off her head. The feathers, too...
Ah, my muse was back! Later, I wouldn’t believe I had written it. Of course, I hadn’t. My muse wrote. I only maneuvered my muse into writing. (“Only!” Ha!).
She applied (my) red lipstick, admiring herself in the mirror, ignoring my murderous
glare.
The story had to get done. I had bills to pay. Well, I had an inheritance, but I still felt like
finishing my story. “So, that’s how you’re going to be today. I have to meet Linda
for lunch.”
“Excuse me. Did you say you ‘wanted to rip the ridiculous gold tiara off my head?’”
“I’m sorry! I---“
“Peep!”
When Calliope peeps and I bang along on my desk with my head, the rhythm is nice. It’s the same rhythm I use when typing a story.
This is how a writer suffers for her art. And only the luckiest of us get a muse at all.
