- Books, Literature, and Writing
My Muse is a Night Owl
My Muse is a Night Owl
The tall, dark featured man sat quietly beneath his laptop, on his bed while thinking about the potential for another story he could write. Words eluded him like swift little ninjas running from the pages he wished to fill. Their quick motions only afforded him a glimpse at their shadows. Indeed, his mind, mangled with writer’s block, kept him from the task, at hand.
Perhaps this problem could be, easily attributed to the long hours of work and the few hours of sleep, he had endured for weeks now. Surely, even the warmth of a hot cup of coffee offered him little relief. Still, the chilly winter morning made the coffee invaluable for warming his insides.
His soulful blue eyes were often an attraction to the opposite sex but under the circumstances, they seemed darker and more vivid as red lines seemed to run towards them from the corners of his eyes.
Dark, wavy hair reached out with a curtained, maddened look, as the man gave no thought for brushing out his hair. He had no plans of going anywhere or seeing anyone, so why bother. The only plan he had, was writing…to conjure his muse.
Within his soul, he began seeking out his muse, the lovely creature that filled his mind with inspiration after inspiration. The muse he loved and admired. Carefully, he turned back the folds of his mind until he should find where she had hidden herself.
To his dismay, he did not find inspiration but he did hear the words ‘Do not disturb.’ Or, so he joked within himself as he struggled onwards, realizing that he would have to write while his beloved muse, slept.
Resting his hands for a moment, he looked around his bedroom for anything that would prove useful as an idea. Dusty, stuffed animals lined the top of the mirrored dresser along with a few, out-of-place, items such as furniture polish. The dresser itself was very beautiful and although it did not look clean, at the moment, he did like to polish it every so often.
Taking the time to look around the room some more, he noticed a small can of WD40, sitting next to a bottle of Pepto and chuckled about the contrast in products. ‘One to keep things running smooth and one to stop things from running too smoothly’, he joked to himself. Next to them sat some Star Wars toys from some fast food place. Two of the figures were a gift from his brother and the third one was a gift from a dear friend.
Close to those things is where he keeps his Star Trek collectible glasses next to other, miscellaneous items and a watch he seldom wore. The funny thing about this writer is that he has around eight watches but he never wears them, except on special occasion. Because he his lazy and rests his arms on his laptop, wearing watch would only impede his ability to write efficiently. Not to mention, he was already fighting with writer’s block and any more impediment was unwanted.
Still feeling a bit chilly, he grabbed a t-shirt from the night before and slid it on, to try and warm himself. This writer had considered getting up and taking a shower but he felt the need to write about something, anything. His first thought was to write a romantic short story but, with his muse repeatedly hitting the snooze button, he was on his own, this morning.
Another thought that had crossed his mind, was writing about a dashing pirate and the princess he would fall in love with but again, the muse was out cold. Still, ideas were starting to come into his mind as words formed.
The vision of her staggering across his brain, her hair in utter disarray while carrying a cup of coffee, crossed his mind. He could see her lovely visage marred by lack of sleep and a greater desire to go right back out. He chuckled to himself at his own silliness and wondered how he was so fortunate to have such a wild and vivid imagination.
Sitting back on a mound of pillows, he began hearing the ominous sound of wanting breakfast. Could it be that he would have to actually get up and rustle up some food? Heaven forbid. His only real desire was to finish the work he was struggling with, writing. Then, he would treat himself to breakfast. Howbeit, his stomach disagreed while making a brutal sound in its argument against waiting until it was full.
After a quick breakfast, the writer slipped back into his comfortable zone and began writing again. Breakfast was good but as he settled back down with his blanket and laptop, he could hear his stomach making soft gurgling sound of gratitude.
The house felt as though it were finally starting to warm up some and he wondered if his muse was…nope…she just crossed his mind again carrying her second cup of coffee back to her room. He could not be sure of this but he could have sworn he heard her grumble about being woke up so early. Out of all the muses he could have come across, his muse, however brilliant, was a night owl.
Then, the writer had a brilliant idea of his on…Maybe if he hopped into a cold shower, it would help stir his muse from the depths of sleep. Granted, his next vision of her could, very well be of the muse carrying a picket sign and marching back and forth. Still, desperate times call for desperate measures.