Do you read Julie Holmes’ Facets of a Muse blog? (If you don’t, you should.) I’ve been reading it for a while now, and she and I exchange comments often.
What struck me from the beginning was her muse. She shares many of their conversations. I was jealous because I never had a muse. I muddle along, all alone in my writerly world (save for my characters, but that’s a story for another time).
One day, Julie went to a writers’ conference. While she was gone, her muse went to a muses’ conference. Who knew such a thing existed? But that’s when I realized her muse had friends.
I got a brilliant idea. (Or so I thought.)
I asked Julie to ask her muse if he could find me one.
He happily accepted the challenge. I, unfortunately, have two excitable dogs. They scared my potential muse away before I ever set eyes on him, leaving me to continue on my own. I sheepishly explained what happened, and Julie kindly relayed the situation to her muse. And he rose to the challenge.
Something you should know about Julie’s muse. He seems to delight in tormenting writers… Julie especially. In a loving way, of course. He is, after all, primarily a being of inspiration, not torture. I was looking for more of a cheerleader, but either muses only come with one personality, or Julie’s muse recruited someone just like him.
The second muse he sent ticked all the boxes. (And a few more that aren’t on my list.)
- Loves dogs.
- Is Italian.
- Is VERY creative.
- Inspires. A lot. And I mean A LOT.
Note the look of irritation and confusion on his face. (That’s right; I need you to look at his face. Sorry to tear you away from… other things.) That’s the look he gave me the first time he nudged my writing in a particular direction and I didn’t immediately get to work. (I was distracted at the time, so it took me a while to react. It was an honest mistake. I’m sure you understand.)
He’s been giving me that look a lot. I’m trying to do better, though.
Yesterday’s interaction went something like this.
He climbed from the pool, rivulets of water sluicing down his body. “Cara mia. What are you doing?” He rubbed the soft terry towel across his broad torso, whisking away the glistening sheen of water on his skin. Then he slung it over his shoulders, hanging onto the dangling tails. His biceps rippled, his knuckles whitened.
I knew I shouldn’t have opened the window, but he’d been singing “You Belong to Me” and his voice rumbled—a deep, rich timbre that made my stomach clench. The song had captured my attention. Then I looked at the singer, and I was struck dumb. In more ways than one.
(I mentioned he has an Italian accent, right? And occasionally uses Italian phrases? Do you still wonder why I get distracted?)
“Sorry. I heard you singing, and I opened the window so I could hear better.”
“But you’re not supposed to be listening to music.” He hung the towel over the back of a chaise, lowered himself, then started applying oil to his already-dark skin. “You’re supposed to be writing.” He lowered the back of the chair and closed his eyes, drinking in the sun. Then he opened one eye and peered at me. “I’ll stop singing if you get back to work.”
What a strange way to negotiate. It was no hardship to look—er, to listen to him.
“Don’t make me get tough with you, cara.” His voice dropped another octave.
It curled my toes.
“I’m going. I’m going.” I closed the window, but not the blinds. I guess I didn’t return to my story fast enough. Through the glass, I could hear him singing “The Best is Yet to Come.” Only guy I’ve ever seen sing with a Cheshire smile on his face.
I think I’m in trouble. He’s ever-present and quite insistent that I get to work. He’s glowering at me now just because I’m writing this.
Blogging is good for interacting with others, cara, but it doesn’t add words to your WIP, does it?
So, I have to sign off now. Apparently I have work to do. Julie, I’m sure I owe you a huge “thanks” but I’m starting to wonder if I would have been better off on my own.
Sigh. He’s growling at me. I really have to go. Later!