Meet My Muse, Enid

Standard

A Bohemian earth mother or a wee-winged sprite whirring through clouds of opal pixy dust. That’s how other writers might describe their muse. My muse is, well, she’s not like that. I was going to say she’s indescribable, but that would make for a mighty short post, my little salted caramel squares.

One day I would love for you to meet Enid, my extraordinary muse. Rain or shine Enid wears a double breasted camel coat with a Union Jack pin on the lapel, a hat that you can roll to jam into a suitcase, dark support hose and Crocks. She’s instructed me to let you know that she’s foregoing the ankle bracelet in 2020 and swapping her orange Crocks for green. Ever the fashion plate, my Enid.

What’s in Enid’s bulging plaid book bag? Enid’s packing PW, the 2009 Writers Market, Levenger’s catalogs, an autographed John Grisham novel (don’t ask), a bag of Hershey’s miniatures (with all of the dark chocolates ones missing), one of those fancy wooden boxes of assorted tea bags, her PBS travel mug and a paddle ball game. (She likes to play with that when she’s getting impatient with me.)

I didn’t always have a muse. For the first few years of serious writing attempts, I had to be self-musing. Enid came into my life after the writer she was bemusing moved out of state and Enid opted to stay here to be closer to her grandchildren. (I know. I had no idea muses could have grandmuses.)

Enid typically pitches me ideas right before I go to sleep or when I’m in the shower. I understand that’s standard MMO (Muse Mode of Operation). She caught on early that there was no point in giving me a lot of detail when I’m in bed. Her ideas evaporate by morning. If I’m showering, I’m too soggy to capture anything on paper. So, mostly she gives me titles or character names and lets me dig for the rest. But it’s a start and that’s usually the toughest part.

Yes, Enid is a no-nonsense gal. Lest I give you the impression she lacks a sense of humor, I have heard her laugh. It’s more like a nasally, smirkish chortle. I typically hear it when she’s waiting for me to do something with an idea she’s pitched. She’ll go sit on an overstuffed stool in my office, reach into her bag and pull out a crisp copy of The New Yorker. Enid does love her snarky cartoons.

Has she ever laughed at anything I’ve written, you ask? (I assume you mean the stuff I’m intending to be funny.) Yes and no. Once I saw Enid’s shoulders spasm as she covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. She was reflected in my computer screen as she read over my shoulder. Oh, please don’t tell her I saw.

But better than a laugh is an Enid smile. Enid is one of those eye smilers. You know the ones. The corners of their mouths turn up or down ever-so-slightly and 99 percent of the smile comes from their eyes. She has violet eyes. No, not violent. V-i-o-l-e-t eyes. Like her laugh, an Enid smile is a rare treasure. Oh, how I work for those.

  • Oh, no. Enid must have heard me talking about her. Act natural, okay?
  • Enid is whispering in my ear.
  • What’s that, Enid? You think I should blog about Heather? (She’s my Inner Critic.)
  • What if I . . . (Oh, no. Enid’s going for her paddle ball game.)
  • Looks like there’ll be no Enid smile (again) today.

What about you, my gooey gumdrops? How would you describe your muse?

Following my muse has worked out pretty well so far. I can’t see any reason to change the formula now. ~ Chris Van Allsburg

12 responses »

  1. My muse is a chronic chain smoker who usually just flicks cigarette butts at me when I ask for help. When she decides she’s tired of offering me tidbits, she jumps on the back of a Harley and drives off in an explosion of pelleting gravel. She’s been MIA for quite some time now. Maybe I should search dark bars with heavy blues bands playing. Hmmm?

    Like

  2. My muse is a chronic chain smoker who usually just flicks cigarette butts at me when I ask for help. When she decides she’s tired of offering me tidbits, she jumps on the back of a Harley and drives off in an explosion of pelleting gravel. She’s been MIA for quite some time now. Maybe I should search dark bars with heavy blues bands playing. Hmmm?

    Like

  3. My muse is fast. I think she flies. She loves to come with me on bike rides. In the winter, she circles over my stationary bicycle. She likes being outside more, but hates the cold with a passion. Maybe it’s the smell of chain lubricant that attracts her.

    Like

  4. Once again, Vicky, you are hilarious! I’m sad to say I have no muse, or at least she/he hasn’t made him/herself noticeable. I wish I had one though to help me get new ideas. Can I borrow yours? No, I wouldn’t do that to you or Enid. I had one at one time, but she left me without inspiration. I do miss her. Is there any way I can get her back? She does love dark chocolate. Hmmm. Maybe I can lure her back.

    Like

    • Here’s what you do – write your muse a nice note. Tell her you miss her. Ask her to stop by some time. No pressure. Just a visit. Then, as a P.S., you mention the box of Lindt dark chocolates you can’t wait to open. That should do the trick. 🙂

      Like

Thank you for leaving a reply.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s