| 'Evil Muse' |
| ����������� I'm not crazy.� I repeat that to myself every day.� I am not a raving lunatic, and the voice inside my head is only a creation of my imagination.� She does not control me, and I do not have to do what she says.� Heather is not a spirit in my skull; she is only what I think my character would say.� So what if she serves as my Muse on a regular basis.� She is not alive, no matter how much she yells at me for the pansy sappy love stories I like to read. ����������� "That's so clich�.� It doesn't work that way in the real world."� She argues with me as I close another paperback novel and sit down to type at my computer.� I'm going back to an older story to rewrite all the Velveeta-like crap that I used to think was amazing. � ���������� "Who cares?� I know it doesn't work that way, and it probably never will."� I shrug as I open Word and pull up a story for editing. �My muse is a punk rocker.� She likes gothic clothes, hard rock, and anyone with a tattoo or a Harley.� To amuse myself, I write her into my stories.� I don't write her out in all of her bad-assed glory, because I'm afraid to.� I don't know all she could get into if I let her.� Will Rogers said once that "letting the cat out of the bag is sometimes a whole lot easier than putting it back in."� Heather's like that. . . she's like a black cat that is ripping at the burlap sack I've tried to tie her in back in the corner of my mind. ����������� "You're such a sucker."� She repeats in my head as I type out a new scene of my story.� My characters are deep and introverted, and try not to yell.� She wants them to fist fight and yell obscenities.� "Boring . . . this is bullshit.� Make them do something interesting and while you're at it, just get it over with.� Get up and do it.� You know you want to."� She lounges on a couch in my mind that I've put there just for her.� Heather likes lots of black leather things and she's thrown out all of the white lace in the living room of my mind to refurnish everything in gothic posters. ����������� "Heather, shut up.� This is not boring and they are doing something."� I have to argue with her, or all my writing will end up looking like a train wreck between the Zodiac Killer and Charles Manson: all blood and depression.� Just to quiet her down for a little while I add an argument with cigarettes and cursing. ����������� "You should have burnt the bed, and had him throw the cigarette back at the bastard."� She laughs as she reads over my shoulder. �I ignore her studiously for as long as I can.� I even try thinking about my boyfriend of two years.� Heather thinks we should think about every other guy that was in a 5 feet radius in the last week.� I don't.� I think Heather should resign herself to being a one-man woman.� Instead, she begins to list the attributes of the guy in the post office this morning.� I hate her for it, and want her to go away so I can work in peace.� "You wouldn't have anything worth writing about without me."� Heather taunts as she crosses her fishnet-covered legs and leans back in her chair.� "Just do it.� You know you want to.� Show off." ����������� Part of me knows she's right.� She's been with me for years, and I stopped writing cutesy garbage when she showed up. . .okay so my work is darker, and she put me in a depression. . . but wasn't it worth it? ����������� "Okay, you win . . . I'll do it."� I smile menacingly as I get up from my desk and get ready for class.� You know, I don't normally dress this way, but. . . |
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