Chasing the Muse

This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.

Chasing the Muse

By Plot Roach

Violet sat with the rest of the students through the boring lecture on the importance of copyrights, ISBNs and barcodes on self published novels. She took notes, but only halfheartedly, waiting for the next lecturer to take the podium. Twenty minutes later, the little man in the tweed jacket was replaced by a woman in a tie dyed dress and black leather fringe boots.

“Greeting, class.” She said. “I am here to talk to you about the spirit of writing. And most importantly, how to capture your muse.”

Some of the students left the lecture hall, having dismissed the woman’s words as a frivolous thing not needed in this modern world. They were men and women in neutral colored suits to match their somber moods. All of which Violet had seen in the nonfiction classes. And she guessed that there was not two atoms of creativity to rub together among them. Their loss she thought, and turned back to the lecturer.

She spoke of the many processes writers used to break through writer’s block. Some had a special ritual prior to sitting down at their computers. Other used tools like a special 'writer’s cap', lucky shirt or other accessory that let them shed the shackles of reality long enough to touch the divine. Still other had personal totems, a reminder of their muse, that sat next to their computers to remind them that they were not alone in their quest as writers.

Then came the moment that Violet had waited for: a guided meditation. The woman had them rest as comfortably as they could given the hard wood chairs in the stadium, asked them to close their eyes and breath deeply as she guided them into their unconsciousness. She told them to imagine the room in which they did the most writing, to see and feel the tools that they used to write with. To feel a warmth and love enveloping them in a white light. And finally, to look beside them and see their muse, in whatever form it wished to take. Violet looked through this imaginary version of her writing room back home and found only the piles of books, papers and writing supplies that surrounded her computer at her desk.

She waited, turning in the room to take in all of the corners, the walls filled with bookcases, and even the ugly brown carpet. But she found nothing. The guided meditation was over and the lecturer signaled an end to the class. Violet felt cheated and talked with the woman before she left.

“I didn’t see anything.” Violet complained.

That sometimes happens at first, you just need to focus more and get more practice is all. What of your writing area? What does it look like?” the woman asked.

“It’s kind of cramped, with tons of stuff everywhere.”

“That could be part of your problem. If it’s too filled with stuff for you to feel comfortable, then how can your muse feel at home there as well?”

“But I like it that way. I’ve tried to clean it out before, only to come up completely blank while writing if everything was empty."

"Then your muse must be a creature that thrives in small dark spaces as well. Just give it some time and you’ll find it.”

Violet left for lunch, speaking with the other students of the writing workshop and getting their input on the matter.

“Mine was a huge killer whale.” A man said, forking some potato salad into his mouth. “I didn’t think he would fit into my studio apartment, but when he decided to show up the walls of my place disappeared and it was like I was living at the beach.”

“I had something similar.” said a woman sipping tea. “I was looking out of my kitchen window -I work primarily at the kitchen table while the kids are away at school- and I saw a stable in my backyard. And there was the most beautiful Palomino horse waiting there for me.”

Hawks, snakes, tigers and badgers peopled the rest of the imaginary worlds and helped their writers. Violet felt lower than before, everyone had seen something except her. What’s wrong with me? She thought. Why is my muse not there for me?

The writing conference ended a few days later and Violet had tried the meditation several times with no luck. Once home she unpacked her things and surveyed her writing room. She started to shift things around, to grant her “muse” more space. But halfway through her mission, she abandoned the task, feeling that the empty spaces she made would encroach on her creativity. She grabbed a diet soda and made a ham and cheese sandwich, taking it back to her desk so that she could eat while writing an article that was now overdue for the local newspaper.

One bite into her sandwich she saw it, a thick dark cockroach the size of a small mouse darted out from between a stack of newspapers and made a dash towards the plate of food she had set on a pile of books.

“Oh no you don’t!” Violet yelled, throwing a book at the beast. She picked up her plate of food and the can of soda and set them on a high shelf away from the pest. Then she grabbed a can of bug spray from the closet in the hallway and went in search of the vile intruder.

She checked the stacks of newspapers and books. And even checked the area where the food had been sitting, in case the roach had felt courageous enough to attempt its raid again. She saw movement from the corner of her eye: the roach was on her computer’s keyboard.

“Ah, man. Now I can’t spray it without dousing my computer and smelling bug spray on my fingers every time I write.”

That was when she noticed that the roach was not simply walking along the keys of her keyboard, but hopping up and down like a mad Mexican jumping bean. It came to a standstill and seemed to be waiting. Violet read the message on the screen.

Hello… I am your muse.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Violet said, lowering the bug spray. “I could have had a tiger or a whale, or something big and badass like that. But I have a roach?”

We’re great survivors. The next message read. And thrive in small cramped places filled with cellulose.

Violet remembered that newspapers and books were considered cellulose and looked at the cramped area around her.

“So be it.” she said, tossing the bug spray can to the side. “Now what?”

There were more acrobatics from the bug as it brought up a website that showed her the lifecycle, feeding and breeding habits of her newfound friend.

Violet brought into the room an old terrarium she had used for a pet lizard now many years deceased. She filled the bottom of the cage with dried oatmeal, set a cardboard paper towel tube down into the oats and set a wet cotton ball into a corner, on top of an upturned old plastic milk carton cap. She finished with a crust of bread she had set to the side for the creature to munch on.

“If you are going to stay here, you are going to live in the tank.” she said.

The roach dashed up her arm and somersaulted into the tank. Violet shuddered and closed the lid. “If you serve me well, there will be some beer and pizza in it for you.” she said, and turned to her computer to begin her writing.

An hour later she sent off her article to the newspaper, feeling like she had accomplished a miracle. She nodded to the cockroach, resting in its cardboard tube and ordered a pizza. She pulled a beer out of the refrigerator and used an eyedropper to put a few drops of the liquid onto the crust of bread. The roach left the tube long enough to drink the beer and Violet smiled. It may not be a pretty muse, she told herself. But I’d like to see the others fit their totems into their homes. And what would the food bill be for a killer whale, anyway?