Chronicles of the Muse: The Muse At Subway

Many years ago, I began writing stories of the Muse. She lives in my head, and she's the source of my work. She used to be the only source, but after a while she got some companions. She's not all that happy about it. Because I thought it might entertain you, I am reprinting some Chronicles of the Muse in this journal. And maybe it'll entice her to come back and visit me more often. 

This was written while I was waiting for Nocturnal Urges to be released, and writing a novella that would eventually become Yellow Roses. The idea spawned by this dream eventually became "The Sheriff of Nottingham," which will be in my upcoming collection Moonlight Sonata. I named neither protagonist Matt.

May 3, 2004

ME: Shh, someone might hear you.
MUSE: Not likely, you moron. I'm in your head.
ME: Yeah, well, it's not my fault.
MUSE: We get a full lunch hour to work on the goddamn book and you don't recharge the laptop?
ME: I did recharge the laptop! You were there! I plugged it in!
MUSE: Then why does it say 2 minutes of battery time remaining?
ME: I don't know.
MUSE: What can we write in two minutes?
ME: (muttered) Your obituary.
MUSE: I heard that, bitch.
ME: Look, I tried. We'll get some time tonight.
MUSE: Oh no, we won't. We'll be looking at another goddamn apartment.
ME: You want a place to live or not?
MUSE: Then dinner. Then kid-care. Then laundry. Then maybe we'll work on the book. Also, you have six chapters of that guy's book to read.
ME: I hate my life.
MUSE: Yeah well, I've got another idea for you. Remember what Dream Fairy tossed you last night?
ME: God, yes. That SUCKED.
MUSE: It did not.
ME: I'm sick of getting shot in my dreams. And this time I was being KISSED!
MUSE: Maybe you didn't die.
ME: Bullet through the back into the right lung. I was toast.
MUSE: Faceless Guy was carrying you up to Laclede Square. He seemed nice.
ME: Yeah, that's why he was in my dreams. In reality, he'd probably drop my ass on the ground and take off like a bat out of East St. Louis.
MUSE: I thought the bloody cobblestones leading to the river were a neat touch.
ME: You would.
MUSE: So what about the time-travel murder story?
ME: The laptop just clicked off.
MUSE: Stare out the window, it'll work as well. Going back in time...
ME: Too depressing.
MUSE: This is me you're talking to.
ME: We did time-travel, remember? Didn't sell.*
MUSE: I still can't believe that.
ME: That makes two of us.
MUSE: Anyway, I'm not talking about the guy going back in time. Someone keeps coming back in time to him and killing the women he loves.
ME: Hmmm. A childhood sweetheart...
MUSE: Prom date...
ME: A girl in college...
MUSE: The woman at the river...
ME: Well, that'll efficiently fuck him up. But why?
MUSE: We-ell...
ME: You don't KNOW why?
MUSE: Not yet.
ME: Don't you think that MIGHT be an important part of the plot?
MUSE: Hey, I think it'll work.
ME: Not until we know why it's happening. Other than that, it's just a sadistic torture of an unnamed male figure in yet another goddamn horror tragedy.
MUSE: Matt. Let's name him Matt.
ME: The fuck? What is with you and the name Matt?
MUSE: I dunno.
ME: That vapid bitch is getting to you.
ISABEL: Are you speaking to me?
MUSE: We can't name the guy in Yellow Roses Matt, because then it's Matt and Cat and that's that.
ME: Hee. Dr. Seuss does horror.
MUSE: Fuck you. I still wanna use the name Matt for the time-travel psycho.
ME: Don't you ever get tired of torturing men with unrequited love and tragic loss?
ME: Me neither. What does that say?
ISABEL: You're both nucking futz.

* "Sisyphus." My most popular short story, headliner of Setting Suns, and was rejected by everyone. I simply don't get the short-story biz.