A Muse with Tupperware in Her Hands

“That’s it?” she asked, storming away from me.  “That’s all you’re going to do for me?”

“Five pages is a lot!” I protested.

“Not for you.  I remember when I used to have to make you go to bed after you had written ten or more.”

“Look, I’ve got two pieces I’m seriously working on right now,” I said, standing up from the table and starting to walk away.

“Two pieces? Did you seriously just say two pieces? What the fuck, Rafe, or whatever your real name is? Do you know how many Stephen has done? Or William?”

“Okay, now you’re just trying to make me feel inadequate.  You’re a muse for God’s sake.  Aren’t you supposed to be inspiring me? Anyway, no one can live up to those two.  They’re like the John Waynes of writing.  Why don’t you just have a cigarette and chill out like you always do when we’re done?”

“What? Did you really just…? Excuse me, you pig,” she said, flipping her hair back so that it flew over her shoulders.  “I don’t need a cigarette after five pages.”

“Are you trying to say that you’re not satisfied? Do you know how long it took me to finish those five pages today? Anyway, you said that length didn’t matter.”

“I lied,” she snapped, twirling around as she spoke.  “Do you know how long It was?”

“You keep bringing him up.”

“Oh, I can bring up others.  I smoked for days after War and Peace.  Oh my God!  That man could go on.  Did I ever tell you about my drunken nights with Faulkner? I learned to sleep with cigarettes under my pillow on those nights.  He inspired me.”

“You know what? I’m getting out of here, Musey, or whatever your name is,” I said, walking toward the front door.

“You seriously don’t know my name,” she said.  “You’re not joking like I was.  You really don’t know my name.  Do you?”

“I used to know it,” I said, but then paused a little too long.  “I knew it in college.”

“Oh, of course you did.  You learned it when we first met, which was long before college, but I don’t expect you to remember our anniversary.”

“Hey, we’re both adults.  We know what’s going on here.  And let’s not pretend that I’m the first man to forget his mythology.  Anyway, I told you.  I’m not that into chicks.”

“Oh really,” she said.  “You know who Barbra is don’t you? And Liza? Madonna? Beyonce? You know who the fuck Hillary is.  Don’t you, asshole?”

“That was below the belt.  You know I’m still hurting from that.  Okay, I’m really leaving now,” I said, opening the door.

I paused and looked over my shoulder.  I wanted to see her rushing to me, demanding that I stay.  Instead, I saw something large, white, and round coming toward my face.

“Maybe that will help you remember,” she screamed, while I rubbed my head.

“Ow! What was that?” I asked.  “Did you just throw an old food storage bowl at my head?”

She hesitated, obviously a little flustered.

“I’m still getting used to plastic.  Life was easier back in Greece.  Everything was ceramic.  A big ceramic bowl, that would have really gotten your attention.”

“I’m seriously going now,” I said, opening the door, and putting one foot outside.

“You’ll be back.  You live here, idiot,” she said.

I turned again.  I wanted to say something profound and sharp, but nothing came to mind.  I guess in this situation I couldn’t exactly expect her to inspire me with a witty comeback.  I slammed the door, and went somewhere to forget her.

When I entered the apartment two hours later she was spread out on a divan in the middle of the living room.  The Tupperware storage bowl was beside her and now full of grapes.

I walked over to her and tentatively took a few grapes from the bowl.  I watched to see if she would bite my head off or smack my hand away, but instead she smiled.  Something else immediately grabbed my attention.

“Oh, my God! Where did you get this divan? It’s incredible. Can I keep it?”

“It goes with me.  It’s meant to be inspiring.  My agent wants me to try it out to establish my brand.  Anyway, I’ll try to bring it back when I’m here,” she said, slowly and seductively waving a grape at me.

“So we’re not through?” I asked.

“Please! Do you think five pages is the shortest I’ve ever had?”

“Yeah, but you said…”

“Five is average,” she assured me.

“That’s what I’ve heard,” I said, taking a seat on the divan next to her.

She began to massage my temples.  I leaned back, letting my head rest on her chest.

“So you’ve had less than five pages?” I asked.

“All the time,” she cooed.  “Does that make you feel better, Big Boy?”

“Oh, yeah.  Tell me, who was the shortest? Tell me about him,”

“Oh, well some guys, they can’t even write one word.  Not one,” she said.

“Really? Not even one?”

“Not even one,” she whispered in my ear.  “But I still love them.”

“You do?” I asked, sitting up and turning to face her.  “Really?”

“Oh, yeah, baby,” she said.

“But this has never happened to me before.  Am I getting older? Is that the problem? I think I’m still rather youngish.  Am I going to have to take some sort of pill?”

“Oh, no.  There’s no Viagra for this sort of thing.  As for age, you’re not old.  Some late blooming authors are just getting started at your age.  Of course, you’re never going to need a twenty-nine inch pair of black jeans again, but let’s be honest, that was a little hard for you even at twenty, and it was really just that one pair.”

I nodded, and said, “But I loved that pair.”

She started to respond, and then seemed to change her mind.

“Back to age, though,” she said.  “Writers improve with age.”

“Like a fine wine?” I asked.

“Fuck wine,” she said.  “A good writer is more like a strong Scotch.  A good writer knocks you off your ass and makes you wonder how you got there the next morning.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said.

“The kind you could use a little more of, old boy,” she cooed, shoving the grape in her mouth and rolling it around a bit.

“You know, because you’re a chick that still isn’t really doing it for me,” I said.

“I know,” she admitted.  “I just keep trying.”

“I get it,” I said.  “You’re just an old, I mean really freaking old-fashioned girl, living in a big new world.”

“Please, shit was a whole lot more gay in Greece, although we had a different name for what you boys do, but I’ll just try to inspire you in other ways.  On a side note, if you bring up my age again, the next thing you feel upside your head will be a smack.”

“Point taken,” I said.  “But why are you back in a good mood?”

“Because I realized that we need to see other people sometimes,” she said, grabbing another grape and sucking the life out of it.

“Okay, that almost worked for me.  It reminded me of that girl I liked senior year, the one I was attracted to even after I was pretty sure that I was gay.  You know, the sexy one.”

“Yes, the one who reminded you of me, and Madonna, and Marilyn, and Tracy, and Ursula,…”

“Wait, which Ursula, the writer or the actress?” I asked.

“You liked them both,” she said, moving a grape under her chin.

“Yeah, you’re right,” I agreed.

“Anyway, what I was trying to say is that it might be good for us to see other people on occasion,” she said, a little too nonchalantly for my tastes.

“I see,” I said, trying to look bewildered.

“It’s not your fault,” she said.

“Whatever,” I mumbled, twisting my face into what I hoped appeared to be a rather serious pout.

“Okay, look,” she said, letting me know that the pout was working.  “I’ve had this problem with other writers.”

“You have?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, exhaling.  “It’s just a little trap we fall into.  In the beginning, I’m it.  No one else exists.  You can’t wait to get home from work or college just to be with me.  Then all of a sudden, I’m not enough.”

“No. No, really.  It’s not that,” I pleaded, hoping my voice sounded believable.

“Look, don’t play innocent with me,” she snapped.  “I know you’re not always faithful.  Shit, you’re not faithful for a day.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

“Really? If books on tape reeked of cologne, I would smell the fragrances of Louise Penny, Anne Rice, and Armistead Maupin all over you and your car,” she said, looking me directly in the eye.  “And it’s not just writers you like.  Do I really need to talk about how you respond to Ron Howard, Ang Lee, and let’s not forget M. Night Shyamalan?”

“Oh, my God, now you’re getting me hot,” I said, and then remembered myself.  “Wait.  Let me explain.  It’s just that sometimes I need someone a little younger than you, babe.”

“Really?” she screamed, and then I felt the smack.  “Do you think I look older than Hitchcock? Is that why you watch his movies?”

“Okay!  Okay!  They inspire me.  Every fucking one of those people you mentioned and a whole lot more.  Is that what you wanted to hear?” I asked.  “Did you need me to just come out and say the whole ugly truth? Do you really want me to tell you that it’s not just you, that they do something for me also? Fine, I’ve said it.  Phew! I think I’m going to need a cigarette myself.”

“You gave those up years ago.  If you’re that stressed, go for a jog, or do some fucking Tae-Bo.”

“I’m not all that stressed.  I’m just being dramatic.  I wanted to you feel like this is hard for me too.  I always thought that we would have one of those relationships where we didn’t tell each other this sort of thing until one of us came home with the clap, and even then we just tried to say we got it from wearing our jeans too tight.”

“That’s the kind of relationship I wanted too, baby, but now I think it’s time we fess up,” she said.

“Alright,” I agreed.  “So I see other people.”

“I know,” she answered.  “And I guess, I just want you to know that it’s okay.  All authors do.  I just wanted you to feel guilty about it.  I know how when you go on one of your reading binges you always tell yourself that you should be working on your own stuff.  Even when you only do an hour or two a day, you tell yourself that you’re taking away time from your own stuff.  I guess it’s time that I let you know that it’s okay.”

“It is?” I asked.

“Yes, I just couldn’t tell you that because you were so devoted to me.  I never tell the ones like you who are so in love with me, but it’s natural.  I hate to admit it, but you’re supposed to get inspired by other people.”


“Of course.  People have written books about it.  Remember that how to be creative book someone bought you for your birthday that year?”

“You mean the one that had me getting up an hour early every morning to be creative?”

“Yes, I was pretty skeptical that anything was going to inspire you at five in the morning,” she said, patting my knee.

“But I tried.  Those were the longest three days of my life,” I said.

“Well, if you had finished the book you would have realized that that author suggested that you see inspiring stuff all the time.”

“Really?” I asked.  “And you’re not mad?”

“Well, I’ve just come to realize that writers and I are destined to use each other.”

“Oh, you make it sound so nasty,” I said.  “Say it again, but this time while you do the grape thing.  We just might be able to get this to work.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Yeah, I think it’s the divan,” I said, running my hands over the fabric.

“Wait,” she said.  “We need to finish our conversation.”

“Yes, we do,” I agreed.  “Come to think of it, we’re spending a whole lot of time talking about me seeing other people,    but I know you see other people.  Hell, if the bathroom wall at the Writer’s Center is to be believed, you’ve been with everyone in Writer’s Digest.”

She laughed.  It was the laugh of a confident and satisfied woman.

“There have been others,” she said.  “But that’s beside the point.”

“I see,” I said, narrowing my eyes.  “So, what is the point? And please don’t bring up William, or Stephen, or John, or all the others.”

“Wait, when you are talking about William, are you referring to Shakespeare or Faulkner?” she asked.

“They both got the job done, right? Does it matter?” I asked.

“Not at all, and I’m glad we’re on the same page here.  If you had lived as long as I have, your name would be on the bathroom wall at the Writer’s Center also,” she said.

“Perhaps, it already is,” I countered defensively.

“No, it’s not,” she said.  “Let’s try to keep the honesty in this discussion.  You can be a little boring.”

“Well, it’s hard to meet people at those little quick workshops.  You spend so much time looking for parking that you’re not really in the mood by the time you get to class.  Anyway, I’ve never really done that manwhore thing well.”

“I know, you’re always looking for love.  You and every fucking Greek man I ever met.  Eternal, beautiful, all forsaking love.  Wow!  People really never do change.”

“Okay, can we just get back to your point?” I asked.

“So what I’m trying to say, yet again, is that with our relationship, I think it’s okay for us to get inspired where we can.  Sometimes with each other.  Sometimes with others.”

“You mean like an open relationship?” I asked.

“This is not the seventies,” she said.  “I think people call it polyamory, or something.”

“Like that cable show?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said.  “Although we don’t have to propose to them.”

“Gotcha,” I said.  “We still see each other, right?”

“Yeah,” she said.  “And sometimes, it’s all of us.”

“Oh, wow!” I said.  “So I would be reading them, and you would inspire me at the same time they were inspiring me? Oh, God, that is hot.”

“I thought the idea of multiple points of inspiration might be a bit of a turn-on for you.  Are you sure you can handle it?” she asked.

“Oh, believe me.  Now that I know you’re into it, we can start reading together every night.  Let’s start with the ones that we already know we like, you know the pros.”

“The ones that know what they’re doing,” she agreed.

“Yes, and on the weekends…” I said, blowing in her ear.

“Yes?” she asked.  “What do you want to do on the weekends, Big Boy?”

“Well,” I said, looking her directly in the eye.  “I thought maybe you could pick up a few new books, you know, the ones that are perhaps a little obscure, the kind of thing that only you and the author would know about.”

“You mean shit no one has ever heard of? Like your stuff?”

“Well, yeah,” I said.  “Of course, I’ve already read my stuff, that might be a little masturbatory.”

“Oh, yes, because you’ve never done that,” she smirked.  “C’mon, baby.  Let me make a little more room for you on the divan.”


Spirituality has Sprung

With Easter, Passover, and Spring Equinox in the air, I seem to be having a lot of conversations regarding spirituality.  People who I converse with on a usually daily basis about myriad topics that have nothing to do with things unseen, suddenly want to talk to me about God, and existence, and where the two collide, and where they don’t.  Any number of deep questions have come to me this week from people who normally simply tell me about their jobs, or relationships, or dry cleaners, or housing contractors, or the people who piss them off in traffic.  So when they hit me with questions like, “Do you believe in the Resurrection?” I suddenly wonder if this person who has all year demonstrated incredibly low-key spirituality has really meant it all those times that she said that she hoped the person who just cut her off in five o’clock rush hour would burn in hell.

For a moment, let me diverge, and for those who have read me a bit, or who have had to endure endless hours of face-to-face conversation with me, you know that eventually my divergences come back to the trail where they once began.

When I was fifteen, I had the privilege of being taught by a man who knew who he was.  He was an exceptionally bright and somewhat uptight gay man who grew his Afro to a just barely acceptable length in the eighties, and wore cardigans, no matter the weather in Florida.  Of course at the time, I did not know what an honor it was to be taught by Mr. W.  I was young, and like many young men grappling with their sexuality, I was stupid.  I did not appreciate the fact that Mr. W worked our Honors English class like cadets at West Point; I only thought of all the things I could be doing if I weren’t analyzing Julius Caesar, A Separate Peace, or To Kill a Mockingbird every night.

I knew that Mr. W was gay.  I knew that he had been seen on multiple occasions in a particular mall with his Caucasian lover who also wore cardigans and had a fro much larger than Mr. W’s.  I actually kind of admired him for that, and wished that I had lived closer to that mall.  What I didn’t know, was that I was gay.

I knew that I wanted to do all kinds of intimate things with our pastor’s son who was several years older than me.  I knew that I watched the World Wrestling Federation and other wrestling shows in hopes that someone’s trunks would be accidentally pulled down.  I knew that a few years before my heart had broken a million times over when John Erik Hexum had died.

Once again, in my stupidity, or my naiveté, as the kind Mr. W would have called it, I approached him with a stupid question.  I am not sure what I hoped by getting him to answer the question.  Looking back, and also analyzing all of the dumb anti-gay hatemongers I have met on my journey, I imagine that I wanted to hurt Mr. W, the way that people who are grappling with their sexuality often want to hurt those who are not.  So I waited until the end of class, until I was the last one out, and then, as I moved toward the door, I said to Mr. W, “Mr. W, is it true that Shakespeare was gay?”

Mr. W was a more patient man than I.  This is why he didn’t smack me, or say, “Get out buttwipe!” as many people would have.  Instead, Mr. W responded to me with what I always call Jesus-Martin-Gandhi love.  It’s the kind of love that you have to show people who are complete assholes.

So after all of my stupidity, without missing a beat, Mr. W looked at me and spoke these beloved words, “Does it matter?”

The fact was that Mr. W got me.  He made me think, and he made me acknowledge that being gay was not a horrible thing.

“No, it doesn’t, Mr. W,” I said, and left the room in what should have been a defeated state, but was rather an uplifted one.

Mr. W had made me acknowledge that gay men could be great, a fact that I never would have considered.

So the other day, when my friend asked me if I believed in the Resurrection, I told her that I did.  She was a little shocked.  She knew that I had backed away from Christianity for a while, at a time when I felt that it didn’t seem to have a strong desire for men like me.

“It took me a long time to realize that Christianity wasn’t that was rejecting me, it was those jackasses who thought they had more of a claim to it than I did,” I said.

“I believe in it all,” I told her.  “Jesus, Ganesh, Buddha, the Morrigan.  Why couldn’t it all happen? But if I believe in one the most, it’s Jesus.  That’s the one I was raised on.  He’s kind of my hero.”

I paused for a minute, wanting to explain.

“I have always believed in God, I told her.  It’s all those people who think they know him better than I do that I doubt.  They’re kind of idiots.”

I had learned a long time ago that usually the people who condemned other people were the people who needed leashes on them to control their own bad behavior, so they believed that the rest of us needed to be leashed as well.  I disagreed.  I’ve never been fond of leashes in any form; they’re just not my thing.

“I wanted to ask you,” she said, “because you believe in everything, and I am not sure how I am not certain if I believe in this.”

“I do believe in everything,” I told her.  “I believe in Jesus being born of a virgin, and rising from the dead, and I know that sounds crazy.  I believe in Ganesha’s elephant head being implanted by Shiva and working.  I believe in the seas parting as Moses raised his hands.  I believe that if I were straight, and you were less particular, that we would be happily married with a bunch of kids right now, and we both know that we probably would have ended up killing each other in a bloodbath that would make national news.  For whatever reasons, I believe in happy endings, and I know it’s crazy.”

“So why do you believe it?” she asked.  “The Resurrection, that is.”
“Because of that time when I was seven at summer camp and got lost in a Florida thunderstorm and found my way to my cabin and realized that it’s the one I dreamed about months before I ever saw that camp.  Because in Atlanta, when I was twelve and a crazy driver chased me, I escaped.  Because when I was fifteen and didn’t have my seat belt on, the car I was in that my friend was driving spun out of control and I put my seat belt on, only a mile away from where we were later hit in an accident that would have killed me if I hadn’t been wearing a seat belt.  Because every time that I thought my soul was going to wither up and die, love has saved me.  Maybe it hasn’t always stuck around, but it has shown up when it was needed.  I know that doesn’t make sense to all the people who have died in old age homes, or been swept out to sea by Tsunamis, but it makes sense to me now, and I am the only one on my path, and I believe.  I guess for me it comes down to one question.  Is God, or whatever you call him, all powerful?”

She was silent.

“For me, the answer is yes.  I do, but I know a horde of brilliant and wonderful people who would say no.”

Still, she said nothing.

So I made her listen to my story about me being an idiot, and asking Mr. W the Shakespeare question.  She met me only a few months after this class, and she was the kind of close friend who I told when my butthole itched, or I couldn’t find underwear that I liked, so I knew that she had heard this story before.  The only difference was, all the other times I had told it for different reasons.

When I was finished with the story, I asked her, “Does it matter?”

I could hear her brain working, as she didn’t say a thing.

“Would you suddenly go all anti-Christ, sorry I don’t mean to mention your morning moods, if it wasn’t true? Would you stop believing he was awesome, or would you no longer acknowledge that his ideas about love reshaped the world as we know it?”

“I wouldn’t bail,” she said.  “I would still be Christian…but it matters.  It’s who I am, and suddenly I am not sure of this one thing, and it’s not a minor thing.  It’s huge.  I don’t think I’m going to find my answer today.”

“That’s all right,” I said.  “Know this though, it’s okay if you don’t.  Faith is not a uniform we all have to wear.  We pick our own costumes.  Or perhaps, they pick us.  It’s hard to tell.  I just know that no one else can regulate our faith.  No one can tell us what to believe, and we don’t get to choose what we believe.  It’s as ridiculous as the idea that we get to choose who we love.”

She laughed, and I knew that it was the laugh of a woman who not only loved, but also understood her husband.

“So, we’re agreed?” I asked.

“On what?” she said.

“That we don’t know why we love who we love, or believe what we believe, but we keep on loving, and we keep on believing?” I asked.  “Only in the hopes that we can love and believe a whole lot more, in the days to come.”

She paused for a minute, and even though she was on the other end of the phone line, I knew that somehow or another, she was looking me over.

“Agreed,” she said.  “To loving and believing more.”

I laughed some more, and smiled as she hung up the phone.

Thank You!

As we venture out of a holiday weekend, and into that first Monday of 2016 (although for many of you I know it has already started), I just wanted to take a moment and thank all of the people who have so generously supported me and my writing this past year.  Whether it was visiting this page or my website, following me on Twitter or Facebook, or reading my books, it has meant a lot.  I appreciate the letters, the smiles, and the reviews.  You are the best!  May 2016 bring you much joy and wisdom.

Light and Love,


Come Meet Logan

If you liked Sam in Seduced by Shark Shifters, come meet his younger and equally sexy brother, Logan. Logan is the kind of guy who always follows the beat of his own drum, and when his father sends him off to Shark Beach to check up on Sam, Logan finds himself in a big old load of trouble. Come find out how things work out for Logan in Seduced by Shark Shifters II: Logan’s Tail. This ebook went on sale today and is currently available for purchase at Amazon and Smashwords. It should roll over to other ebook retailers within a few days, and I’ll keep you posted.   I hope you enjoy it.

Light and Love,


Recent college grad Logan White has always strayed a bit from the beaten path, and his brother Sam and his best friend Tom have always helped guide him back. So Logan is more than a little surprised when his father sends him away to check up on Sam. Reluctantly leaving his recently widowed father, and the best friend who has started to fill Logan with all kinds of odd feelings, Logan ventures to Shark Beach. But as Logan explores Shark Beach, and meets sexy Stefano and Stefanie Magnussi, he finds out that Sam really is in danger. Determined to rescue his brother, Logan searches for the mysteries of Shark Beach, and soon finds that sometimes the only thing you can do is put your tail on the line for those you love.

New Book Release!

For all of you adults who enjoy a little cryptozoology blended with your erotica and romance, or even a good adventure with a gay main character, check out my new eBook, Peter Passenger and the Mothman.  It’s currently on sale at both Smashwords and Amazon, and should be available at your other favorite eBook retailers within a few days.  Below is a summary and picture.

Light and Love,




Peter Passenger is a man on a mission: a mission to find the killer of his parents and the secrets hidden behind their deaths. When the Mothman appears, Peter knows that he must pursue him. But as Peter chases the Mothman, he finds that a warning is not the only thing the Mothman wants to give him. Will Peter be able to handle everything the sex starved Mothman asks of him?

Free Book in December!

Great News!  In celebration of the release of my new book, Seduced by Shark Shifters II:  Logan’s Tail, on December 30, 2015, I am offering the first book in the series, Seduced by Shark Shifters free this month through Smashwords, and all of their distributors including, Barnes and Noble, Kobo, Inktera, and Ibooks.  For some of these it may take a few days to roll over.  I hope you enjoy the book!  This offer is for adults only.

Beauty Has Left Us

A little something I wrote in honor of a friend.  Here’s to you Beautiful.

Beauty has Left Us

Beauty has left us
the way she always does
amazement on our faces
longing in our hearts

I had assumed that she would return
like the sunset
like the waves
like she always has

in what feels like eternity
but must still just be my lifetime

the sunset has paraded by
more times than I can count
the waves have smashed the shore
and sprayed my face
anxious for my attention

but still
I wait for her

She told me there might be a time
when flowers grew without her
when sunlight shined
on her shadow

I thought
Such beauty cannot go
Such joy cannot disappear

amazement on my face
longing in my heart
I stare
at the place where she once stood.

Camp Nanowrimo

For several years now, right after learning about Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month), the Muse and I have debated my staying power.

“A month?” she said.  “Yeah, right, cowboy.”

“Your cologne can keep me going for that long,” I told her, using the arrogant I never hurt voice that so many of us men perfect before kindergarten.

She looked at me in that way that women often do when we use that voice (we men either fall for it, believing our opponent to be the badass he claims to be, or we give in, knowing how important it is that people take us seriously when we use that voice).

“I could do a month,” I told her years ago when I first heard about this program and still believed that I could never be distracted.

“May I ask you a personal question?” she asked.

“Seventeen inches,” I said, “but please don’t tell anyone.”

She snickered, the way she always does with that joke, and then she looked at me seriously.

“Your day job?” she asked.  “Don’t you realize that you need it to eat?”

“Well, yeah,” I said.  “I just thought maybe my writing would take off and I could quit my day job.”

She laughed again.

“You writers are all alike, you just don’t realize what comedy this is,” she said.

I pictured Socrates losing his Greek wrestling erection after hearing one of her jokes. Continue reading “Camp Nanowrimo”

Satisfying the Muse

As an ebook author, (there are multiple ways to write “ebook” by the way, and no one seems to agree on which is correct), I have found that many of my colleagues write blogs.  As much as I love reading other people’s blogs, and think that my friends who write them are fabulous, I have never personally felt the need to express my opinions and blast them out over the Internet.  Or so I thought.

I found my resistance to blogging to be a little strange, after all, I am writer.  Aren’t we supposed to want to write at every opportunity? For those of you who are writers, you know how untrue that statement is.  We don’t want to write at every turn.  We just want to write at strange times.  We feel the need to jot down an entire story when we are in the grocery store, for instance, and see something bizarre, or when we are in the shower, or traffic, or in the middle of a wedding or a meeting.  The Muse comes to us at odd times, and she is always seductive and demanding.  Her requests can be a little unorthodox, and it always takes some effort to sate her.  To me she has always come wanting fiction.  She knows me well, as we have been doing our thing for years.  She remembers me as a poet, a clumsy teenager never quite sure of what he was doing.  Although she praised me each time I was done, I knew she wasn’t really satisfied.  We have avoided nonfiction, writing papers and such when we have to, but we realized early on in college that the whole thing never really left us in need of a cigarette, and it always felt a little obligatory.  Fiction, that’s where she has taught me staying power.  We can go all night just to finish, and when we wake up, she demands that we see if we can do it better.  Fiction is our thing.  We’ve done it in restaurants and libraries, on the kitchen counter, the dining table, and I can’t tell you how many different desks.  We’ve invited others to join us, and we have spent entire weekends doing it.  It leaves us with a satisfaction that is like no other, and we know that it’s where we connect.

So you won’t be surprised when I tell you how about a year ago she whispered something naughty in my ear. Continue reading “Satisfying the Muse”