Do you have a muse?
What is s/he like?

And what is a Muse, anyway?
For the family history and definition of who represents what (and to be honest I’m not sure who represents fiction, although poets have a choice of several), go here. The Muses are a group of Greek goddesses, the offspring of Zeus and Mnemosyne (“memory,” who may or may not have been another goddess, although Zeus had a tendency to get it on with anyone, or anything). They are the divinities who guide artists and scientists.

My personal Muse is a lady of a certain age. Wait, I’m a lady (or at least a woman) of a certain age. She’s even older than me. She favors cameo brooches, sensible shoes, and tweed skirts and is a cross between Miss Costello, the headmistress of the English all-girls school I attended (she never seemed to wash her hair; like boytoys who maintain a three-day stubble, she always had the same grease factor), and Geraldine McEwan as Miss Marples. She is, however, much less agreeable than Miss Marples, given to sarcasm and the delicate raising of a single eyebrow for emphasis. She is very prim, proper, and upper-class.

“My dear. Surely you do not really wish to scrub beneath the kitchen sink rather than write?”

“Another look at the email? So soon? I think not.”

And, this is the killer, comments made in reference to other writers:

“As the dear Count said to me the other day…oh yes, that Count; he didn’t finish War and Peace by frolicking online during valuable writing time, you know. Dear Nikolai, dead but still writing…”

Well, you get the picture. That’s my Muse. Tell us about yours.

Meanwhile, over at the Wet Noodle Posse I’m blogging today on what I like doing in bed.


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DEDICATION~Winner, 2006 Golden Leaf Contest (Regency)