Often on a Thursday afternoon as I leave the writing class, my muse is waiting. She will be sitting in the car; her eyes beguiling; her smile alluring; her attire revealing. I slide in behind the steering wheel, and she leans toward me and nibbles on my ear.
"How's that big stud writer of mine?" she says.
"Come on," I say. "I'm not much of a writer."
"But you are a stud."
Modesty, one of my many, many admirable qualities, prevents me from saying, "Well, that's true." But as an honest man, I cannot deny it, and so remain silent.
"What's your assignment this week?"
I tell her. She moves closer to me; she's almost sitting on my lap as she fills my mind with ideas. The excitement is unbearable. I have to remind myself to keep my eyes on the road as she seduces me with inspiration.
Once I get home, I rush to the computer, and within an hour the completed assignment appears before me. I spend the rest of the week culling excess words, comma faults and lapses into the passive voice, without ever getting them all.
When my muse doesn't me meet in the car, she slinks into my writing room in the morning. She stands in the corner and watches as I struggle to make a sentence into a scene, a paragraph into a story, or a silly rhyme into doggerel.
Eventually, she comes and sits by me. She is more sensuous, less hurried when we are home. She doesn't smother me in ideas; there is none of the torrid frenzy we experience in the car. My muse looks at the few words I've written. She lightly runs her fingers over my neck, kisses the age spot on my cheek and tells me how macho I look. Then she whispers a word or a sentence or suggests a way to rework the little I've written. She nuzzles my cheek again and musses my hair before offering another well-chosen word or wise observation. And so it goes, hour after hour, a crescendo of creative ecstasy.
My muse wasn't in the car last Thursday. So I sat at my computer Friday and waited for her; she didn't show up. And she didn't drop by Saturday or Sunday. By Monday afternoon, my concern had turned to despair. That night, I saw her in the bar where I had gone to find an idea in a bottle. She was sitting on the lap of a well-tanned fellow, who was half my age and looked like he had spent the afternoon surfing.
Occasionally, my muse would take her lusting eyes off Mr. Laguna Beach, or whatever his name was, and look around the room. I waved a couple times, but she didn't acknowledge me. I phoned my muse Tuesday morning. She didn't answer - she was probably slinking around Mr. Chiseled Features' writing room - but I left a message. I told her I needed her and that I would forgive her if she would only dump Mr. Wide Toothy Grin and slink back into my life. She never called.
Sad, dispirited and desperate, I registered with an on-line muse-matching service and I think I found the perfect muse. I'm sure we are soul mates. Unfortunately, we met too late to work on this week's assignments.