Hope and Polishing My ManuscriptA Story by Crowley Entering a negotiated contract with your muse is dicey at best. Actually, sitting at a table across from your muse may be even worse. It’s like trying to do business with the person you just masturbated to on a porn site. They have everything you desire in the moment, they are there to pump up your ego a bit and most of all, to get the creative juices flowing. But, how well do you really know them and their 6 -inch phone screen existence. Hell, up until this point I had never even seen my muse or imagined what he, she, or it looked like. It was just this airy-fairy idea that someone or something out there gave a s**t enough about me to help me out with a little inspiration. But there I was at the Bad A*s Bean for a coffee and low and behold, behind me in line was this guy named Lonnie. No last name, just Lonnie. He dropped a quarter and I bent to pick it up for him and he introduced himself. “Hey my name is Lonnie, no last name just Lonnie” he said, flashing the whitest teeth I had ever seen. “I’m…” “Mikey!” he reached out to shake my hand and take his quarter. “We have known each other for a long time!” I stared at him for a long, awkward moment. I had never seen this man in my life. I didn’t know what to say, I just stood and stared. “Don’t be alarmed Ace, I am not a creepy stalker and I’m not trying to sell you anything.” Ace, how did he know that. Ace was my dad’s nickname for me right up until the day that he died. “Ok, this is, a little creepy. I don’t think we have ever met and how do you know my nickname?” Lonnie blushed a little. There was something in his smile that was endearing and very attractive. The overall effect was like a school boy approaching and talking to his crush for the very first time. “I am your muse silly! I have been ever since your little brain was able express an ounce of creativity.” I laughed out loud, I couldn’t help it. How f*****g ludicrous was this. Standing in the coffee line and having a conversation with a man that I had never met and him telling me that he was my muse. I turned around unable to stifle my laughter. I approached the window, ordered and added, “I’m buying whatever he is having too. “ “Oh thank God, I didn’t think I was going to be able to get anything for this quarter.” He laughed a little too hard. When we had our drinks, I invited Lonnie to the cement table and benches located next to the kiosk. Although I was still a little scared of him, I was also curious and a bit intrigued by Lonnie. “Soooo, what do you mean that you are my muse? You realize how weird that sounds?” “Oh, I know, believe me, this is so against the rules. But someone has got to shake things up a little every now and again. I could get stripped of my glint and glitter, but I doubt it. The lack of creativity these days has made my line of work an oddity at best. Most muses turned in their smiles and stilettos and went to work for Big Pharma doing clinical trials in the early 2000’s.” I smiled, “glint and glitter huh. You have a very active imagination, you should be a writer.” “That’s your job sunshine, that’s why I’m here. You have been a bit of disappointment the last couple of years and I want to negotiate a contract with you that does a couple of things.” “Whoa…this is just getting too weird. Did someone put you up to this, or are you crazy, or even worse, am I crazy?” “Oh yes, I suppose you need proof that I am who I said I am. Ok, here it goes. What was the first story you ever wrote?” He waited and I thought back. There was the one about the dino… “And I don’t mean that little bit of drivel about the dinosaur in second grade, I mean the first time you wrote not as an assignment, but because you wanted to, because your inner writer finally came out of the closet.” He giggled at this. “The helping hand,” I said as I remembered reading the story aloud to my parents in the car. I remember getting great kudos from my mother and a slight atta boy nod from my dad, even though I was pretty sure he was annoyed that he had to turn down Garth Brooks to let me read my story. “Yayyyy…that’s right. And after much deliberation, think about what you decided to use as home plate in the make shift baseball game the characters were playing in the first part of the story…but don’t tell me.” He held his hand out in a stop motion and turned his head to the side. I thought for a second and then lowered my eyes at him and squinted my eyes. “Got it.” “Drum roll please! It was a large crushed pizza sauce can, the kind you see in an Italian restaurant as decoration!” “That’s right, impressive. So that was your work?” “No, it was yours, but I gave you the glint and glitter, a little push to come up with something a little more memorable, a little something to make the scene real.” “Ok, then let me ask you one more question and maybe, I will be become a believer and not think that you are just some afflicted wing ding following me because I’m an easy target.” “Shoot Zeke the sky’s full of pigeons!” ‘What” “Never mind, just give me your best shot.” “I wrote a story about fly fishing in Mexico. What was it that I caught?” “OMG…not that dark ol’ thing. I can tell you up front, I had very little to do with that one, it was fueled mostly by misery, depression and vodka. But, it is an easy one, it was a dead baby. Ewwww…” “Well my mom always says I write best when I’m miserable.” “I love your mom honey, but that is one point with which I disagree with her. That, in a nutshell, is why I’m here. You write best when we are writing together. But, as you well know, and I know the list of your justifications is a mile long, you have not been writing, and/or, have not written anything worth a s**t for quite some time. You see, I can only do my job when you are committed, at least a little bit, otherwise, they make me stand down. I have been bored for two solid years. Fact is, if you don’t commit in the next couple of weeks, they will either make me start over with a brand new infant, or they will put me on the Muse Hotline giving pithy advice and one off’s to wanna be greeting card writers. I don’t have the heart to start over, and I certainly think my talents would be wasted on the hotline just like your talents are wasted binge watching Netflix and doing karaoke three times a week. You get me dumplin’?” All of the sudden I did. Lonnie was right, I was in a rut. I knew I could write at least a little and I had been wasting my talent and time and justifying it with being too lazy or not good enough. “I do, and I’m sorry.” “No need for sorry sugar, but you and me are gonna hammer out a few things right now and sign on that dotted line. Times is running out for both of us, and if I have to drag you along, I will.” With that Lonnie pulled out a pen and paper and began to negotiate with me. I found myself drawn in to his electric personality and I started to fill with something I had not felt in some time…hope. The negotiations were tough, satisfying and at times sexy, scary and outlandish. The bottom line when all was done was that I started writing and writing well. I never saw Lonnie again, but I felt him. Every time I struggled with a block or the right word, it always came. At the end of every writing session I thanked Lonnie for the hope and most of all, for the glint and glitter. Never discount the person in the line behind you or that old woman who smiled at you on the bus. You may just find out that they know as much about you as you do. © 2019 CrowleyReviews
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5 Reviews  Last Updated on September 17, 2019 Author
CrowleyPhoenix, AZAboutLike to hang out with other writers and see what's what. Have met a lot of good people on this and other sites through the years. Decided to come back and do a little posting and reading. Hit me up i.. more..Writing
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