This letter was written before the death of my muse:

 

Hey Muse!

Why are you being such a bastard again you two-bit whore? Didn’t I feed you enough bon-bon’s this time? I’ve not gotten so much as a spark out of you lately, much less an idea. I swear I have to keep tramping down to that swamp that you call imagination just to get your attention. I bet I could just trap my own ideas if I were of a mind to.

You are aware that creativity and inspiration are your gift to me you lazy prick, how about sharing some. See I have a novel I want to write — the next Great American Novel — yea you know the type. But do I get any help out of you? No, you are just sitting around on your fat lazy ass and when I can get you to talk you just yammer on and on about stuff that has nothing to do with the novel. It is about DRAGONS you twit why do you keep talking spaceships? They are two different genres and may the two never blend.

What do you have to say for yourself?

I wonder… do I even need you any more?

 

Pissed off,

Mac.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Mac,

I’m no more of a bastard than you are. Besides I do not like bon bon’s I like corn chips and salsa, do you not pay attention? It’s really hard to spark wet kindling so why don’t you just stay out of my swamp so maybe your mind can dry out… you know laying off the liquor and the tea might help too. If you really want to trap your own ideas, the best ones are slugs, but please, bring salt, they sometimes get out of hand.

I do share imagination with you… why do you think I am here? And as for creativity, Mac-darling, you ooze it.

Now there is a problem with your Great American Novel — Dragons are passé and space is well… a void… but if you put the two together, you might get something interesting. Personally, I like the idea of dragons in space.

Maybe you do not need me any more, but just remember — the Muses of Union 111 took a vote and they don’t want you either bud. So you are stuck, me or no one.

 

Happy writing

The lazy ass bastard you call your muse.