D. Wallace Peach over at Myths of the Mirror has challenged us to imagine a conversation with our muse.
I don’t know what my muse looks like. He or she is shy, spends a great deal of time in absentia, on holiday perhaps (think Robin Williams -bless him – as the genie, finally freed from thousands of years stuck in a bottle).
In order to take part in this challenge, I had to tempt him or her to make an appearance.
I write both poems and fiction and I often use images of ghosts and rivers/seas/water so perhaps my muse is a water sprite.
A water sprite with a short attention span, I think not always helpful yet always in a hurry. And probably wearing odd socks.
Frances: There you are at last.
Muse: I’m a bit pushed for time. Got anything to show me?
Frances: This is what I’ve done so far. Distractedly presents a few disordered pages of typewritten notes with crossings out at which muse cursorily glances.
A horrible silence ensues.
Muse: What’s that supposed to mean?
Muse: That! (Points with sprite-ly fingers). That bit there – about the quarry.
Frances: Well, what are we trying to say here? I consider that the appropriate metaphor in this situation would be that which, notwithstanding the potentiality for oxymoron, properly indicates a discretely blended atmosphere of luminosity and critical acuity of the piece I’m … why what’s wrong with it?
Muse: It doesn’t even make sense. I mean there isn’t a quarry in Walthamstow – trust me.
Frances: Yes. But this is fiction.
Muse: And don’t even get me started on the first line – about the clocks. I mean ridiculous or what?
Frances: I thought it was rather good. Original you know.
Muse: Whoever heard of a clock striking thirteen.