Humor

What Happened When I Went to the International House of Muses for a Temp

If your muse is absent for an extended period of time, try a temp from the International House of Muses.

I have previously written an article about the process you need to go through in being assigned a muse (Does Everyone Get a Muse and Who Do I Talk to About Finding One?) This is a worthwhile reading for all of you who don’t yet have one or those who are in the process of applying. You can’t leave anything to chance if you want to ensure you are assigned the highest quality muse possible that is the most suited to you and your needs.

Yet, as anyone who has experience with a muse knows, they tend to be flighty, fickle creatures, in the habit of leaving their writer in the lurch when they are needed the most. We jump through hoops to keep our muses happy, take them to the most lovely spots we can imagine, try to woo them at sunset or sunrise, ply them with gourmet food and the best wines or other libations of their choosing. We play them everything from the Boston Pops to Reggae to Russian marches to Viennese Waltzes. We read them poetry and the prose of masters try to tickle the funny bone or induce tearful inflections.

When they are happy we are manically productive, pushing ourselves since we don’t know when their goodwill might depart. When it does depart, we are at first anxiously hopeful it is just a short hiatus, or they are still to arrive but are just a bit tardy. When their absence is confirmed we become sad but try to muster on, filling pages with words that work but that fail to sing. As the days mount our despondency grows and we wonder fearfully, what is to become of us.

But then they reappear, and we act as if nothing has happened. For what is our own pain in light of the sheer ecstasy of writing in the shadow of our muse once more? We were acting silly, we tell ourselves, for everyone knows the nature of a muse. So we had no right to expect otherwise or to act like a toddler who has had their favorite toy taken away.

The ups and downs of working with a muse, never knowing from one day to the next or even one hour to the next whether they will show up can be agony. The euphoria when we are in their favor, the apprehension of their response when we fail to go in the direction they want and the dejection when if feels that they have rejected us entirely creates chaos in our writing life.

The last fight I got into with my muse was a doozy. My muse can have a heavy hand in what I create. I have tried to make her understand that she’s supposed to provide me with the inspired idea while it’s up to me to determine where to go with it. She doesn’t take well to that idea and more than a few times I have woken up to find something I’m working on changed beyond recognition with her gone not to return for weeks.

This last fight occurred when I had to revert her changes three times and some pretty harsh things were said. She finally she launched at me with this.

“I don’t think I like you anymore. You’re writing about things I couldn’t care less about. You’re being political, socially aware. You’re want to write things that will benefit your community, or even the world. That’s not what I signed up for, not what you said on your application. Vampires and horror stories, mysteries and fantasy. Maybe even some alien stuff. That’s what you said you wanted to write. What’s this nonfiction nonsense? To hell with that! I don’t write things to benefit the world. If it happens that they do, swell but it’s definitely not what I’m going for. I just want to have fun. I thought you did too! But this is no fun at all!”

Fuming, I went to sleep. Though I hoped I was wrong, I knew what I’d find the next morning. Sure enough my muse was gone.

But I’d finally had enough and I vowed things would be different this time. No more wallowing. No more being held emotional hostage. She wanted out, Godspeed. Let her try to get another position with the evaluation I would complete for her file.

I flipped open the Writer’s Resource Manual to the temp agencies (available from the Writing Resource Collective for the low price of $29.99). I wanted someone good but also needed someone right away since I was at a crucial point in my work, so I compromised and called the International House of Muses. They were reputable, affordable and could provide competent muses on short notice. While it was rare that any of the muses that worked there were promoted to permanent status, they were said to be perfectly adequate for short term work.

Within minutes I’d gotten in touch with the IHOM and given them my basic information.

“And how long do you think you’ll be needing one of our muses for?”

“Well, that’s a bit up in the air right now. You see, we got in a pretty big fight over what I was writing and she . . . left.”

“Hmmm, that’s rather unprofessional. If you don’t mind my asking, what is your regular muses name?”

I told her.

“Oh dear. Well, that certainly explains it. That family has produced five brilliant muses and the youngest boy looks as if he is to follow in their footsteps. But they are also extremely temperamental, and given that we’re talking about muses here, that’s really saying something.” She laughed. “They are known for sometimes crossing over from inspiring your gift to trying to impose theirs.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“I’ve been saving this particular muse for a young man who’s related to my husband, but I can see you need her much more. She really should be in the big leagues but she’s just immigrated from Wales and has to be recertified here. The good news is, if she works out and gets recertified when she’s with you, you could apply to have her assigned to you permanently.”

I can’t say I was ready to consider giving up may regular muse. We’d been through a lot together. But having the possibility might get mine back in line. And if not, then I would have another option.

Anastasia worked out brilliantly. She was every bit as good as advertised. Word must get around quickly in the fairy realm, because it wasn’t more than a day and a half before my muse, Winnifred, showed up in a huff.

“Couldn’t do without me for a couple of days, I see,” Winnifred said haughty.

“To the contrary. We’re making fabulous progress. And what with everything you said, then the disappearing act I assumed you weren’t coming back. You couldn’t expect me not to replace you could you?”

“Replace me? With this little trollop? I can’t imagine you’ve gotten anything done with her type around.”

That did it. I started to jump to Anastasia’s offense but there was no need. Anastasia, normally the picture of calm, turned suddenly and got right into Winnifred’s face.

“Don’t you dare call me names, you entitled little snob. I know you and the family you come from and every last one of you has caused more trouble than you’re worth. As for trollop? It’s no secret you showed up at the satyrs convention last year, jumped out of a cake you weren’t hired to jump out of and proceeded to take off every shred of clothes. You were seen to do the walk of shame no fewer than 23 times over a three day weekend! As for the mess you ‘inspired’ here, we’ve just about got it ironed out and my writer will have a plan of action by days end. And my writer’s stay happy.

“Your writer? He is not your writer. You aren’t even certified so you don’t have any writers! He’s my writer!”

The rest of the day long fight went by in a blur. In part, that was because they were both fae so once they started moving around there was no keeping up with them. The other main reason was that my mind was elsewhere as the situation had inspired an essay, short story, and the outline for a complete novel for which I’d completed the opening scene.

In the end, Anastasia sent Winifred packing with the instructions not to come back unless she heard from me directly after Anastasia’s contract had elapsed.

The next month was the most productive time of my life. It wasn’t that Anastasia didn’t have her moments of flightiness or times when she didn’t show up. But any muse that was too available or too predictable wouldn’t have been very effective. Half of what they inspire comes from longing for their return and the tortured artist role we play out in their absence.

The month was also filled with wheaten bread made with wine, walnuts, golden raisins and honey, frosted cranberries, candied violets, honeysuckle wine and nectar, gifts from Winnifred, undoubtedly in an effort to win me over. Each was first unenchanted by Anastasia, to Winnifred’s fury, I am certain.

By the end of the month, the contracted period for Anastasia’s services, I had completed a chapbook of poetry, 35 non-fiction essays, and the rough draft of a book. Although I begged Anastasia to stay and be my muse permanently, she said she needed to go back home to Wales as her mother had taken ill.

I understood, but saying goodbye to her put tears in my eyes. She hadn’t been an easy task master, but she was also kind and empathic and knew when I needed a shoulder to cry on. She promised to keep in touch whenever she could, and I waved goodbye as her form slowly faded and disappeared.

Winifred returned, much quieter than I remembered. We had a good talk, and it was clear she understood that she had gone to far. Since then, we have worked much better together. She hasn’t completely lost her temperamental side, but it is considerably toned down. But then again, I wouldn’t want her any other way.

Natalie Frank (Taye Carrol) has had work featured in Haunted Waters Press, Weirdbook Magazine, Siren’s Call Publications, Lycan Valley Press & Zero Fiction among others. Her poetry has been featured in several anthologies including Untimely Frost among others. She is Editor for 1-One-Infinity, The Partnered Pen & One Table, One World and is Editor in Chief for Promposity & Mental Gecko. She is also the Managing Editor for Novellas and Serials at LVP Publications.

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