Coffee and Muses

Yesterday I said I was going to get a lot done, and I didn’t fib.  I did two blog posts, started looking into doing a three dimensional ball of yarn in Blender (hint:  it won’t be easy), and finished Chapter Eight of Suggestive Amusements with a fifteen hundred word dash.  It was productive as hell, and I felt like I actually accomplished something for the first time in a while.

Chapter Eight was, I will admit, a bit of fantasy revenge–or so I told my Muse when I was speaking with them last night.  Yes, I have a Muse, and they help me a lot.  I told them that a lot of my feelings about work, past and present, came out in that chapter, and there are probably a few people who, if they were to read the chapter, would know I was sort of drawing off of a hidden reserve of angst I’ve been hanging onto since leaving The Job From Hell.

While I can say I never had the same conversation my main male character has with his manager, some of the same thoughts he voices I’ve had more than a few times.  There’s nothing like being a cog in an organization where every job that comes your way should have a priority of “Immediate” or “High”.  I’ve been in IT for almost thirty years:  every job is important–save the ones I need done.  Then it’s, “Queue up, loser, don’t you see I’m busy?”  Which, come to think of it, was something I told to a manager once, though not in those same words.

What comes next, in Chapter Nine?  What I hope is going to be one of my favorite conversations.  My main muse gets together with her sister muse, and they sit and chat over coffee, talking about their charges, and . . . well, lets say Erin’s sister is always worried about her.  It’s not a big sister/little sister thing, because they’re identical in age.  It’s just that Erin’s an emotional muse, and her more musical sister always fears that she’s digging herself into a hole with each new charge.

I mean, think about the life of a classical muse.  They’re immortal, they go around casting their magic upon someone to bring forth the best inspiration they can muster, and–at least in my world–they are attracted to intelligence and imagination.  They aren’t there to make you a sandwich, though Erin does make breakfast at one point; they are there to light up your bulbs and make your fingers go clickty-clack upon the keyboard.  They are the box outside of which you are suppose to think, and if you want to make them happy, you best start creating.

In a way, their lives would be somewhat miserable.  They don’t just live for their job, they are their job.  Their excitement comes from what you produce, and then . . . they’re gone.  Erin helps you find that one true store hidden somewhere deep inside that bag of mostly water that is you, and once she yanks it out of you, what else is there for her to do?  Where is her relaxation, her fun, her down time?

Oh, you don’t think I’ve figured this out?

You don’t know me very well, do you?