eddy_currents

Sworn to A Muse

My fingers pause in their frenetic keyboard dance as I stare at the few paragraphs I wrote. The words all came easily enough, and they felt good as they flowed from my brain out through my fingers, but as I start reading what will shortly become another aborted creation, my fingers are already heading for the backspace key.

Another agonizing morning. Another waste of an hour.

The words are good. The sentences work well together. I have alliteration and parallelism, some descriptive metaphors, and a powerful symbol to tie everything together. My hero is sympathetic, my heroine is strong. I have a good opening hook, and it is set firmly in the jaw of my ideal reader.

But there is no snap, no vive, no je ne sais quoi. The words just sit there on the page, flat and lifeless. The period at the end of the last sentence looks like a black hole to me, sucking my comic energy through the monitor and into the vacuum behind the glass.

This was supposed to be a humorous piece, but it is as dull as an organic chemistry lecture.

I used to be funny. Everyone said so.

Where art thou, my precious Muse! Why hast thou forsaken me?

In torment I turn on the television. I flip through channels, watching the numbers and the images change, but seeing nothing. I find CNN and leave it on for background noise. Maybe some new terrorist bombing will inspire me.

Then I hear it. The voice coming from the television speakers is unmistakable.

"The war on terror involves Saddam Hussein because of the nature of Saddam Hussein, the history of Saddam Hussein, his willingness to terrorize himself."

No, not the voice itself. Not the southern drawl of The Commander in Chief. It's the voice I hear behind his voice.

"Too many OB-GYNs aren't able to practice their... their love with women all across this country."

That is my Muse! I'm sure of it!

"I'm sure you can imagine it's an unimaginable honor to live here."

Tears spring to my eyes as I bolt for the television remote. I turn up the volume and press my face to the screen.

"There's no cave deep enough for America, or dark enough to hide."

Tears of joy stream down my face. I can think of no better place for my muse than at the side of The Leader of the Free World.

"You saw President Putin yesterday. I thought he was very forward-leaning, as they say in diplomatic nuanced circles."

I settle on my sofa. The remote falls from my hand to thump on the floor. Laughter bubbles from my lips.

"Nothing Saddam Hussein has done has convinced me -- I'm confident the secretary of defense -- that he is the kind of fellow that is willing to forgo weapons of mass destruction, is willing to be a peaceful neighbor, that is -- will honor the people -- the Iraqi people of all stripes, will -- values human life. He hasn't convinced me, nor has he convinced my administration."

I sigh, content at last. I may have lost my Muse to the Most Powerful Man On Earth, to the Man with The Finger on the Bomb, to the Diplomatic Face of Our Country, but at least the next four years will be entertaining.

THE END