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First, a brief note: A friend recently asked about the random quotes I have up there above my posts. She considered making a comment about the quote that appeared when she read one of my posts. As she correctly surmised, unless she copied and pasted the quote into the comment no one would know what the comment was about. I welcome comments about the quotes though, if you are so inclined.

When I previewed this post tonight, this is the quote I saw:

Writing is no trouble, you just jot down ideas as they occur to you. The jotting is simplicity enough – it is the occurring which is difficult. ~ Stephen Leacock

And now, on with the post.

Not A-Mused

“Slow down, slow down!” Fred scribbled furiously on scraps of paper attempting to record the whole conversation. But the discussion had become a heated argument and neither of the antagonists was willing to back down. And others were joining in.

Where was Ginger? He counted on her to mediate. No matter how abrasive the other personalities, she could turn on her southern charm and help him get the story. Writing was easy with Ginger as his partner, his muse. She would make sure everyone played nice and he would write down what he heard.

Why did he have just one pencil? It was getting dull. What if it broke? But these worries just slowed him down even more and he felt hopelessly lost. What were they arguing about now?

“Shut up, shut up!” Fred stood suddenly. He snapped the pencil in two and crushed the papers in his fist. Blood pounded in his temples and his neck was so tight he feared it would snap too. “Where the hell is Ginger? Where the HELL is GINGER?”

But the cacophony of voices just got louder. Being ignored was worse than being made fun of. For while he was often derided for his stories, Fred saw them as his salvation. They gave his life purpose and meaning. He had come to rely on Ginger’s help though, and her silence left a deep void he did not know how to fill.

He had tried drugs. He had tried therapy. “If only the doctors could prescribe street drugs,” he speculated, “instead of that crap that makes me feel so dull.” He decided he had only one choice left. With Ginger silent the other voices in his head drove him completely mad. He dropped the remnants of his story on the curb and stepped into traffic.

[Note: Learn more about Fred and Ginger here. ~Tim 6 Dec 2009]

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Fred lifted the manuscript from the desk and leaned back in his chair. Ginger usually made him wait until her work was published before allowing him to read it. With a slight tremble of excitement he now held the first chapters of “Mort de Plume,” her work in progress. Fidgeting absent-mindedly with his Montblanc Meisterstück Solitaire Doué — a habit that Ginger detested — he turned to page one and began reading.

Some minutes later Ginger crossed the small office. She kissed the top of Fred’s head and stood behind him as he finished the last few pages.

“Well?” she asked with apparent nervousness.

“Well,” Fred took a deep breath, considering his words carefully. “Your style is as sharp as ever. But… this is a little different. You always kill someone in the first chapter. Always.”

“That’s right,” Ginger replied as she grabbed his pen and plunged it deep into his neck.

[Note: Learn more about Fred and Ginger here. ~Tim 6 Dec 2009]

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