When a writer spends too much time with imaginary friends

My muse is not amused

My muse is a no nonsense kind of guy. He doesn’t care if I’m inspired… tired…or retired. There he sits on his comfy couch glaring at me.

“I’m not slacking on my writing,” I tell him. “Really.”

He doesn’t believe me and speaks with a cocky British accent. “Please hurry up and finish that book. I need something to read besides the bloody bad news.”

“These things take time,” I argue. “There’s a lot more to writing a book than you might think. I’ve got great characters and a killer ending, but I don’t like the antagonist.”


“I thought you weren’t supposed to like the Antagonist.”

“You’re being difficult, Muse. You know she wasn’t right for the part. Why didn’t you warn me earlier? Now I have to do a major rewrite of plot points.”

“So why are you here…  messing with your blog?”

“I have to take a break sometimes. I’ve been working for hours already.” I squirm in my chair. “You know, a cup of coffee might help me think better. A peanut butter sandwich sounds pretty good too.”

He perks up at the thought that I might be taking a real break…  to the refrigerator.

“Got tuna?”






Thanks to my big Sis for such a perfect un-birthday card.


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