The Muse

I was sitting in my favorite booth in my favorite restaurant/tavern, mulling over some notes on a book I was writing, or trying to write. I was wondering if the plot was good enough to cover 250 pages. I didn’t want to get stuck in the middle wondering how to proceed.


“May I join you?” A soft voice was speaking.

I looked up from my papers to see a slim, mature woman dressed in a white silk dress with a short matching cape draped over her shoulders.

“Of course,” I mumbled.

She sat opposite me in the green upholstered booth. She had a margarita in her hand. I was staring at a beautiful woman with honey blond hair. Her crimson red lipstick sent an inviting message.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” I stammered.

She shook her head and her long dangling earrings wiggled.

“No,” she whispered, “but I saw you looking so serious at your papers, that I was intrigued to find out what you were doing.”

“I’m trying to figure out the structure of my new book.”

“You need a muse to help you.”

“Funny you should say that, I was looking for a muse to give me inspiration.”

“Well, I’m available for muse duty,” she smiled.

She took a sip of her drink, keeping her green eyes focused on me. Her eyes seemed to penetrate my very soul.

I took a big gulp of my beer and asked:

“Are you familiar with a muse’s duties?”

“Oh yes, I’ve been a muse before. I can help your soul by taking away the awful burden of responsibility for the outcome of your creative efforts.”

She reached across the table and held my hand and smiled. I felt myself melting under her stare.

I composed myself and said:

“Can you define for me the work that a writer’s muse does?”

“I would be happy to, Dave.”

“How did you know my name?” I said, abruptly.

“I noticed it on your papers, Writer Dave, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” I said in wonderment.

We both sat looking into each other’s eye, at one point I thought the booth was on fire, the heat was so intense.

Her eyebrows were arched above her sweeping eyelashes, her green eyes flashing, when she said:

“The muse is the feminine part of the male writer. Her job is to penetrate the writer and bring out the creative work from the womb of his mind. It’s a sort of gender reversal. I can provide a source of inspiration for you, a sense of passion to create better works.”


The waiter came and asked if I wanted another beer, but he didn’t even notice the woman in white opposite me.

“Yes please, another beer plus a shot of whisky. I needed another stiff drink.

The woman in white was still there looking at me with those dreamy eyes. She had hardly touched her margarita. She was stroking my hand now and the hairs on the back of my neck stood erect.

Her voice was all around me, whispering in my ears. I could feel her warm breath!

“Dave, I will make you a creative whirlwind propelling you to high levels of artistic creativity.”

My hormones were starting to stimulate me to a high level of emotional intensity. I was enjoying the rush of creative juices.

She spoke again:

“All my powers are rushing through you. Are you happy now? Do you understand that everything I do, I do it for you?”

She stood up and gave me a long hug.

The next thing I knew, I had my head in my folded arms on the table in slumber mode. The waiter was shaking me.

“Where is the lady in white?” I mumbled.

“There’s no lady here, just you,” said the waiter, quizzically.

I shook my head and left the tavern. Out in the fresh air, I felt good because now I knew I had a muse of my own.

The book I was working on became a success and I hoped I could call on the muse again in the future. It wasn’t just a dream. I know it was real!!!



Also published on Medium.

4 thoughts on “The Muse

  1. Enjoyed this blog. I like the fantasy aspect of when you are in a bar and meet all these fascinating people who are not really there. I’m guessing that if you stopped drinking, you would stop writing. For all of our sake, lift one more for your readers.
    Here’s to you Buddy!

  2. May I apply for the job? However, “mature” may be too strong a word to describe this former teenager. Okay, so my teen years are well into the past,
    but I hope never to progress to “mature.”

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *