Results aren’t always what you’d expect.
Not too different from My Day Job, being a muse can be full of surprises sometimes. I thought with my poet it was pretty obvious what I was getting into this time around, marrying a novelist and all.
Novelists, as everyone knows, always need muses otherwise they flounder about rather unsuccessfully and die bitter old men. Like old drunk Hemingway. Or was it Faulkner? Must have been Faulkner. Anyhow I was thinking: All right! Easy and clear cut, sweet! I love it. Shoo my honey into his office to “go write your novel now” while off I go with hours at my leisure to do my own thing. I really couldn’t have found a better gig. At least, that’s what I was thinking.
But the gods will have their laughs. Lots of changes in just only the last couple hundred years, gotta get up to speed. Because, turns out I inspire my boy the best in the room with the big white things. You know, the one with all the yummy delicious food? La Cocina. Die Küche. Si.
Yes. That was a bit of a pause for me too. But then I figured oh that’s all right, that’s no skin off my nose. After all a muse’s job is essentially the same regardless the end result, si? Sit around, look pretty — and inspire, of course. Inspire what? Well that’s precisely what keeps life interesting.
Providing inspiration is one thing. Predicting what it’ll lead to? That’s a whole another laughing matter entirely. As I said, keeps life interesting. So while maybe there’ll be no credit for inspiring the boy’s next great novel, all right, but goodness me, I eat impossibly delicious cuisine every day. It’s quite a delectable life. I had no idea I was this good. You see why I like being a muse?