I sit down in front of my laptop meaning to write. Sadly, I have zero inspiration. No amount of changing the wall-paper, checking my mail, or checking my Facebook feed seems to help. I have wasted exactly an hour. I unceremoniously pull out the dongle and put it away. The moment the dongle is safely out-of-sight, I find a new train of thought. What did the biggies (Homer, Shakespeare et al) do when they were stuck in a writer’s rut? They called on the Muses. Why don’t I do the same?
I scrunch up my nose, trying to recall the Muses. There definitely is a Calliope (Don’t get the idea that I’m well read on the epics or something. I just know Calliope from Disney’s Hercules). I scrunch up my nose some more, trying to think. I suddenly realise nose-scrunching might bring on early wrinkles. I relax my facial muscles. Take a peep in the mirror. No wrinkles. Phew. Anyway one Muse is enough. Calliope it is.
And then it strikes me, the Muses might all be very well for the men-folk. I can see how the dancing and singing and romping and serenading (a la Hercules) would inspire a man. What about me though? The shiny Calliope in a shinier golden dress is only going to drive me mad. I mean here I am, dressed in ratty shorts, hair messily tied in a knot, no eye-make up and chipped off nails; not to mention my problem area – the tummy (Blame the ice cream I ate for breakfast). Calliope is just gonna make me self-conscious. No, not happy or inspired at all. What I should get is a tall dark guy Muse who admires me as I write, encourages me to pursue my ‘art’ and probably gets me a cooling smoothie as well. Who is the male version of the Muses, I’d like to know. The atrocious Greeks didn’t give us girls a muse! Art seems to be the domain of men. There’s Homer and Sophocles and Aristotle and Euripedes, sadly there’s only one Sappho.
All of a sudden the sun shines through. I may not have a Greek muse, and I may never have a flat tummy, but yes I have a tub full of yummy butterscotch ice-cream. How about some ice-cream for inspiration?