This is a short story I wrote one summer in the woods of Northern Michigan

For the past several years, there has been an extra feminine presence around my house. It was not my wife or either of my two daughters. It was more than the female presence of the dog or cat. At first, it was very ethereal, like the memory of a purple dressing gown from Victoria's Secret. Three was no form, at least none that was well defined.

She does have other sensory qualities. I can hear her swish by or rustle near me. I can feel her warmth and softness against my shoulder or thigh. At times, I have been aware of a faint lavender scent. I can feel her closeness and the weight of thoughts she wants me to express. I am aware of her restlessness when I choose to read rather than write and her disappointment when I watch television.

She first appeared after I attended a noontime concert to have me write a story about music and schizophrenia. I had not planned to write the story. I had written no fiction since my bungling attempts in high school English class. All I had published were newspaper articles about mental health. All I had written recently were psychological test reports.

I did have a new computer. I knew enough about them to know that there were no ideas inside. All the computer could do was say yes or no, although it did so in some very sophisticated ways. Somehow I sat at the computer and my fingers typed the first story. Others followed, without my realizing they were her stories.

I found out the hard way that muses don't like being ignored. I decided that I needed to concentrate on my finances for a while rather than on my writing. Shortly after that I found that attempts to write yielded wooden outlines, stony starts and ideas which scattered like feathers in the wind.

I thought she was gone for good. I guess I deserved. it. I never thought much about how to entertain a muse. I have since come to realize that muses are much like people. If there is nothing to interest them, they move on. I did not invite her to come to me in the first place, and did not know how to get her back. Maybe somebody else could use the books I had bought about writing. I could go back to enjoying others' fiction.

Sitting at the picnic table outside my cabin last summer, I realized my muse was back. The swish was there, the warmth. Was that lavender in the air? I had another chance. Learning from past mistakes, I finally realized that my job was to make her comfortable, give her space in my mind, and listen to what she whispers to me. I will have to take better care of her. Next time she leaves, she might not come back.

Published in Inkspot 6/11/2000