Your muse has decided to pay you a long-awaited visit, but so have many others.

551 WORDS
GREENER PASTURES
Today, my muse pays me an unexpected visit, and tosses words onto the screen, as if the words have been waiting days, weeks, for a chance to escape. It is an extraordinary experience. After all, my muse visits so seldom. But as I bask in triumph realizing that I might actually finish this historical fiction, another visitor pays me a call, this one short with blue saucers for eyes.
“Mom, will you call out these history questions to me?”
My fingers continue to peck away. One interruption might prod my muse into leaving, and who knows when she might return.
“Sure,” I answer. “Let me finish this.”
I don’t see, but hear the childlike pout.
“What is it, honey?” I am disinterested, lost in the Saxon life that is bursting to life on my screen.
“I need to study now,” she whines.
My fingers slow down to a stop and the Saxon disappears.
I spin my chair around. “Okay,” I say.
She hands me the study sheet, and in asking her questions I learn that Babylon, now present day Iraq, was founded in 2000 B.C. Hammurabi reigned as king for 42 years. Nebuchadrezzar II ruled 43 years, and his wondrous Hanging Gardens were an ancient wonder of the world.
Great stuff, I think, and make a note to research more about Babylon.
After forty-five minutes, my daughter is confident in her answers. I return to work wondering where I was.
Thankfully, my muse waited for me (maybe she has children of her own) and carries me back to my Saxon thane. Again, my fingers peck furiously, obsessed with the desire to finish the project I have labored on for over two years. Thirty minutes pass. I am engrossed in my story, actually sitting beside the Danes as they plan their rampage on Wessex.
The next voice I hear is my son’s and the Viking Chieftain begins to fade. My son rolls the piano stool over by me and sits.
“How’s it going?” I ask, still typing.
“Not good,” he says.
Anytime a fifteen-year-old says, “Not good,” you better stop what you’re doing. I do and spin my chair around to look into eyes that still possess a certain amount of innocence.
“So, what’s up?”
He tells me that two boys at his school flipped over in their truck, and one is in a coma. I listen, and my heart aches for them and their family. Silently I thank God it wasn’t my son. His friend, Jessica, is pregnant again. This is her second. Already at fifteen, life is discouraging and frustrating. I remain silent until he finishes. Then, I hug him, and say I’m sorry life has to be so difficult. He smiles, is satisfied, and goes to his room. Music seeps from his closed door.
I return to my work. My muse is slow to respond and I wonder if she is aggravated with my constant interruptions. Soon words are flowing again and I thank her for understanding.
Not fifteen minutes later, headlights beam through the study window. I sigh, save my work, click off my computer, and lope to the backdoor to greet my husband. I know my muse has most likely lost her patience and will visit somewhere else where the pastures are greener, just as I have.
Richelle Putnam
(601) 482-4121
richput.netdoor.com