My Muse and I
by Cornelia Amiri
I’ll be honest, my muse and I have some issues. You know Clio, Zeus’ daughter? One of the nine Greek muses. She is the muse of history, pictured with a scroll and books. That’s my muse. She moves me to read and write, but there’s one draw back. Clio gets carried away.
For example the other day, I was taking a well-deserved TV break. Watching a show on ancient Egyptian mummies. They mention two different Scorpion Kings.
Real pharos with the same name as “The Rock’s” character in “Return of the Mummy.”
Clio says, “Quick to the Internet, rush to the library, run to the bookstore,and start researching these Scorpion Kings.”
You have to be firm with Clio. I said, “I’m not going to research ancient Egypt. Not now, anyway. I have four books in the works. Let me finish two of them first.” Then I glance at the bookshelf to a thick book on the Etruscans. “No Clio,” I said. “I’m not going to sit here and read an entire book on the Etruscans, the pre-roman Romans. I don’t even have a plot. Besides the Spartans are more interesting.”
“So make up a plot with the Spartans,” Clio replies.
“Go away you daughter of Zeus,” I said.
The muse of history is a bothersome creature. She pushes my curiosity buttons. Ideas based on history, let me tell you, they’re endless. If only I could muzzle my muse long enough to finish one.
How an ancient Greek goddess is aware of electronic publishing I don’t know. But Clio said, “You know E-book publishers are open to unusual books and unusual periods of history.”
“Clio!” I scream. “I’m not writing about the Etruscans. She then starts on Romulus and Remus. “No,” I said. “What kind of romance would that be anyway, babies and wolves. Silly muse,” I retort as I pace toward the bookcase.
I sense the familiar feel of a book in my hand. Where did I pick this up? I sit at my computer and lay the book beside my keyboard. It’s titled “The Etruscans”. The cover art is gorgeous, statuettes molded on stone mats that are scattered with lighted candles. I stare at the picture. It’s so tranquil. I open the book and flip through the pages. “Oh look,” I say to myself, “pictures of artwork. Look at the lady on that vase.” I turn the page to a bronze statuette of a dancing maenad. I scan the text on the corresponding page hoping to find out what a maenad is. I forget all about Clio. I am lost in my thoughts, musing over the Etruscans. I glance up from my book and see Clio giggling in the corner, trying to hide her face behind her scrolls. The muse wins again.
