Spring is here! Happy Dance! The snow is melted, the driveway is sloppy no more, and I saw green in the lawn–and it wasn’t weeds (quackgrass doesn’t count as a weed, does it?).
Add that to the satisfaction of knowing I succeeded in my February NaNoWriMo, and I’m feeling pretty good.
Until my Muse taps me on the shoulder.
“What?” I say, annoyed at the intrusion, since I’d given him a week off. He isn’t supposed to be back on duty yet.
“Don’t snap at me, love.” He leans against the door frame, arms crossed on his chest. “You don’t pay me enough to put up with that.”
I try to listen to him, rather than just enjoy his eye-candy shell. He’s Australian, with the body of a farm boy-turned-dancer, blue eyes, sandy blond hair, and an annoying habit of appearing out of thin air rather than using the door like everyone else.
He pokes my shoulder. “Hey, pay attention. Don’t make me start singing the theme from ‘Gilligan’s Island’.”
Which, of course, makes me think of the theme from “Gilligan’s Island”. Damn. It’s gonna take all day to squash that. “Isn’t it supposed to be ‘Henry the Eighth, I Am’?”
“I didn’t audition for ‘Ghost’; I was working on another project, which you well know.” He sighs. “I want a raise.”
“That’s not why you came back from your vacation early,” I say. Besides, I don’t pay him to begin with. “Speaking of, why are you back already?”
“I’ve got a better plot for your story.”
My turn to sigh. “You came back early to tell me that? Must’ve been a lousy vacation.”
“Ah, no, I was having a great time–I’ve got the sunburn to prove it. Anyway, the plot in your aircraft mechanic story sucks.”
“Hey, you helped me with that.”
“I know, and it seemed like a good idea at the time, but the story isn’t cohesive with that plot, which you already know. You need to rewrite it before your writing sisters’ reunion in August so they can give you feedback.”
I stare at him, and not because he looks good. I give him the proverbial I-cannot-believe-you-just-said-that stare. “Um, I just spent six solid weeks on that story. Just how much of the plot are you suggesting I change?”
“You can keep the the dead body in the hell-hole, the apartment ransacking, the roommate assault, the ferret, and the snowstorm. Oh, and you can keep the ex-boyfriend and the dead one.”
My knees gel, and I drop into my office chair. “Are you freaking kidding me? Gee, that’s only, like, half the flipping story.”
He grins. I think he’s enjoying this. “So, you get to keep half the story. Just rewrite the other half.” He stretches his arms out in front of him, fingers laced, palms out. His knuckles crack. “Ready to get started?”
“Hang on.” I stand, but he’s tall enough I barely come up to his shoulder. “I’m letting that story rest for a month. And I’m not changing a word until you tell me what the new plot is.”
He rests an arm around my shoulders. “And that’s what we’re doing, love. Brainstorming. I’ve got the main plot points, so we need to come up with the details. Grab your notebook–the thick one–and a pencil. This is going to take a while.”
Ah, okay. Sorry, guys, looks like I’m going to be busy for a while.