My writer has a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door to her writing office.
Cute. I enter the office. It’s too quiet. Even with the hum of the air conditioner, it still feels quiet.
She’s sitting in one of the corner recliners with her laptop, a glass of ice water on the end table, and a notebook beside her. She doesn’t even look up when I close the door.
“Well, look at you, love, all industrious and writerly.”
She sighs and flips me a pained expression. “Didn’t you read the sign?”
“I’m your Muse, love. ‘Do not disturb’ means you are all mine.” I grab a brew from the mini-fridge and settle into the other recliner.
“And here I thought you came to write my blog post for me.” She narrows her eyes. “Speaking of, why don’t you make yourself useful and do that.”
Oh. Hand to my heart. “That hurts, love. You know I’d much rather help you with the scene.”
She sighs and bounces her head against the headrest. “After you write the post. Please?” She bats her eyelashes at me like a swooning teenager. Come to think of it, she did that once when she was a teenager. That’s how I got my writer.
“You don’t do puppy-dog eyes very well.”
“It worked back in the day.”
“No.” Well, yes, but that’s not the point. “I was already working with you by then.”
Her eyes grow wide. “No, you weren’t.”
“Yes, I was. You just didn’t know it yet. We’re sneaky like that. That’s part of the capital ‘M’ in my title. I gave you a test, and you passed with flying colors.”
Her mouth gapes like a fish before she manages to speak. “Test? What test?” She shakes her head. “Never mind. Are you going to write my post or what? I’ve finally finished pickling, and turned in my assignment, so I’m going to work on my revision.”
“Fine, love. I am glad to see you working.” She’s been slacking the past couple weeks, with all the garden stuff.
“Har, har. You know I’ve been doing garden stuff. By the way, you saw the feedback I got on my last assignment, right? The one with objective third person and close third person.”
“Yes.” She got great feedback. “No more imposter syndrome self-talk, love.”
She frowns. “I should have had this book done and submitted by now.”
“What did I just say? I’ll write your post, you work.”
“Thanks! You’re the best Muse ever!” Her grin makes me wonder if she planned this.
Of course I planned it. By accident. Oh well. I finished my last batch of pickles this week, not because I ran out of cucumbers, but because I’m tired of it. And we’re running out of canning lids. Seems there’s a major shortage of canning lids now that everyone is staying close to home and people probably planted gardens for the first time. Ugh. I hacked the cucumber vines back, and any cukes that do grow I’ll let get nice and big for the chickens.