My muse is a bitch. Her name is Bobbie Jo and she looks like Barbara Eden in Harper Valley PTA. She has the personality of a honey badger. This morning I woke her up from a rum induced hangover to come write with me.
Ten minutes later, she dragged her sorry butt into my office. “What the fuck time is it?” she asked while lighting her first Marlboro of the day.
“Let’s write,” I said. “Earn your keep.”
She chugged down a lukewarm Coors and belched. “Writing is boring. You ever thought about taking up welding? I’d like to give that a try.”
“Welding?” I had images of her scorching the lawn, fire-throwing at the dogs, torching the neighbors. “I don’t think so.”
She plopped onto the couch. “I bet I could make some nifty lawn ornaments,” she said, shooting smoke rings into the air.
“Let’s finish this book first,” I said.
She shrugged and picked at her toenails. “Or how about taxidermy? That’s a cheap hobby. All I need is some sand, a needle and thread.”
I decided to play hardball. “We’re going to finish this book. Now sit your butt in the chair and think up the next scene.”
Bobbie Jo rolled her eyes and sauntered off.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“To listen to Andy and the Rev over at The Cocktail Hour,” she said.
“You’re going to listen to the scene I wrote from my newest book?”
She turned and put her hands on her hips. “You mean the book I wrote?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “I meant the book you wrote.”
She pranced out of the room and locked her bedroom door behind her. I haven’t seen her since. But if you would like to listen to me read what Bobbie Jo wrote, here’s the link — Cocktail Hour!