“Oh, no,” I gasped.
She rolled her eyes.
“What did I do to deserve this?” I whined. She’d only visited once before, when I’d stopped writing and started wallowing in self-pity. I didn’t know why, but I knew I was in for it. My muse’s sister is a diva.
“Let’s get this over with,” she huffed. “I’ve got a manicure at three.”
I turned my chair to her. “Fine.”
She put her hand on her hip. “You’re not funny. I mean, your sense of humor is so dry, it needs a chaser. Or a shot of tequila. Or both.”
“Yeah, I know.”
She started ticking off my offenses on her fingers. “You’re sarcastic and snarky.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“Every once in a great while, you manage a bit of wit but that’s it. And you’re completely crazy with your alliteration and internal rhyming.”
“I’m not the only one,” I mumbled.
“Also, the adverbs.”
“Whoa, now… I am firmly in the adverb camp. I don’t care what the ‘experts’ say, adverbs are very cool. Seriously.”
“Oh, and, you’re a commaholic. So there’s that.”
“I’m running out of fingers to count your faults.” She crossed her arms and began tapping her foot. “What’s with the fragments?”
“Love ‘em. Huge fan. Big, big fan of fragments.”
She raised one eyebrow, “Not that I mind, personally, but you swear.”
“Sometimes. Like the smooth ones that effortlessly slide into a conversation and enhance the hell out of it.” I smiled. “I’m picturing Rhett standing by the door, ready to walk out but turning to Scarlett and saying, ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.’ What a spectacular moment.”
“Actually, it was,” she swooned. “But watch your mouth.”
“No, no. See, I’m trying to be more…me. Not giving a damn what others think.”
“Honey, you should care what I think because… Eh, keep the swears. But I’m about to call the parentheses police on you!!!”
I bit my lip, “I do have a lot of those, don’t I? Still, would you mind not using so many exclamation points?” I held my stomach. “I think I’m exclamation point intolerant.”
“Excuse me?” She glared.
I lifted my chin and smirked. “Glares are fine.”
She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “You. Are impossible.”
“Was this supposed to help me with something?”
“No. I’m here for the fun of it. I love spending my time with writers,” she spat the word.
I leaned back in my chair. “Still not clear what this was supposed to accomplish.”
“I won’t, erm, even.”
She looked around. “I do like what you’ve done with the place. It’s not me but,” she tapped her chin. “Very…you.”
“Thank you…” I waited.
“Are we done here?”
“Hey, you’re the one who…”
“Whatever.” She waved her hand. “You should cut back on the ellipses, too. When’s the new book coming out?”
“Ah. I see. Well, the collection of short fiction will be published this fall. The novel, next summer.”
“Good.” She was already walking away. “I’ll let Miss Muse know.”
Please check out Diana’s hilarious post about her muse. Thanks, Diana, for the fun read and inspiration to spend some quality, fictional time with our own muses. (Or, you know, their siblings.) 😉