For many reasons I have always liked the idea of a fat muse. I love the idea of the muse easing itself down, its succulent tummy and thick legs leaning comfortably back in a super comfortable chair. I have a few muses, actually. The fat muse has some chocolate, then gets down to business.
"So what do we have to day, Frannie?" he asks. (It is a male muse. I have a female muse, too. She is also fat. She smiles and has the softest white curls.)
"I just don't know," I say. "Not very inspired right now."
"Oh, come on," he says, taking a chocolate pretzel. "Since when do we all start out inspired? We have to wait for it, then generate it and nurture it. You mean to tell me that nothing you thought about today inspired you?"
"I saw snow," I say. "And a couple of birds. Very nice, but I don't know what I can write about them."
"A couple of them, yes."
"How about writing about the fat birds?
"I could," I say. "And something about the boundless sky."
"Boundless, shmoundless," it says, taking a sip of apple cider. "Can't you stick to the birds for a bit?"
"If they want."
"Frannie," he says, chuckling, "I think maybe you want to write about me instead."
"Maybe I do," I say, grudgingly conceding, "but don't get a swelled head over it, hmm? Nothing worse than a conceited muse."
"Why shouldn't I be conceited?" he says, grabbing a butterscotch candy and offering me one. I take it and pop it in my mouth. "I inspire you. That's a damned full time job."
"Well, hooray for you," I say. "Congrats. Woohoo."
"Woohoo yourself," he says. "If you don't like me, I'll float away and inspire someone else."
"Fine," I say. "Go ahead. When you're finished, come back and help me. You're being pretty useless tonight."
The muse laughs. "I'm not useless. But I'll give you a break. There must be someone else I can bother. I'll be back later."
I roll my eyes as he floats away, then look at the paper in front of me.
Hell. He has written something Or I have.. "How is it to think fat.."
Not bad for a conceited muse, I think.
Reluctantly I start to write.