She sits there drinking beer, slumped in my papa san chair, leg bouncing up and down hinged at the knee, while staring out the window in feigned boredom. Some muse I have. I’m stuck with this blank page and she’s more intent on a beer buzz. Where’s the practiced wave of her hand causing perfect verbs and nouns to spew forth like gold flowing out of a leprechaun’s bottomless pot? Where’s the creative doyen intent on ordering my thoughts into clever, succinct, and dare I say, sellable prose?
Writer's Muse
Writer's Muse
Writer's Muse
She sits there drinking beer, slumped in my papa san chair, leg bouncing up and down hinged at the knee, while staring out the window in feigned boredom. Some muse I have. I’m stuck with this blank page and she’s more intent on a beer buzz. Where’s the practiced wave of her hand causing perfect verbs and nouns to spew forth like gold flowing out of a leprechaun’s bottomless pot? Where’s the creative doyen intent on ordering my thoughts into clever, succinct, and dare I say, sellable prose?