![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I am about to go see "Up", the new Pixar film. While out, I will do some much needed shopping - beverages for the Guest of Honor to keep in the Green Room, potty pads for the foster puppy, a new McCoy doll (I wore the last one out long ago, and with the renewed interest in Star Trek, perhaps I can find a decent replacement; I'll have to make him a Hawaiian shirt), and lunches for next week.
Writers have muses, or so I'm often told. Perhaps the muse is fictional, perhaps a living being, perhaps it is imaginary, perhaps it's a physical object or place. Perhaps it's a combination of these.
My muse is Dr.McCoy from Original Trek. OK - not exactly the character, but perhaps his twin or an ancestor. He's dry-witted, alcoholic, acerbic, and sometimes meanders into lengthy disjointed reminiscences. He doesn't inspire so much as he goads. He asks questions I then have to answer or see the disappointment in his baby blues. He tends to wear Hawaiian shirts as he sprawls in a swivel chair on the other side of a narrow desk, and he doesn't hesitate to read and comment on what I've written.
He doesn't visit often, and I haven't seen him since my adult daughter moved back in with me to pay off college loans and launch herself into the real world. It's apparently a much slower process than when I was her age.
I can write without him, evidenced by the fact that I have been. It's just more fun to have him snarking my works in progress.
My muse is Dr.McCoy from Original Trek. OK - not exactly the character, but perhaps his twin or an ancestor. He's dry-witted, alcoholic, acerbic, and sometimes meanders into lengthy disjointed reminiscences. He doesn't inspire so much as he goads. He asks questions I then have to answer or see the disappointment in his baby blues. He tends to wear Hawaiian shirts as he sprawls in a swivel chair on the other side of a narrow desk, and he doesn't hesitate to read and comment on what I've written.
He doesn't visit often, and I haven't seen him since my adult daughter moved back in with me to pay off college loans and launch herself into the real world. It's apparently a much slower process than when I was her age.
I can write without him, evidenced by the fact that I have been. It's just more fun to have him snarking my works in progress.
.
