Emory set down and jotted a note to self. One of many that he had been writing day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, always the same intent, although occasionally different words.
He believed someday they would come true, someday the words would work, and this magic of writing it down would stimulate the creative process and the intent would almost supernaturally bring about the novel within. The books all said it would.
He turned to his friend, sitting at the desk, the one only he could see, who smiled back with a big toothy grin, as if to say “you go Emory, you’re the stuff man, I believe in you.”
Emory smiled back, gave a thumbs up.
“Be right with ya man, and then we’ll begin, Stay at the ready cause we’re going to be creating some amazing stuff together.”
Emory set back down in front of the television and played with the remote before finding the newest installment of his favorite new series. It was an intense season for television and he hadn’t missed one episode.
Besides what would he have to talk about with the guys? Everyone who is anyone is doing the same thing he was right at this minute, he thought to himself. This new show was not to be missed. It was another great year for television and movies.
Now and then he looked over at his little friend sitting in his desk chair, making sure he was still waiting for him. At times he thought he saw him tap tap taping on the keyboard with his thick little fingers. Reassured that he still had it and his muse was a patient little guy he gave him a thumbs up,
“Be right with ya buddy, as soon as this episode is over.” He said and then turned up the volume.
Days slipped by, pages and pages of his master piece of a novel languished on the wooden desk gathering dust, his muse set quietly watching the finale of Emory’s coveted show. He was tired and growing old, and no new work was there to show for the past several months. But at least Emory had new material to talk about after a banger of a television season.
Flicking off the remote, Emory stood up and stretched out his arms and legs,
“Time to get to work,” He said.
Scooting muse over he set down in the chair and stared at the computer monitor, picking the notes up one by one that were scattered around the edges of the typewriter , his eyes narrowed as he read the many reminder’s,
“Write Today, Novel Tomorrow.” “Create on Purpose” “Sit + Write=Book”
He had a slew of philosophical quips that were supposed to motivate and encourage Emory beyond the scribbles and endless starts that he never finished.
His muse looked at him disdainfully, shaking his fuzzy head, then turned and lumbered away, tired of waiting another day.