The Search for my Muse

By Robin "Red Hot" Kaye


Lately it’s as if I’ve been hit over the head, time and again with the fact that I am muse-less. All my writer friends have muses, my buddy DT Tarkus (a man writing romance) has a vodka-swilling, lap dancing muse who likes to take her clothes off. While I’m happy for him, I’m wondering why I don’t have a Hugh Jackman look-alike who drinks 20 year-old scotch and does lap dances for me while whispering fabulous turning points in my ear. I mean really, if Barbara Walters rates a Hugh Jackman lap dance, I think I should be able to imagine a muse who would entertain me at least that much.

I’ve gone in search of my muse partly by necessity. You see, I belong to a new grog called Blame It On The Muse and all the authors on the grog are supposed to interview their muses. That’s pretty hard to do when my muse is either non-existent or invisible, deaf, and mute.

How does one find their muse? Hell, right now I’m considering lying about my muse, but I’m one of those disgustingly honest people—the only thing I lied about as a kid were the sins I committed when I had to go to confession. Ah the pressure of the confessional. Aside from the occasional fight to the death with my sister who outweighed me by 70 pounds, what did I have to confess? I’ll tell you what, nothing. So I’d kneel there knowing that Father Francis was on the other side of the screen bored to tears. I’d make up confession-worthy sins just to have something to talk about and a few Hail Marys to say so I didn’t look like the goody-two-shoes I was. Unfortunately, by the time I had anything really interesting to confess, Fr. Francis was ancient and I worried about causing the man to have a stroke or heart attack from the shock. But I digress…back to my missing muse.

In my quest to find my muse, I’m taking an online course called Muse Therapy. It just started and the first homework assignment is to name my muse, figure out what ticks him off, and what turns him on. If I knew how to do that, I wouldn’t have a missing muse. I’m beginning to wonder if my muse is one of those annoying men whose head is always buried in the sports page or texting on his cell phone and answers every one of my questions with the words “Yes dear” spoken in a foreign language? Or God forbid, what if my muse went and died on me? That’s my biggest fear. You see, I used to take my 120 lb. Lab, Sambuca out every night just before I went to bed. Sambuca was the Austin Powers of dogs—the boy could pee for five minutes straight until we’d have a river running down the driveway. There I’d be, standing up hill from him for obvious reasons, while he peed and great ideas would pop in my head. We had to put him down in April and even though I take Jasmine, our sweet pointer mix, out every night, she doesn’t pee on the driveway and I don’t get any great muse-worthy ideas. I’m so desperate I even took the box containing Sambuca’s ashes, sat him on my desk, and prayed for canine inspiration to no avail. Maybe dogs don’t pee in doggie heaven, or maybe the big devil dog that he was, is doing time in doggie purgatory. Either way I’m pretty much screwed.

So either I sent my muse to the great doggie park in the sky or I’m just too literal to have a muse. Honestly, I have to wonder if the people who claim to have sprites sitting on their shoulder passing them ideas and plot points are either certifiable or just damn lucky. I want to know how I can join them—either option would work for me. After all sanity is highly over-rated. What I would give to have someone pass me the keys to unlock the secrets to a New York Times Bestseller!

So far, I’m no closer to discovering my muse, though I have to tell you, I really hope my muse is a gorgeous male. I mean, if you could pick a muse, wouldn’t you want him to be someone you could stare at for hours while you look as if you’re working hard gazing at your computer screen?

For those of you who have a muse, how did you hook up with him or her? And for those of you who don’t, where do you get your great ideas? Oh, please don’t tell me that they come to you while you’re cleaning the toilet, having a muse moment with my dog peeing was about as bad as I want to get, cleaning the toilet is just out of the question.