Musing

My muse isn't talking to me --

"No," my muse says.

Or maybe he is. "What?"

"No." His tail lashes, serpentine neck arched so that his head looms over me as he glowers in my direction. "I'm not taking the rap for this one. You want ideas, I have given you ideas. Brand new story ideas in different settings. Continuations of old ones. Inspiration for Game of October. Pictures, for cryin' out loud. Your head is overflowing with ideas. If you want to play Puzzle Pirates or angst over how hard editing is, fine, don't let me stop you. But don't you blame me because you're not doing much writing. It's not for lack of trying on my part."

"I wasn't going to blame you," I say meekly. He looks skeptical. "Honest. I was only going to say that this is nothing unusual, since you don't usually talk to me. As such. You more watch what I'm doing and act inspirational."

My muse wrinkles his lip at me, then lays his head against the arm of the chair. I stroke his mane, but he doesn't add anything else.

I guess that was all he had to say.