A letter to my writer’s muse

Elusive Rubber Ducky Muse is unamused.
Elusive Rubber Ducky Muse is unamused.

Dear Muse,

Got a moment? I know we’ve had our differences over the years but through it all, I’ve always appreciated you.

Your ideas. Your passion. Your inexplicable ability to make a silent exit when you’re bored. (Nice dinner party trick; how do you do that?)

Your independence is admirable. Your creative fire is undeniable. Without you, I’d be nothing more than a monkey at a keyboard, trying to spell my name right.

Yes, I know you aspire to — and deserve to reach — loftier heights than the project I now face. Your mysterious brilliance deserves a grander stage on which to outshine the stars.

Still, my task is one with which I could use your generous help if you so deign to give it.


Of course, under normal circumstances, I would neither expect nor ask you to stoop so low. But I’m on revision 23 with 30 minutes until revision 24 is due. And I’m out of the mental good stuff.

Even my inner hamster Hortense has put up her “Do Not Disturb” sign.

So I beg you, dearest Muse. Take pity on me. Share just a drop of your brilliance so that we can wrap up this project.

I humbly throw myself upon your tender mercy.

Still no?

I see. Absolutely I see. I see as clearly as an eagle on a clear summer day.

Muse, you’re a jerk.

Insulted Rubber Ducky Muse
Elusive Rubber Ducky Muse is now insulted.

Since you’re so determined to go your own way, let me remind you that without me, you’d have no stage at all on which to showcase your so-called creativity (not that we’ve even seen much of that lately).

Now if you don’t get your loftier-than-thou butt down here right this second and lend me a freakin’ hand, I’ll make sure that anything spawned of your inspiration never sees the light of day again. Got that?!

Some lousy excuse for a writer’s muse you turned out to be. You languish in luxury while Hortense and I do all the work.

Well, now that Hortense has had enough, you’re on the hook for helping in my hour of need.

It doesn’t have to be your best stuff. It just has to be stuff. We’ve got 20 minutes left, so get crackin’ and help me make with the key-tapping you stubborn, selfish little soul-sucker.

I’ve got bills to pay and that includes maintaining your comfortable surroundings and endless supply of chocolate.

And while we’re on the subject, yes those new pants DO make your butt look big.

In fact, your complete lack of work ethic and devotion to those butt-hugging “Juicy” pants have reduced you to the usefulness of an over-tanned, over-privileged desperate housewife reality star—without the professional lighting. Yeah, you heard me.

Insulted? You aughtta be.

Okay then, now I feel the juices flowing. See? There you go. Show all those other muses how it’s done.


Thank you, dearest muse. I knew you had it in you. Thank you for sharing it with me. That will do quite nicely, and I just know they’ll love what you’ve come up with.

I always believed in you, Muse.

With love,
Your Writer

Ever wanted to write a letter like this to your muse? Feel free to share in the comments.

5 thoughts on “A letter to my writer’s muse”

  1. I love the tounge-in-cheek feel of this post. It made me smile a lot since we’ve all been there. I think your muse may have been talking to my muse (I’m still not sure if I have an inner hamster).

    Funny thing is: I had my post ready to go ahed of time. I logged in to post it, and I saw yours in the reader and I read it. I decided to think on my response and come back to comment after mine was posted. You commented on mine before I got back here. 🙂

    In regard to your post it reminds me of this quote by,E.L. Doctorow, “Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.”

    1. “Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.” Yes it is, Peter. Yes it really is.

      And you don’t necessarily have to have an inner hamster. Pick any animal. 😉

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