Last night, in the dark following midnight I killed my muse (suffocating her quietly with a pillow) and buried her in my back garden. Today I will plant a roses to hide the grave. No one will ever know and I will be free at last of her insidious hold and I will be able to write what I want.
Why did I resort to this deed? After all my muse was lovely and gave me many gifts over the years. She saw me through dark times and helped mark the joyous ones. Many times she inspired me to reach for more and push myself beyond what I thought I could achieve. Knowing all this why would I kill the very source of my inspiration?
Oh, I had my reasons…
It started out quietly. As I would sit at my keyboard or curl up with a notebook, she would perch on my shoulder as was her wont to do. “I don’t think you meant to write that sentence,” she would whisper in my ear. “That doesn’t sound like the best description,” she would snipe. “Is that the best you can do?” she would sneer.
I took to sneaking my writing in when I knew she was occupied elsewhere. She never could resist critiquing the writing in the morning paper...
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