My New Muse

"I want to be your muse!" Annie announces.

Annie is a fictional character without a story. She visits me sometimes while I'm trying to write.

"I think I would be an awesome muse," she says. "Whenever you're stuck, I'd sing to you to comfort you. Or perform interpretive dance." She lifts her leg in the air and waves her arms like a deranged chicken.

I try to think of a delicate way to say "no." "I always pictured my muse as more like Tim Gunn," I say. "You know, 'That sentence doesn't speak to me. I'm concerned. Make it work!'"

She pouts. "But I've always wanted to be a muse!"

"Really?" I hate to crush her hopes and dreams. She might be a disruption but she's otherwise harmless. Plus she brings snacks. I can see a bag of yogurt-covered pretzels stuffed in her pocket.

"Actually, no," she said. She hops onto my desk, crinkling the latest print-out of my work-in-progress. "I wanted to be a hero. But it didn't work out."

Despite knowing better, I ask, "What happened?"

She beams at me, hands me a yogurt-covered pretzel, and says, "Well, if you really must know... I was born to be a hero, seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. There were prophecies about me and everything. Some of them even rhymed. One involved an interpretive dance..." She flaps her arms in the air again.

"What were you supposed to do?" I ask.

"Find the Lost Acorn of Eternal Peace."

"So what went wrong?"

She shrugged. "A squirrel ate it."

"Seriously?"

"Would I lie to you?" Annie asks. She points to my computer screen. "You know, that sentence doesn't speak to me. I'm concerned..."