First, my confession: I am a 44-year-old blog virgin. I am told this kind of thing can be addictive...we'll see (if so, those of you following may now consider yourselves in a co-dependent relationship). I suppose I should take the advice of countless young virgins since time immemorial: Lay back and think happy thoughts. OK. Fair enough.
So, why "Humoring the Muse"? I suppose it is my way of not writing; or writing when I should be capital "W" Writing. If I may: Muses are these Greek goddess chicks who were supposed to be the source of inspiration for all things artistic or literary. I've always imagined what they would look like and how they would behave; perhaps Charlize Theron and whispered promises of the rewards that come to those who Write and Write well. Or, if I'm feeling retro, maybe a Grace Kelly Muse, or Marilyn Monroe, or...well, you feel me. And perhaps there are those who have such delicate and curvy inspiration. Nicholas Sparks, for instance, could only write what he writes with something soft and gauzy floating nearby.
My Muse, unfortunately, looks disturbingly like Ramona Quimby (look it up, there are no free rides here) and stands just over my right shoulder poking me incessantly with her grimy, fingernail-gnawed-to-the-quick index finger, repeating over and over in her five-year-old nasal: "Shouldn't you be writing? Shouldn't you be writing? Why aren't you writing right now? Why? Huh? Whyyyy????" If I didn't feel on some level that I actually do need her irritation (like the grain of sand in the oyster, don'tcha know), I'd clock that little bee-ahtch into next week.
Anyway, there are times (like now) when I feel like Writing, but not so much like Plotting...so I figure if I can write (small "w") here then maybe, just maybe, that little snit will leave off poking me and go watch Cartoon Network for a while. I will have humored her and flexed my writing muscle a bit and can go to bed with a clear conscience...and that's worth a bit of literary deception any day. TTFN.