Anna-Bella the Fickle-Muse
by Janice Seagraves
There are muses
that inspire music and there are muses for poetry and writing.
And then there is
my muse. *Sigh*
Let me tell you
about my muse. She used to get me in trouble at school. “Hey Janice,” she’d
whisper during 3rd grade class. “You see those sparrows over there.”
I’d look out the
window at the sparrows chirping in the trees. “Yeah?”
“What do you
think it would be like to played tag with them?” Suddenly I had wings to chase
the birds around.
“Janice,” the
teacher yelled. “Are you daydreaming again?”
“No,” I lied,
ducking my head.
I loved arts and
crafts, it occupied a lot of my free time. I could easily envision how the
finished project was going to look, but it surprised me when other people
couldn’t do the same.
When I was asked
what’s going on in the picture? I told a story. I didn’t mean to, but the story
was there in the drawing. I kind of wondered why no one else saw it but me. At
age twenty I dabbled a bit with writing, but soon returned to my pen and ink drawings
then later woodcrafts.
It wasn’t till a
little over ten years ago that I finally followed the calling of my muse and
started to write seriously for publication.
My muse finally told
me her name, Anna-Bella. She’s about the size of a Barbie doll and wears very
feminine clothes. She first showed up when I was the age to play with Barbie,
which may account for her looking the way she does.
Often she’s not
there when I need her. Sometimes I’d get lucky and she’ll show up, give me part
of the story as a dream or a movie like flash. Which could be a paragraph, or page,
or if she’s feeling really generous a whole chapter.
Anna-Bella would say,
“Okay, got it?” Then my fickle muse would disappear for a while, and I’d have
to figure out what happened next—on my own.
The worst time is
Christmas, she’d disappear completely. I’ll call and call, but I get nothing
from her, not even a shred of an idea. Then she’ll show up drunk on eggnog. “Oh
sorry.” She’d hick-up. “I was watching Christmas tree lights. They’re cool. You
ought to watch them sometime.”
“Yeah, I use to
think they were cool too, when I was nine. What about this story we’re working
on?” I’d thump a finger on the keyboard.
“Tomorrow, I’m
heading to bed.”
Disheartened, I’d
sigh and shake my head.
Last Christmas I
had enough. I had the second round of edits to do on Windswept Shores, which is
my first book. I thought she’d be as excited, too. After all she had inspired
me to write it.
But she just yawned.
“Yeah-yeah, I knew we’d get one sooner or later. Edits? Not my department
sweetie.” She wondered off doing God knows what. Stare at Christmas lights
again, I suppose.
Then she came
home drunk on eggnog, singing silly little Christmas tunes in a high squeaky
voice.
“Where the hell
have you been?” I snarled at her. “We have edits to do, missy.” Looking her up
and down, I yelled, “Just what are you wearing? What’s with the candy stripped
dress and stockings, and red shoes with the curly toes?” I narrowed my eyes. “Did
you mug an elf?”
Then she pantomimed
locking her lips and throwing away the key.
“Okay, that’s
it.” I tossed her sorry little butt in a birdcage then hung it by my desk. “Now
help me out here.”
Saying nothing, she
stuck her legs through the bars to rock it like a swing, and then stuck her
tongue at me.
Grrr. Those were
some very hard edits to get through too.
It wasn’t until recently
I finally let her out, but I made her promise not to run off again. She’s
sitting on my shoulder right now, still wearing the elf costume and smelling
like a stinky little bird.
For a treat we went
out to the mall. We took my daughter to Hot Topic and bought her a jacket. Then
my daughter remembered she needed a dress for high school graduation, we found
the best dress . . .
Wait a minute . .
. where did you get those elbow length, lace up gloves? I know I saw some at
Hot Topic. You didn’t—?
The little muse
shop? But there’s no such thing. Anna-Bella what did you do!
Anna-Bella smugly
produced a frilly dress and changed right there in front of me. The material is
roses with a black back ground, she also has black stocking and Mary-Jane’s to
complete the outfit. She says,
“I’m tired of the elf costume.” Anna-Bella kicks
it off my desk.
Well, no duh.
You’ve been wearing it for months. Picking it up, I throw the smelly barbie
doll sized clothes into the garbage.
She made herself
comfortable on my shoulder. “Tell the nice people about our book.”
What? I have to
go to work—now?
She nods, and
then pulls my ear.
Ouch, what did I
do to deserve a muse like you?
Just in time for winter reading:
From Pink Petal Books: Windswept Shores by Janice Seagraves (and Anna-Bella).
http://pinkpetalbooks.com/Windswept-Shores-Janice-Seagraves.html
Windswept Shores
Blurb:
The sole survivor of a plane crash, Megan is alone on a deserted island in the
Bahamas until she finds a nearly-drowned man washed up on shore. Another
survivor, this time from a boat wreck. With only meager survival skills between
them, will they survive and can they find love?
Excerpt Windswept Shores:
If
she had to spend one more day on this godforsaken island, she'd go stark raving
mad. The thought
spurred Megan into rolling a large log with one foot then the other, until it
was near the bonfire. "God, this thing is heavy." With a grunt, she
lifted one end until it teetered upright then gave it a shove. It landed in the
fire, embers swirling in the air.
Breathing hard, she
flicked a glance at the teal-colored sea. She'd thought a vacation to the
Bahamas would be the perfect getaway, would be a solution to the problems she
and Jonathan had faced. She'd been wrong—dead wrong. Tears of grief filled her
eyes. The never-ending crash of the waves on the beach and the cries of the
seagulls seemed to mock her with the reminder she was utterly alone.
She'd felt like a tiny speck of sand
last night when a violent storm had swept across the island. It had made a mess
of her meager campsite, which had taken all morning to fix, and had demolished
her seaweed SOS sign. She'll have to recreate her SOS. Sighing, Megan trudged
toward a pile of kelp. As she got closer, she saw a figure wearing blue jeans and
a t-shirt. Her stomach lurched.
Oh, God, it’s another body washed up from the plane wreck. That would be
number twelve. As always, she couldn't help but wonder if the next one
would be Jonathan. He hadn’t been wearing jeans on the plane, so she knew she’d
been spared seeing his corpse this time. Thank
God. She approached the body with dread. Tightening her resolve, she knelt.
Suddenly the "dead body" coughed and rolled over. With a scream,
Megan jumped back. She clutched her chest and pressed a shaking hand to her
mouth.
He’s
alive!
Biting her lip, she stared down at
the still-breathing man. His drenched t-shirt molded against his broad
shoulders and well developed upper body. Short, golden brown hair stuck out in
all directions.
Megan, get control of yourself. Don’t
wet your pants the first time you finally see a living person. She got on her knees, plucked the
seaweed from him and wiped the sand from his face. His day-old whiskers
scratched her palm. Reddened skin stretched across both cheekbones and over the
bridge of his nose. Her thumb caressed his parched full bottom lip.
She patted the side of his
face. “Hey, are you okay?” That’s a dumb
question. He isn’t okay.
“Hmm?” Gray eyes fluttered
open. He stared at her a long moment, frowning slightly. “G’day.”
“Hello there.” She hated
the sound of her voice. It sounded rusty, unused.
Abruptly he rolled away
from her to heave onto the sand, making a loud, ugly retching noise.
He wiped his mouth with
the back of his hand, then looked at her. “Sorry, mate, I swallowed too much
sea.” His gaze went over her shoulder in the direction of the bonfire which
crackled and popped not far from them. “Mite big for a barbie.”
Sitting back on her heels
with her hands folded in her lap, Megan followed his gaze, then back to him.
“My signal fire.”
“Signal for what?”
“Help.”
His accent intrigued her.
Was he English or Australian?
“G’darn,” he looked
around, “where the bloody hell am I?”
“Don’t know. There’s no
one here to ask.” Megan shrugged helplessly, but couldn’t contain her
curiosity. “Are you from England?”
“Naw,” he
rubbed his eyes, “I hail from Sydney, but my port of call these days is Fort
Lauderdale.” He blinked up at her. “You?”
Ah, he’s an Aussie. “I’m Megan Lorry, from Anaheim,
California,” she said, barely loud enough to be heard above the sounds of the
surf and the roar from the fire. “Are you a survivor of Air Bahamas flight 227,
too?”
“G’day, Megz,” he
answered, struggling to sit-up. “Sorry, I’m not from your plane.”
Megan slipped an arm
around him lifting his back off the sand. Turning his head to her hair, he took
in a couple of short breaths. Megan pulled back staring at him. “What the—did
you just sniff me?”
“Ya smell too good not
to.” He grinned, causing his cheeks to dimple. “Name’s Seth Dawson.” Leaning
back on one arm, he stretched out his hand to her. She clasped it as if it was
just a friendly greeting between strangers back home.
