The Specialist

muse, writing, creativity, Pixabay“I’m not sure this is possible,” she says to me in a not altogether nice way. In fact, she’s rather blunt.

“Pleeese?” I plead. “I heard that you’re the best. I wasn’t even sure how to find you. I Googled first, of course, but no answer appeared about how to locate someone with your skills.”

She rolls her large, turquoise eyes.

See what I mean? She has an attitude, which I don’t appreciate. But beggars can’t be choosers, to repeat an old cliché.

I continue, acting as if I can’t tell she’s bored with me and my request. “Then I called my best friend, who laughed at me, as if she thought I was joking. I wasn’t. So I e-mailed my critique group. Not one response, so they’ve either already found their own specialist, or they’re cowering underneath their writing desks, staring blankly at the walls.”

 The Specialist titters at this. But I’m not joking, again.

“So how did you find me?” she asks. Finally, I’ve caught her attention. I figure that my answer to this question can make or break me. If she doesn’t like the source, I’m doomed. muse, writing, creativity, Pixabay

I breathe in deeply and peer at the Specialist surreptitiously behind my almost-closed eyes. She’s breathtakingly beautiful with long wavy tresses, rosy cheeks, and a tall lithe body covered in a long silky blue gown trimmed with lace at the sleeves and hem. Not what I expected, but then again, I’ve never met one of these Specialists before.

On the other hand, the expression on her face is more wry than winsome, more cantankerous than curious. Her feet, covered in soft blue leather flats, tap on my office floor, highlighting her impatience.

“Okay, I’ll admit it,” I breathe out. “I sat on the floor, listened to the chimes on my phone’s meditation app, and chanted three times.”

The Specialist stands taller at my confession. In fact, I think she’s now over six feet. “And what,” she whispers, “did you chant?”

My face crimsons. “May the muse cover me with creativity and flowing writing facility.” 

“Three times?” the Specialist asks, floating toward me with invisible wings.

I nod.

muse, creative writingThe Muse places her warm 8-fingered hands over my scalp, and I flush with inspiring imagination. 

115 thoughts on “The Specialist

    • Shhhh – don’t let her hear you call her creepy. I’ve heard that she can be quite spiteful and is rather sensitive. I think this mighty muse would suggest that perhaps with more fingers we’d be able to write even more. 🤔🤩👍

      Liked by 1 person

  1. My muse is ever elusive and not as palpable as yours. S/he lurks on the nature trail, the bath tub, the kitchen counter. I never know where I’ll find this powerful creature.

    And she usually doesn’t appear dressed as beautifully as you describe. Lovely, Pam! oxo

    Liked by 2 people

    • It is very telling here, Marian, that your muse LURKS. It’s a perfect verbal description of how the Muse likes to stay hidden but let’s us know she/he is still present. I had to laugh that yours can even be found in the bathtub … 🤭😃

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Ah, those muses are so entrancing, aren’t they? And occasionally full of themselves. I’m glad you conjured up your specialist! Lol. Does that mean you’re writing?? I just ordered Molly, but I’m waiting for whatever your muse conjures up (something for grown-ups?). Whatever it is, I’m certain it will be wonderful!

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Okay, ”WP,” you now have me worried. You must have breathed in a hideous essence she ‘splashed on’… Sorry, I call’em the way I see’em! Check out the new ‘Muse Directory’! You’re still my ‘WP’!

    Liked by 3 people

  4. Your beautiful muse makes me want to go shopping and then sit down and sketch a tall, lithe model with long wavy hair. Then I’ll take out the water colors and paint her silky dress sky blue with a hint of turquoise. I’m so tired of sweats and T-shirts.

    Liked by 3 people

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