Old-Fashioned Fruitcake
“You tell yourself that you can take Jeeves stories or leave them alone, that one more can’t possibly hurt you, because you know you can pull up whenever you feel like it, but it is merely wishful thinking. The craving has gripped you and there is no resisting it.
You have passed the point of no return.”
P.G. Wodehouse
The last thing I need is a chamber-pot of burning coals dumped on my head every time I get a bright idea.
There are two broad schools of thought when it comes to muses, which one might call the Pooh and Rabbit Schools. (See this quote post for the difference.) Which do you belong to? Do you wait for the muse to descend, or do you go out and hunt the fickle wench down?
Some creatives swear by the former (“I’m not in control of my muse. My muse does all the work” – Ray Bradbury) and some by the latter (“I don’t wait on the muse, I summon it at need” – Piers Anthony). Some just don’t believe in muses at all (the Eeyore School of Thought?).
Earlier this year I went to see Plum at the Court Theatre in Christchurch. P.G. Wodehouse’s muse appears as a dapper if dissolute young lady in waistcoat and trousers, and she is, as one would expect, as much fun as a barrelful of monkeys.
Naturally, being a writer myself, I started to wonder whether I had a muse, and if so what she/he/it looked like. Of course, writing isn’t the only muse-related area. The Greeks had Muses for everything from history to dance to astronomy. Perhaps one could have a Muse of Housework, who frolics about the house with a frilly cap and feather duster, singing forbidden songs.
But what exactly are we talking about when we say “muse”? Someone who inspires us? An anthropomorphic representation of inspiration? Our own self or variant thereof when the creative juices start to flow? Well, judging by classical depictions, the only qualification for being a muse is an ability to look classy while leaning on something, wearing nothing but a sheet.
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See what I mean? Anyone could do it! Sheet, piece of furniture – voila.
Not all muses are the lady-in-a-sheet sort, though. Kerry Greenwood (author of the Phryne Fisher mysteries, among others) says “If I ever saw my muse she would be an old woman with a tight bun and spectacles poking me in the middle of the back and growling, ‘Wake up and write the book!’” Like this, perhaps:
Stephen King seems to have a male muse, judging by this description: “There is a muse, but he’s not going to come fluttering down into your writing room and scatter creative fairy-dust all over your typewriter or computer station. He lives in the ground. He’s a basement guy. You have to descend to his level, and once you get down there you have to furnish an apartment for him to live in. You have to do all the grunt labor, in other words, while the muse sits and smokes cigars and admires his bowling trophies and pretends to ignore you.”
Definitely not as cute as Jubilare’s fuzzy little muse, despite the pointy teeth.
I like the idea of a chic waistcoated muse, or a savage little fluffy one, or even a plain old draped version. But having thought about it, I’m afraid my muse is kind of a cross between Hamlet and Cookie Monster.
“Words, words, words – om nom nom nom!”
Difficult to illustrate, particularly without running into copyright or trademark issues. Something googly-eyed and berserk with a mouthful of sentences and the occasional stray crumb of a letter dropping to its furry tum? With inky paws, I suspect.
What’s your muse? I’d love to hear!
There are tears drying on my face.
Before you leap in with your kind expressions of concern, allow me to reassure you: they are tears of laughter (the next best thing to tears of joy).
I don’t know about you, but when I was growing up it was a common pastime of an evening to lounge about in – well, the lounge, each reading our own books. Doesn’t sound very congenial to the outside view, perhaps, but the important element was that each reader would share the interesting or funny bits of their own book. (Readers of stark existentialist dread need not apply.)
Having grown in years and moved on from the home of my ancestors, I have maintained the tradition of reading out the funny bits to my husband.
Now, there are some people in this world who can read something screamingly hilarious with a straight face and not so much as a quiver of the voice. I salute them (except when they’re beating me at the dictionary game) but I will never be one of them.
Indeed, it is not unknown in my family of origin for the reader to have a few stabs at getting through the funny passage, repeatedly dissolve in laughter as they approach the really good bit, and eventually have the book prised from their quivering grasp because the rest of the family is now desperate to know how the sentence ends. I can even recall one occasion where nearly everyone in the family had had a go at the book before someone could be found capable of reading the whole passage in a passably intelligible voice.
Somehow a passage that will merely make you snort or chuckle when read to yourself is magnified in hilarity when sharing it with others. Truly, it is more blessed to give than to receive…
What had me weeping with laughter (not to mention gurgling my words in a most unladylike manner) was an excerpt from Full Moon by my hero P.G. Wodehouse, which the cunning-as-serpents publishers inserted in the back of Carry On, Jeeves with no consideration as to whether readers of the second title would necessarily have access to the first, now tantalisingly dangled before them.
However.
The scene is Blandings Castle. Clarence, Earl of Emsworth, is having a peaceful listen to his prize pig’s breathing before bed when his brother-in-law Egbert pops up.
‘Ah, Egbert,’ he said, courteously uncoiling himself.
Going for a stroll to stretch his legs after his long journey, Colonel Wedge had supposed himself to be alone with Nature. The shock of discovering that what he had taken for a pile of old clothes was alive and a relation by marriage caused him to speak a little sharply.
And this is how the Colonel reports it to his wife:
“Where do you think I found him just now? Down at the pigsty. I noticed something hanging over the rail, and thought the pig man must have left his overalls there, and then it suddenly reared itself up like a cobra and said “Ah, Egbert.” Gave me a nasty shock. I nearly swallowed my cigar. Questioned as to what the deuce he thought he was playing at, he said he was listening to his pig.”
“Listening to his pig?”
“I assure you. And what, you will ask, was the pig doing? Singing? Reciting ‘Dangerous Dan McGrew’? Nothing of the kind. Just breathing.”
When was the last time you laughed until the tears ran down your cheeks? If not Wodehouse, then who? All recommendations hailed with cries of delight!