A Brief Conversation With My Inner Writer

A short scenario in one act.
Cast: My inner writer (she has to have top billing; she’s such a diva!)

(sound of writer’s knee bashing into a immovable object, namely kitchen island.)

Me: Ow! Ow! Ow!

IW: Stop stalling, and get your lazy ass over here, you big baby!

Me: I’ll be there in a minute, you heartless bitch. Have some consideration for once; can’t you see I’m just crippled myself, very possibly for life and am in searing agony? How can I possibly think of writing at a time like this? I may never play the piano again!

IW: You couldn’t play the piano before and who you calling a bitch, you lazy cow! Stop being such a drama queen; you’re no good at it. Your bogus histrionics are a big waste of time. There’s, no one’s here but you, me and the cats, and frankly, none of us give a damn about your minuscule boo boo. Forget about it and move on. Now we’ve got that settled shall we try something different for a change and possibly, maybe actually get some work done today? Hmmmm?

Me: You’re so mean to me. Sniff.

IW: Oh, for crying out loud, I do not believe this. You’re such a pussy. I’m sorry about your stupid little boo boo. I hope you live. How’s that? Now get your lazy ass over here and make with the fingers on the keyboard already.

Me: I am overwhelmed by your concern.

IW: You want concern? If somehow you should sustain an injury that shatters both your wrists; then possibly I will cut you some slack. Meanwhile, since the appendages you require to put out word-wise are fully functional, procrastination period over!

Me: I can see you do not care.

IW: Finally! That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said since this inane conversation began.

Me: All right. I don’t need any more abuse. Limping over to the couch now. I’m picking up the laptop. There. I’m good to go. What you got for me?

IW: Wait! I want to ask you one question.

Me: What? And you call me a procrastinator? (Sigh). Whatever. What’s the question?

IW: Why don’t you call me your muse? All the other writers call their muses… um… muses. Howcum you don’t? Don’t you wuv me? (Blink, blink).

Me: If all the other writers jumped off a cliff –

IW: Answer the damned question or I’ll give you writer’s block for a month!

Me: Muse! Yeah right. Like I’m gonna call you my muse. Your ego is sufficiently inflated already, thanks. It gets any bigger we can run a lucrative sideline in hot air balloon rentals. I don’t need you lah-di-dahing around giving yourself ‘muse’ airs while I’m trying to work. “OOOh, ooh, mater, look at me, I’m a muse, and we’re off to play the grand piano.”

IW: That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it. The Python ploy. You fall back on it every damned time. Why give anyone a straight answer when you can throw a Monty Python quote at them.

Me: Call it a little payback. Now, if you’d cease and desist with the verbal abuse and self-serving snittiness and cough up something I can actually use…

IW: Don’t blame me for your inadequacies, you’re the one who started all this swanning off with overinflated injuries.

Me: Now who’s going all Pythonesque.

IW: Right. If you’re going to split hairs I’m going to piss off.

(Sound of Inner Writer doing her best impersonation of Muse stomping off in a snit).

Me: It’s about time; I thought she’d never leave!

(And you thought I was going to say, “thank goodness we didn’t tell him about the dirty knife.)

Scene Ends. The eternal struggle continues. The writer returns to her previously scheduled WIP already in progress. My Inner Writer works out her frustration by slamming some car doors and spray painting Python quotes all over the back shed.

Anyone wants the film rights, I’m open to offers.


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