With love, the Muse

The Muse appeared to him.

In bed, OK? Next to him. In bed.

He'd been praying for this. Not expecting it. But praying for it.

Praying for her.

And here she was. 

The Muse was beautiful. In every saintly, stained-glass window sacred form you could possibly imagine. And in every wrong, 14-year-old depraved adolescent manifestation as well.

He wasn't a 14-year-old any more. Though he was responding like one. 

But he clamped it down. Asked the question he'd been wanting to ask.

"What's the secret of writing?"

"There's no secret."

Giggle.

You gotta be kidding me.

He didn't say that out loud. Just looked at her. With big, wide, desperate eyes.

The Muse threw him a bone.

"OK, OK," she said. "Look. It's no secret. Seriously. It's what everyone knows, OK? Everybody knows it. They pretend they don't. But they do."

Aggggh. Stop messing with me lady.

"It's simple," she said.

"It's simple?"

"Yeah. Just be honest."

"Honest?"

"Yeah. Just be honest. Honest! It's just that simple."

Then the Muse fell on her back and started kicking her legs in the air. Laughing her head off. Loud, unladylike horse laughs. Just be honest. That's the secret. Yeah.

Thanks, lady.