An Exaltation of Muse Ch. 01

Tribar Mews meanders just shy of two furlongs south of the High Street; about half-way down it doglegs to the right. A few doors in on the left lies The Mitred Abbess, the local for the neighbourhood working classes. Hard by the end, still on the left, sits The Slap and Tickle, magnet for fun-loving uni students from the surrounding boroughs. These two public houses occupy four converted stables, but across the way The Fleeting Muse fills only two, one each above and below the dogleg.

The pub signs, per common practice, hint at the source of the names. The stern image of a stout female cleric attired as a bishop graces The Mitred Abbess, whilst The Slap and Tickle boasts a colourful painting from the waist up of a toothsome wench with her hands in the air, sporting a look of delighted surprise. The Fleeting Muse shows aught but what appears to be an unfinished sketch of someone swanning off in the distance.

It was a typical slow Wednesday afternoon in The Fleeting Muse. Perhaps a third of the tables were occupied by two or three women of varying ages and sizes, dressed a touch closer to evening than business. At the far end of the bar, two mid-30s men were doing their best to avoid notice. The soft hum of conversation flowed and ebbed, occasionally punctuated by the click-clack of heels as a woman navigated to the bar for another glass of wine or half of cider.

One group was different to the others. Not far from the hallway to the toilets two tables were pushed together, holding the drinks and mobiles of eight women, a mixed bag of young to not-so-young, slender to stouter, pretty to plain. Occasional theatric groans or giggles punctuated conversations at the other tables, but the talk here remained subdued, the faces solemn.

This was the weekly gathering of those assigned as muse to writers who posted nothing but comments on Loving Wives stories written by others. Commonly held to be the prima donnas of the commentariat, their contributions ranged from the occasional single word, such as Great!—but more commonly Garbage!—to essays of seven or eight hundred words, sometimes even longer, that pointed out flaws in the plot or defects of the characters, usually in excruciating detail.

Some also cast aspersions on the skill, intelligence, and/or morality of the author; a few went so far as to tell what the characters actually did but lied about, regardless of what the author wrote or even intended. The most offensive comments were usually posted anonymously, but those cowardly souls were not assigned a muse; they obviously needed no inspiration, let alone encouragement.

One morose muse drained her glass and put it down a bit harder than she had intended. "It's bloody embarrassing, that's what it is. These other dollies are all about their guy's latest Romance that got over 100 comments the first day or the Mother-Son Incest ripper that had over 100.000 views in a week. Now, I ask you, what am I supposed to say? 'Crikey, is that all? My fella made over 30 comments just yesterday, four of 'em on the same story!' Not bloody likely, is it?"

She waited for the obligatory nods and words of understanding, then stood. "I'm having another shandy. Anyone else want something? The others declined. As she headed for the bar, one of the not-so-young muses noisily sighed. "She'll learn, won't she? I've had no success with my 'fella'"—she crooked her fingers in air quotes—"going on 15 years now." She took a long drink from her pint. "But I'll keep at it. It's our duty, isn't it?"

The others offered desultory replies to the effect that yes, it's disappointing, but what's one supposed to do, one must work with what one's given, musn't one? Just as the frustrated young one returned with her shandy, a tall, elegantly gowned woman wearing a wreath of ivy walked up to the group, her face breaking into a wicked grin.

"Well, well, well, is it Wednesday again already? My, how the time flies. What's new, ladies? Read any good Loving Wives stories lately?" She laughed—actually more of a cackle—at her barb, then turned mock serious and addressed the buxom brunette at the far end of the tables who had recently sighed. "Still no luck, Clio? You must be getting pretty discouraged by now. What's it been, 10 years?"

"Almost 15. I just don't know what to do, Thalia. He writes well, has a lot of good story ideas, but never completes one, just tosses off these comments on other writers' stories. They're often nasty, sometimes very nasty. He can't let go just patching off about a story, he often says rude things about the author, then some of the other blokes start bashing him. It's mortifying, that's what it is. I do the best I can, but..." She trailed off, near tears.

Thalia neither looked nor sounded sympathetic. "Have you ever snogged with him at high noon on the High Street, Clio? Left your knickers at home and gone dancing with him? Served him paté on your tits? Sucked his dick? Given him your back door?"

Clio was incensed. "Well I never—"

"There you go, ducks, figured you hadn't. No wonder he acts the trog."

"You're saying if I did such low things he might...could actually write and publish a story?"

"Got it in one, love. Who knows, you may discover that those things aren't so 'low'—more air quotes—"as you imagine. Godess knows, girl, you might even find that you like them."

Clio rolled her eyes. "That's not what I signed up for. Besides, he won't even shave or trim his hair. He's much too hairy for snogging, let alone the rest."

"Signed up for? Bloody hell, woman, you signed up—no, strike that, you volunteered to be an author's muse. That means that hairy or no, you do whatever it takes to inspire him to sit and stare at a blank screen or page until he breaks out in beads of blood, then finally starts to type or write on foolscap or dictate or however he captures his words."

Her frustration at having to point out the obvious for the umpteen-thousandth time to a malingering muse brought her to pinch the bridge of her nose, close her eyes, and picture a pint of bitter, which morphed into—better yet—a pint of gin. Finally, she opened her eyes and settled for an exaggerated sigh. "What did you think you'd be doing, singing Vera Lynn songs?"

Clio winced at the assault, and Thalia instantly regretted her outburst. "Oh gods, there I go again shooting my bloody mouth off. Sorry, love." She patted Clio's hand, whose lower lip was quivering, eyes filling with tears. "Pay me no mind, I was a pathetic muse, I was. Three times they assigned me to an author, and I didn't help a single one; that's why they finally made me an advisor." She wondered if some self-deprecation might help.

"You know how it goes: them who can, do; them who can't, teach...or manage." She didn't really believe that, but hoped saying it might make the target of her tirade a bit less weepy; she couldn't abide tears.

Her angry torrent hadn't gone unnoticed at the other tables but, knowing how Thalia loved drama, they all turned back to their drinks and conversations. The others at Clio's table, though, remained caught up in the emotions of the moment and murmured variations of 'There, there' to Clio until she ventured a wan smile and said she'd be okay. Thalia uncharacteristically retreated to a couple of other tables to exchange insincere greetings, then fled the pub in elegant disarray.

The Wednesday next, Thalia entered The Fleeting Muse at half three, the better part of an hour before the usual arrival of the Muses to the Overt Commentariat, aka MOCs—her tag to distinguish them from the ubiquitous Anons. In place of last week's elegant peplos, she was smartly dressed in a just-above-the-knee, warm griege pencil skirt, matching jacket, crisp silk blouse, and sensible 7.6cm heels. She carried a lawyer's briefcase—the sort that opens clamshell-like at the top—and a laptop.

After exchanging a few words with the barman, she tossed back a double Plymouth Navy Strength neat, pushed two tables together against the far wall, arranged 8 other chairs, then sat and opened her laptop to wait. She didn't while away the time watching videos of cute baby animals or exotic sexual practices of New Guinea, she reviewed her personal compendium of commentators' comments and her notes on Homer's How Best to Burst Bards' Burdensome Blockages, but hadn't yet divined how to work Homer's pithy "Words empty as the wind are best left unsaid" into her inspirational talk. For these sad muses, any story from their author would be cause for celebration, no matter how many empty words it might contain.

First of the MOCs to arrive was Clio, last week's victim of Thalia's invective. When she saw who was sitting at the tables, she stopped, then made to turn around and go back out. Thalia leaped up and dashed after her stocking-footed—she had shed her heels, because 'sensible' or no they still hurt her feet. "Wait, Clio, please."

Clio slowed but continued toward the door, Thalia spoke more quickly and urgently. "Please let me atone for my churlish behaviour of Wednesday last. I've been thinking of ways that you—all of you—might be able to get your authors to expand their horizons, to look beyond the immediate gratification of a comment to the more rewarding satisfaction of telling a tale. It can be chancy, of course—they all know too well the sort of comments they might get—but we must convince them that the reward is worth the risk."

Clio was dubious, but stopped. Too often she had seen Thalia win the trust of a muse with soothing words, only to take great delight in pranking her, sometimes even in the presence of her author. Thalia could see that Clio was reluctant to stay despite her assurances, so she fell back on the tried-and-true.

"Let me buy you a drink before the others get here. What'll it be? Gin? Whisky? Bubbly?" She shuddered. "Guiness?"

As they walked back to the tables, Clio opted for a Rough Old Wife, which Thalia fetched after a sigh of relief. She also brought another double Navy Strength for herself, this one adulterated with a few ice cubes and a lime twist.

Over the next few minutes the other MOCs entered in ones and twos, until all the chairs were taken. Thalia gestured to the barman, who called a barmaid from the back room. "In a brazen go at bribing you ladies to forget what a bitch I was last week, I'm buying the first round, but I'm going to do more for you." Her announcement was greeted by sighs and snickers and the odd 'Pull the other one, it's got bells on.'

After the barmaid went off to fill their orders, the muses began chattering quietly amongst themselves, mostly trying to guess what Thalia was up to. After a few moments, Thalia walked over to Clio and leaned down to whisper in her ear.

"Your unproductive millstone is probably afraid to publish a story of his own after being such a gobby prat for so long. But if he registered another name, he could publish a story without worrying about being bombed. If you were to persuade him to do that, I would make sure you were the assigned muse. Once he's published a story, your hairy guy is out of virgin territory."

"Oh, that would be wonderful, Thalia! Thank you so much! And I'm sure he could write a lot of very good stories."

A hard-eyed bottle blond with mammoth mammaries at the next table snorted derisively and stood. "I heard that! Your limp-dicked wannabe couldn't write instructions for blowing his own nose, never mind a real story. My author has been on sabbatical for the past couple of years, but he's written over 170 stories and could start up again any day now."

Thalia turned to face the interloper. "Urania, love, please stop acting like your great-grandfather. You need to reread the Manual of Manners for the Modern Muse, paying special attention to Section 11(C)(3) Respectful Treatment of Peers. Now please seat yourself, there's a dear. You might also want to take the time to ponder whether your prolific penman has written 170 stories, or simply written the same story 170 times. Opinions vary. Maybe if you polished up your act you could restore your one-trick pony to his earlier stardom."

Thalia shook the last drops of Navy Strength from her glass, set it down on the table, and tapped it with her gold pen to get their attention. "Social time is over, ladies, it's time to get to work on upping your game." She put her briefcase on the table, snapped open the clamshell top, and took out several packets of paper stapled together. "Take one and pass the rest around, it's show-and-tell time."

But wait, there's more...