The Writer and her Muse

I thought it was the end, but slowly, over a couple of days, we found our way back. Our sex life was our saving grace, it overflowed with passion, explosive lust appeared from nowhere. Torrid, is not descriptive enough. We were like fiery volatile gases stored in the same room, and occasionally we combined into an eruption of cataclysmic proportions.

When it was like that... Wow, it was unequalled. There was the other side as well, weekend summer days, making love all day on the front deck, with the sound of the Pacific Ocean crashing on the beach.

Delia was as good as her word, and stories started rolling in. In fact, I couldn't keep up. We had to set up a separate office in the spare bedroom for me to work, so Lesley could write uninterrupted.

That's where our next fight came from. I thought I was helping her; she was about twenty pages into her new book, and I walked in one afternoon after getting home from work. I found her writing ferociously in the study. I walked in and gave her a kiss. I started reading over her shoulder as she typed frantically.

The page was already full of errors, so many I couldn't keep up. As she typed, I started correcting her. "That doesn't make sense, you need to break it up." Then after a few minutes, "That's not the right spelling."

Her head fell forward, and she sighed. Thinking she wanted the help. I leaned over her, and said, "Let me help."

That's when she said brutally. "Fuck off, Ginny. Just leave me alone, all right? If I need your fucking help, I will ask for it."

The venomous nature of her retort shocked me, her angry glare convinced me it was time to leave. I cooked dinner that night, but she didn't appear until I knocked on the door calling out. "Dinner's ready."

Calmer now, we talked about my day at the library and the book I was editing for Delia. It was pleasant. After dinner, I asked. "Would you like me to edit for you? If I do it as you go, then by the time you're finished, it can go straight to the publishers."

I started the editing process, and I was nearly thirty pages behind, but I caught up quickly, rewriting, and editing as I went. Every day I showed her the completed sections, it broke open the dialogue, and suddenly we were on the same page again. The conversations at the dinner table, in bed, while we were snuggled on the sofa. It was all about the book, and with me to bounce ideas off, she seemed to be galloping ahead, and I have to say, it was good. Very good, maybe better than the last.

Life for us seemed to be in a blissful state. My other editing jobs were flying along, and I got a few extra ones in. With Lesley pushing me, I designed a web page offering freelance editing. At first it was slow, but it picked up, and the money was good.

Then, it stopped. I got home from work to find Lesley out in the garden reading. She greeted me with a kiss, but it was clear she wasn't happy. Dinner was a bit quiet, and she never once went into her study. She wandered into my study later, with a glass of wine, and sat with me, watching.

"Do you gave anything for me to edit today?" I asked gently.

"No, couldn't get going today. Maybe tomorrow."

I didn't push, I had a quick drink and went back to work. The book I was editing was pretty average, in fact, I would go so far as to say, it was awful. Still, I'm no expert, and it wasn't for me to criticise, just edit.

As Lesley watched, she let out a deep sigh. "God, you must hate me."

"What? Where did that come from; why would you say that?" I asked, totally confused.

"I was just watching you. When you edit my writing, there's like three changes per line, here, you just went two pages, and hardly made one change."

I shook my head, her self-loathing seemed to run so deep.

"Come on, Lesley, have you read this? Its bloody awful. The reason there aren't many changes is because I don't care about it. All I'm doing is correcting grammar, and the occasional spelling mistake."

"Rubbish," she snapped. "Even on pages of mine where you're only checking grammar, there's still at least twenty mistakes per page, often more."

"So what? I don't care."

She threw her empty glass down on the carpet, stood up and ran out, bawling her eyes out. "I bloody care," she screamed from the hallway.

Wow, that was extreme. Trying to give her space to cool down, I worked until late. When I turned out the light and walked out to the living area, it was in darkness. Lesley was already in bed.

I undressed quietly, and slid in beside her, her little sobs still evident. "Hey, shush the tears, babe."

She rolled over to face me, and even in the dark, I could tell her eyes were puffy and red. "Ginny, I'm sorry about earlier, it's just sometimes my insecurities surface, and it is a struggle to keep a lid on it."

"But don't you see, I don't care. Okay, you have an issue with words. It's not the end of the world. I'm here, I can help you."

"I just feel so hopeless, so dumb."

"You're not dumb, stop saying that."

"I can't help the way I feel."

She had hit the wall. Over the next week, she never wrote one word that she showed to me. Every day she slipped a little deeper into depression. It got to the stage I stopped asking and just focused on my own work.

It came to a head when I got home from work one Thursday evening. Lesley was in a bright and buoyant mood for the first time in ages. She greeted me with a passionate searing kiss, her body writhing against mine. "You're in a happy mood."

She nodded as she slipped out of my arms. "Yes, I feel great. I've decided we need a break. We're going up to Tauranga for a long weekend."

"But there's no public holiday," I spluttered.

"It doesn't matter, just take a couple of days off, and we can leave tomorrow, come back Monday night, or even Tuesday."

"I can't do that. I have committed to finishing a book for Delia, and I have the library. I can't just drop those."

"Oh, phooey. I'll call Delia and clear it with her."

"Lesley, you can't do that. She doesn't know we are a couple. I thought you wanted to keep it quiet?"

"Oh, I don't care," she snarled, turning and walking away. "I just need to get away. I feel caged in."

"I'm sorry, but I can't just drop everything."

"Why not? Who cares about the stupid library job. Just give in your notice. It's not like what they pay you makes any difference."

Her selfish attitude pissed me off. "It may not pay much, but it's my job, and I love it. Maybe I'm not a famous writer, but I like my life."

She sighed, her face screwing into a tightly etched mask. "I'm sorry, Ginny, that was thoughtless. I just need to get away."

"Then go, as long as you don't mind me staying here, that is."

"Blast, that's not what I wanted. I wanted us to go off and have a wonderful weekend together. I don't want to go by myself."

"Aside from my work, I can't really afford it at the moment, anyway."

"To hell with the money. I have told you a mullion tomes. I can pay."

"Yeah, and every time I try to explain. I'm not a charity. If I can't pay my own way, then I'm not going."

She stormed off in a huff, and I went to work trying to finish my latest editing job. She calmed down later, and we managed to rescue some of the evening, although it was still frosty.

I could feel the relationship sinking; we were barely able to get through a day without arguing. That night we went to bed angry. I know its a no no, but lately it was all we could manage.

At work, I moped around, finding reasons to be by myself. Trish, who had become a close friend, tackled me in one of the aisles. "Okay, cuz, this shit has to stop. What the fuck crawled up yo arse and died?"

"Nothing, its just Lesley. We have been having some issues lately. We fight all the time."

"Yeah, well don't bring that shit to work, girl. If yo wanna talk, I'm here for yo. But don't bring everybody down. Yo been like a bear with a sire head all fucking day."

"I'm sorry, Trish."

She reached out her open arms, and we hugged. "See, that's not hard is it?" She sniggered, "But don't yo be getting ideas, I don't want none of yo skanky arse."

"Huh, fuck you, bitch."

"Not even in yo dreams, Cuz."

I decided to take a peace offering home with me. I stopped at the bakery, got some croissants, a couple of cream buns, and some eclairs.

Weird, the doors were locked. I called her name, but she didn't respond. I found a note on the bench in the kitchen. "Gone to Tauranga, back Tuesday."

It shocked me that she could be so cold. No phone call, not even a message. After we fought the previous night, no more was said about it. She didn't even mention it in the morning when I left for work.

My anger dissipated a little as I ate her lunch. Eating her eclair and cream bun was all the more pleasurable.

I only had a little of my latest editing job left. With a little effort, I knocked it over quickly. With nothing to do, I walked down to the beach and splashed around in the surf. This thing with Lesley drove me nuts. Maybe we were just too different. Maybe opposites attract, but can't live together.

The more I thought about it, the more obvious it became. If I weighed it up, I was unhappy more now than ever. Any joy I got was quickly doused by the tidal waves of dissatisfaction Lesley dropped on me.

It was an easy decision to make. Fuck it, I would simply move out. She could have her world back.

The bad news, the campground was booked out, and they had already leased out my old caravan. The good news, there was another campground the other side of town: Island View. They didn't have a caravan, but they did have a chalet, if I was prepared to do some cleaning for them. When I assessed it, ten hours a week cleaning made it well worth it. Plus, I really didn't have an alternative.

As I packed up my shit, I checked for stuff in Lesley's office. She had left her computer logged in. I know I shouldn't have, but I wanted to see if she had made any progress on her new book. There were hundreds of notes, different scenarios, but she really hadn't made any progress at all.

I copied the files onto a portable hard drive and took it with me. Why? I have no idea. I used her Ute to transport all my shit. Spiteful it might have been, but I left her a note. "Decided to move out. Sorry for the way things turned out. Have a good life."

Short but not nasty.

Hopefully, she wouldn't take it to heart.

When I drove out the driveway, I got a burst of sadness, but strangely, for the first time in a while, I felt lighter, like the sun was warmer, the air fresher.

The new chalet was a step up from the caravan. It was still on the beach, which was a two-minute walk, and the amenities were nicer.

It was later that night that the sadness crept in. Damn it, I missed her, and the reality of my decision started to settle over me like a dark blanket.

Had I over reacted? Was I cutting off my nose to spite my face? Nothing made sense. I had a cry, not for long, just three hours. I walked down onto the beach and strolled along aimlessly. Usually, we walked together, her hand in mine. We leaned against each other; why had it all come tumbling down?

It was after midnight when I walked back into the chalet. Flopping down on the bed, I felt the weight of loneliness. This is how my life would be again. Nobody to talk to, nobody to cuddle.

I opened up my laptop, and inserted the portable hard drive. I went over her story, and where she got to. I could see how she had written herself into a corner. I checked all her notes, some of the plots she put together were terrible. It was a love story, a romance. Two flawed people separated by culture and ethnicity. Money, it was at the centre of so many failed relationships, lesbian or otherwise.

As I played around with some of her plot devices, a story line started to appear. I had edited so much of her work, I started to write, using her voice. I typed frantically as the story unfolded; it poured out of me, like blood oozing from an open wound. Maybe it was my feelings of despondency. Maybe I needed to feel those emotions before I could write, but it flowed like lava.

I got to the stage where I was re-writing the same sentence over and over. Checking the clock, I was shocked to see it was five AM. No wonder I was tired, and I hadn't eaten.

I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and the walls of darkness descended. It was the noise of kids playing that woke me. Right outside my window. As my eyes slowly pushed aside the heavy weights holding them shut, I stretched. I was still wearing my clothes from yesterday. I needed a shower, oh, and something to eat. My stomach grumbled in a rolling thunderous complaint.

The moment I climbed into the shower, my mind engaged. The story, words, conversations started swirling around my imagination. I worked out dialogue. Eating my omelette, again the plot was front and foremost. I ate quickly so I could get back to it.

Again, the words flowed, the story opened up, little tears dripped from my eyes as I wrote. It was always like this when I wrote, I let myself merge with the story, I became a character inside, and this felt so poignant. I couldn't hold back the emotions.

I wrote so quickly; I had never before experienced this. When I wrote my own stuff, it was like drawing teeth. For some reason, this was easy. It just emerged. The day vanished. It was only my rumbling tummy that highlighted it was getting late.

I couldn't be bothered cooking, so I found some biscuits in one of my boxes and went back to writing.

It was dark, the kids all gone, stars sparkled, the Southern Cross illuminated brightly. I felt I was on the home stretch. I had written nearly thirty thousand words, and it was still oozing out of me.

I had totally shut myself off from the rest of the world. I hadn't checked my phone, email, nothing. My phone was actually flat and needed charging.

A walk, yes, I needed to get out. The air was warm, it was almost Christmas. Summer was well settled. The beach was deserted, and pulling my jumper tightly around me, I walked, kicking the sand and staring at the stars.

Even there, in the middle of a fabulous evening, I couldn't extract myself from the story, and had to rush back and write some more.

Monday morning my alarm went off, sounding the death knell for my writing. I dressed quickly and cycled like a mad thing to get to work on time.

As I peddled across the round about, there was Trish's car, heading for work.

She was just getting out of her car when I pulled up, puffing and panting. "Why the fuck were you coming into town from out there?" she asked accusingly.

"I went for an early morning ride," I said, without looking at her.

"Lying bitch, what the fuck is going on?"

"Leave me alone, Trish. I don't want to talk about it okay."

"The fuck you say. You do what you want, girl, but don't lie to me. I'm your damn friend."

"Yeah, sorry Trish. I've got a lot going on. Just give me some space. I'll tell you later."

She scowled, her face twisted into a very angry declaration of dissatisfaction. "Yeah, whatever."

The day was horrid, and it went on and on. My grumpy demeanour meant everybody gave me a wide berth. That was probably a good thing. Finally, it was over, and I packed my backpack, preparing to hit the road. As I opened the back door, Trish grabbed my arm. "Don't keep all that shit bottled up. I'm here for you, talk to me."

"Yeah, you're right." I sighed, in defeat. "Lesley and I broke up. She went up to Tauranga for a few days, and I moved out."

"Fuck me. Why the fuck did yo do that, girl? Fuck, you can be clown."

When she saw my tears, she softened. "Lets go and have lunch. You buy me a chicken burger, and I'll give you a shoulder to cry on."

I laughed, enjoying the feel of mirth. "You are always hungry, what is it with that? How do you stay so skinny?"

"I have to listen to dumb arse dyke lezzies crying every day. Eats up a lot of calories okay."

I should have been offended, but I knew she was joking. She had the ability to say the most outrageous shit and get away with it.

Over lunch, I poured out my heart, explaining what happened. "Shit, girl, she is bat-shit crazy. You're better off without her."

"No, she's just insecure, she has issues. I should have listened. I should have gone with her, she did invite me."

"What the fuck, she invited you to go? Now I think you're the fucked up one. I suppose she was going to pay, as well?"

When I nodded, and she swore loudly. "Oh, hell no. She was offering to take you away for a dirty weekend, pay for everything, and you turned your nose up. Girl you got some serious shit going on in that head of yours. Fucking hell, bitch."

"Don't say it like that. Now even I think I'm crazy."

"Yeah, well what do you want me to say? I tell ya, girl, you two are as mad as each other. I think you deserve each other."

"Not any more, she will probably never talk to me again."

"Bullshit, if she loves you, she'll find a way. You gotta lighten up though, girl. You can't push everybody away. Yo lucky I still talk to you."

With a nervous giggle, I replied, "Oh yeah, colour me lucky."

"Hey, fuck you. I don't have to listen to yo shit. I can go home for that."

We hugged, and I said, "Thanks, Trish. I love you."

"Yeah, I love you too, girl, but fuck. You gotta stop overreacting. Yo gonna turn into a drama queen dyke, and nobody likes them, okay?"

"Yeah, thanks, I think."

I cycled off, wondering more than ever if I hadn't done the wrong thing.

There were no missed calls, no messages from Lesley. She must be thanking her lucky stars to be rid of me. Oh well, I guess that was it. I buried myself in writing, the emotions twisting themselves into words, sentences, paragraphs, and then into chapters. One last push, and it would be finished.

Three o'clock in the morning, and it was finished. I flopped back on the bed, my eyes closing. Finished, and it was pretty good, well, I thought so. The question now was. What do I do with it?

Sleep was impossible to hold off.

As tired as I was, I was awakened by kids running noisily around the grounds. Looking at my phone, it was only six thirty... I climbed out of bed and had a long shower, the steaming needle jets taking away some of the tension. Being up so early gave me a chance to take a walk along the beach, think some more.

God knows why I stole her story. I couldn't do anything with it. As I tried to untangle my thoughts, I think it was going to be like a grand gesture. Like, "Look what I did for you."

The more I tossed that around, the more positive I became. She would hate it, she would think it was me saying I was better than her...

My walk was nice, but now I was running late. Everybody was in when I arrived. Trish gave me shit. "Hope yo don't think we gonna carry yo lazy arse, just cos you feeling mopey."

Laurie, one of our retired assistants, looked shocked. "Trish, that is uncalled for. You need to be more compassionate."

"No, she's right, Laurie. I appreciate your concern, but Trish is right. I don't expect, or want, special treatment. Lesley and I broke up, so I am feeling a bit down in the dumps."

He sauntered over and put his arm around my shoulder. "We are with you, Virginia. You can count on us for support."

"Thanks, Laurie. Appreciate that."

"Oh please." Trish snorted playfully. "Don't yo's be giving her special favours. She paid, just like the rest of us."

She did come over and give me a hug. "Yo know I got yo back. I just want yo to pick yoself up."

The day passed quietly enough. Trish gave me shit, trying to lift my spirits. Its hard to remain sad when somebody like Trish is pushing you along.

Back at the campground, I had my first day as a cleaner. It was only a couple of hours, and in a way, it was good to have something to take my mind off the thoughts that clouded my mind.