If Your Phone Ain't Ringing, It's Only Me...

If your phone ain't ringing- it's only me.

It's been a little stressful around here. The house down the street, the one I've been working on getting rid of is set to close at noon on Friday- God willin' and the creek don't rise- literally.

There are all kinds of details to be taken care of and they're cropping up around here like mushrooms after rain. The place would've taken what sanity I have left but I'm afraid Marion and Eddie already got away with it.

It's bad enough around here to make a normal person long for the solace of a deserted island. Add Eddie and Marion into the mix and even an extrovert would head for the hills.

What's happening to me lately is exactly what we writers pray for.

We sit for years, waiting for our Muse to whisper sweet nothings in our ears.

Of course, noe of my Muses have never whispered. They burst through the door like the sheriff in a spaghetti western and the tone they take when they arrive would never be mistaken for sweet.

Sierra, my first, waited until I'd had way too much coffee, then spooked me by appearing to stand next to me in the basement. She was six feet tall, blonde, Italian and stacked. "Yo," she said. "Listen up! My boss is in the freezer in my trailer. Somebody shot him and stuffed him in there, so you'd better start typin'."

That's how real our characters are when things are going good, when we're in "The Zone."

The characters move in- taking over your home, your life, your schedule, everything, until they're finished telling you the whole story.

The trouble is- I find them fascinating.

Marion and Eddie crashed a seminar I was taking on Mindfulness.

They didn't mind and neither did I. The presenter was about as interesting as watching paint dry.

Eddie had Marion standing naked at the edge of her diving board. He was holding a gun on her and demanding to know where Harry was.

I was suddenly very mindful...of Eddie and Marion.

They've been with me ever since.

They don't like housework- at least they don't like me to do any.

They deeply resent my nursing home obligations. "Where are you going?" Marion whines. "I was just going to tell you about Cyndal. She's dead you know." Marion's eyes well up. "She was my best friend."

Her lower lip trembles. She whips out the photographs of the two of them, side by side with Jimi Hendrix, and grabs my arm. "Surely the old people can wait just a little while longer..."

So I sink back into my chair and flip open the laptop. "Okay, shoot," I tell her.

"Speaking of shooting," Eddie cries, bursting through my office door. "There's cops at Marion's front door."

"What?" Marion's on her feet, ready to run. "You moron, why didn't you tell me?"

"What do you think I just did?" he shouts and they're off, arguing again.

I feel so...so taken for granted. They just expect me to type their every syllable as fast as they utter them. And there isn't a "thank you" between the two of them.

So, when I don't return your call, when I miss your poetry reading, or forget to bake cookies on Tuesdays, don't judge me too harshly. I really have very little control over my current conditions...I'm a hostage of my two Muse-lings...at least for now...

Don't worry. This sort of thing doesn't happen often. I sell my house what, once every twelve years? And the last time I got invaded by characters, the Youngest Unnamed One hadn't even started kindergarten.

Whoops, gotta go! Eddie just found the pot Cyndal hid in the kitchen...