We need to talk--midnight--New Year's Eve.


The message was on my screen when I flipped open my laptop. I sighed, thinking perhaps Jake was trying to make this muse-meets-writer an annual affair. Last year, same place, same time, he announced he would pay me a visit. And wow, wasn't I excited? It had been years since I'd had a date, and to think my muse was actually going to pay me a visit, it blew me away.

Last year, I treated his announcement like a notice from royalty, rolling out the red carpet, preparing snacks and chilling champagne. We talked. Actually, he talked--I listened. Jake left me that night holding a piece of thread and I was reassured the other end was knotted around his heart. We were connected.

After the first meeting, my motivation went into overdrive. Always a voracious writer, Jake made it very clear that he could run the race and never falter in keeping pace with my thirst for words. Together we painted literary canvasses, using vibrant colours he delivered to my keyboard. We laughed a lot--especially during the blizzards last winter. While others battled the elements, we threw a log on the fireplace, drank cocoa or brandy-laced coffee and spent hours enjoying the freedom and celebrated our relationship.

I hardly noticed when spring began its slow strip-tease. Tulips pushed their promise of new life through the smudged crust of snow. I could hear the trickle of running water as the thaw snaked below the ploughed snow banks that lined my driveway. I was so captivated by the sensual tango Jake and I danced, spring arrived without my usual welcoming celebration.

At one point, I was forced to admit my obsession, foregoing real life and real time to my mystic muse. Simple demands intervened. Not wanting to admit the powerful bond between us, I finally succumbed to responsibility and closed my laptop to attend to my obligations.

I laboured for weeks, spring cleaning, property clean-up, and it seemed it was only late in the evening when I returned to the computer. For weeks, Jake and I seemed to have lost the passion, interacting like an old married couple; comfortable in our boredom with each other. To my credit, it wasn't just me; Jake would begin our daily re-uniting with glib, often sarcastic comments. "How was your day, sweetheart? Do you think you could wash your hands before touching me?" or "Is your laundry all done? I'm sure something more attractive is in the wash than this scruffy sweat suit you're wearing."

Jake is not your domestic kind of guy. He wants edgy adventure, thriving in fire and becoming lethargic in tepid waters. It came as no surprise to me when he declared he was going on vacation.

"Do you expect me to write alone?" I asked.

Of course. You don't need me for the drivel you're producing lately.

He was gone and I was caught between two worlds; a summer of swimming and soccer with the grandchildren and mourning the greatest love affair of my life. I didn't feel like writing without Jake and so I wrote very little, waiting patiently for his return.

Jake popped back in throughout the autumn months, but it was a lot like make-up sex; passion for one-night, but not solving the underlying problems. He'd be gone by the morning, and I never knew when he was coming back. And then seemingly out of nowhere, he was demanding a meeting on New Year's Eve.

I didn't dress for the occasion. Why bother?  He'd seen me at my worst. The TV droned in the background, the camera panning the crowds waiting for the big ball to drop in Times Square, as I sat waiting for Jake.

"Three, two, one...Happy New Year everyone."

As the melody of Auld Lang Syne began, the computer woke from its dormant mode and Jake began to communicate.

What are we going to do about us?

"You're the one that left. I'm still here. What do you want to do? A divorce?"

The evil laughter that spilled out of my speakers was disarming. For a moment, I wondered if one of the characters from our local horror writers had escaped.

I'm stuck with you for life.

"Like Hell! You took off this summer. I wouldn't call that a commitment."

I hate it when you waste your time, using me as an excuse. Listen, every writer needs to build new memories--do a little research. You spent your summer playing with real people. Is that so bad? If I hadn't backed off, you'd have grown roots to the chair.

"I still wrote--even without you."

Girl, you're one of the few of my clients who can write on demand. You can write about anything, anytime, but there's a difference when we play together.

"You're right," I admitted. "When you're writing with me, I'm not playing to the crowd. We create magic."


I sat staring at the screen. A flood of question marks followed the cursor down the page. What did Jake want me to say? Was he asking me a question or waiting for me to ask mine?


"Now what?" I broke the silence.


Now we buckle down and do some serious work.

"I'm ready," I said, prepared to pull another all-nighter if Jake was in the mood.

Again, that devilish laugh.

"What?"

I'm not working tonight, and I'm not sure when I'll be ready to dance again, but you definitely will be busy while I vacation.

"You've been on vacation for months. Enough, already. Let's play."

But Jake left me with an agenda that did not suit me at all--not one bit. It was not the kind of meeting I'd anticipated. I really thought we'd reminisce, tell war stories, conjure up our old characters and laugh together at their foibles and stumbles, but the meeting got serious very quickly.

"How can you ask me to do housekeeping when you were so prissy when I stopped writing in the spring? You went into a snit and wouldn't talk to me for weeks."

Cleaning out closets is not at all the same as cleaning out files. You're a hoarder and it's time to toss out some of the garbage in your document files.

"But that's my work. You want me to delete--get rid of it?"

I suppose, you're going to tell me that you saved every crayon scribble your kid brought home from kindergarten. That's exactly what I'm telling you. Toss it or put it on one of those memory sticks, but get it off the computer.

"What's the point? I could be writing."

It seemed my playmate had grown up this year. He said horrible things to me--he used the four letter word--edit.

He acted like a business manager, actually admonishing me as if I was an indulged child. He rambled on for almost an hour about creating marketing plans, compiling submission targets and writing query letters.

And he didn't stop there.

Your web site is still under construction--not a damn thing posted in a perfectly created showcase for your work. Finish it!

You need to get your book publish-ready, do the formatting and post the damn thing on Amazon. And let's not forget the other two books languishing in your files...

A muse that thinks every one of his whims or proclamations is pure gold is sadly mistaken. Instead of pandering to my creative escapism, he came down on me like a ton of bricks, rubbing my nose in all my half-finished projects.

Of course, Jake is right. After all, his main job is to inspire me, but I liked it better when he wasn't so serious.

Gone again, I suppose for another year. These face-to-face meetings happen very rarely. I know when he's with me, but now instead of a velvet glove, I'll need to get used to the feel of a whip.

His last words still sit in my craw like a trapped chicken bone that might kill me.

The business of writing is no less important than the actual writing.