I Am Not A-Muse-d

By Kenzie Keene

Most people think the life of a Muse is easy. Sounds like a breeze, doesn’t it? You sit around all day eating Pringles and drinking Coke as you throw scrumptious ideas at your constantly inspired, always eager-to-please writer. Sure thing, mate. It’s the life. The good ol’ American dream. Piece of cake with a cherry.

Unfortunately, when it’s 10:27 p.m. with a half-finished manuscript due at midnight, that good ol’ American dream is starting to look a whole lot like the American Horror Story.

Clowns and chainsaws included.

Look, I’m not the vindictive sort. Normally I’m real chill, like a freezer pop. You have to do a whole lot to get this guy riled up. But skimping on your deadlines is a one-way ticket to Whole Lot, and my lovely author over here has been doing a whole lot of skimping lately.

Which is how I’ve come to find myself sitting cross-legged on her moth-eaten sofa, nursing a headache and trying very hard not to curse the Fates who sent me here.

Amelia Frost. Thirty-two years old. Frizzy haired. Tongue like a razor. Comes with the air of a woman who’s spent a little too much time with her nose in a book rather than out in the real world where things like “dragons” and “morally gray villains” don’t actually exist. And—much to the dismay of her derelict and sleep-deprived muse—she’s the current YA sensation topping the charts on the New York Times’ Bestseller List.

She’s also doing everything within her power to ignore me and our deadline right now, and Fates alive, I could stab her with my pencil.

“Frost. You’re gonna have to work with me here, darling. This book needs an ending. You’ve gotta kill somebody.”

Frost briefly flicks her gaze up from the book she’s hiding behind and flops over onto her back, kicking her legs up onto the back of her chair. I’m forever at a loss for words on how this woman orients her body while reading. She’s about as spineless as she is unproductive. Like a cat.

“Amelia.” My pencil twirls between my fingers. “The villain. Kill him off already and send it in.” I don’t remind her that if we don’t send this manuscript in—half-finished or not—we’re once again pushing our deadlines back and causing our agent—beautiful saint that she is—another unwarranted heart attack and phone call.

“I don’t want to.”

“Well, great,” I snap through gritted teeth. “That’s just great. The final book in the Pickwicket Chronicles isn’t coming out because the author simply doesn’t want to. Are you emailing Freda with the news, or shall I?”

“You’re being ridiculous.” Frost flips a page. “I’ve got all night to finish the manuscript. It’ll be fine.”

“You have an hour and a half, Frost. Knowing you, that’s like three hundred words. Hope you weren’t planning on an emotionally satisfying ending, because as it stands, we barely have enough time to maul him with a goat.”

Frost’s snort gets lost in the pages of her book, and I inhale deeply.

It’s fine. This is fine. Deep breaths, Chester.

“Okay, look.” I rest my pencil against the pad of paper in my lap and begin scribbling. The sound is overwhelming in the quiet apartment. “We both know the villain’s gotta die, right? Mr. Goody Goody finds the treasure, Little Lost Princess saves herself and the dragon, woohoo and jamboree. But you’re stuck on how to get there. So maybe if we just take a moment to brainstorm…”

Frost flips another page.

Really, I would like to thank all the saints and stars who led me to this writer’s doorstep. Looking at you, Charlie in Assignments.

Perhaps what we need is a good game of ‘Wait, That’s Not Right’. Clearly Frost isn’t interested in actual productivity. But if I can get the creative juices flowing through other means…

“Fine.” I flip to a new page in my notebook, desperation fueling my inner rage as I make a bullet-pointed list of all the things we couldn’t possibly include. “What’s definitely not going to happen in the last thirty pages of this book, Frost? I’ll go first. We are not having the villain mauled by a wild goat.”

Frost grunts, but at least she’s listening.

“Aliens won’t come down from the sky and rain giant meatballs onto the protagonist.”

At least, I certainly hope they won’t. That would make for a finale, certainly…

As I scribble the word meatball onto the page, I spare a glance up at Frost. “You can jump in anytime you want.”

No response. Of course not.

“Fine. There’s no seismic blast beneath sea level which hurls everyone into a fissure. We definitely don’t have the villain stab the prince and marry the lost princess, or—”

Frost’s book closes with a snap. The sound is deafening. She bolts upright, an unexpected glimmer in her eye.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no. This is not what I intended.

“Oh my gosh,” Frost whispers. “Chester, that is brilliant.”

I hastily X out the note I just made, slashing it through twenty times just for good measure. “Frost—no. No, that’s not—”

But her eyes are alight now. With a flip, she cartwheels off her seat onto the floor and spinelessly wriggles across the room to her desk. Sliding into her office chair, she tips up her laptop screen. A sickly green glow illuminates her skin, twinkling against her maniacal grin.

A wave of prickly panic crashes over me. Well. This one’s gonna land me in hot water with Muses United. “Amelia—”

“Shh…” Frost swats me away and starts typing. “This is good. Exactly what the story needed, really.” Frost grins to herself, and I resist the urge to snatch her laptop and throw it against the wall. After all, no book is better than a bad book, right?

“The perfect ending,” Frost whispers.

I smack myself with my notebook.

“The villain finally wins…”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kenzie Keene is a writer, blogger, full-time dreamer, and daughter of the King. With books in her hands and gnomes in her pockets, her mission is to sprinkle the universe with pixie dust, whimsy, and all of the cookies she can possibly fling.

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