Muses, Madmen and the Finer Points of Negotiation
by tavalla
I probably wouldn’t be writing this if it weren’t for the insomnia. Lately, every morning at eight to three on the nail, I wake up. No, I don’t know why either. But I’ve got to do something until I fall asleep again.
Although I’m currently ranked as an unpublished hack with pretensions, my ultimate goal is to be that rarest of things, a published author. If you want to write, you’re going to spend a lot of time with your nose in books and at least some of my reading matter is by authors on writing. In the name of research, I try to talk to authors when I can. When one spends time doing this, one hears about muses. Some people seem to have the fairly classical sort — the ones who hang out in Parnassus, sip ambrosia and get their portraits on amphorae… muses who whisper sweet nothings in the ears of their pet authors.
I could handle that.
Some muses are a little tougher. They don’t precisely whisper; rather, they state quite clearly where this story’s going. I’ve even heard of one writer with an equine muse, and another who relies on a cat for inspiration. If I got handed one of those, I could cope with it.
At this point, I’d even settle for a Fornit and to hell with the mess they cause.
But no. I didn’t get a muse, a horse, a cat or a Fornit; I got the Madmen in the Cellar. I got the Cellar Dwellers.
The Cellar is the creative department, that dark place down the back of my mind. Lest you think I’m cruel, let me state clearly that I installed fluorescent lights down there, but the Madmen removed them. Evidently they prefer to work in the dark. That way, I can’t find them when they’re hiding, the little rats.
To get there, I walk down the stairs carefully (they’re a bit uneven), fumble my way to the cellar door and knock. You can’t just barge in or the Madmen run and hide; they won’t come out again for days.
After a little while, Clarence – he’s the Head Madman – comes to the door, glares at me and demands to know what the hell I want.
“I just wanted to check how you were doing with the plot for that new piece we’re working on. You know, the long one.”
I get another glare. “We’ll let you know. Now GO AWAY AND STOP BOTHERING US!” For Clarence, this rates as a polite answer.
The door slams in my face. “Thanks…”
A couple of days go past. I’ve struggled to get another page of text written (Arial font, 10 point type, just so you know) but I’m not getting far. I need inspiration, input, a jump-start. I need to see the Madmen.
I go back down the stairs, pratfalling on some moss and damp that the Madmen apparently have installed recently. There’s a giggle from inside the cellar door. Bastards.
I knock.
The door slams open and I face the Head Madman, who looks quite cranky. Veins are popping out on his forehead. “GO AWAY!” he snarls and slams the door in my face. Again.
Another day. Another half page of text, starting out with Arial and ending up at Times New Roman font, 12 point type, travelling via Book Antiqua, Comic Sans, Garamond, Georgia, HandScriptUpright, Memo, Lucida Sans and Technical fonts. I have an extensive font collection that I futz around with when the Madmen aren’t creating. It helps to create the illusion that I’m actually accomplishing something.
This isn’t working. The Madmen and I need to talk. That means I need to get their attention.
Back down the stairs. Carrying a sledgehammer. A biiiiiiig sledgehammer. A Wile E. Coyote, Acme brand sledgehammer.
I knock, not using the sledgehammer. Yet.
The Head Madman appears. “What is it this time?” he demands. I recognize the look on his face; most people wear it when they’re looking at roadkill. This does not augur well for our negotiation.
“We are going to talk about the plot points I need for this story. Now.”
“Sod off.” Door slams.
Right. If you want to play it that way…
I knock, this time with the sledgehammer. The results are pretty good, from my point of view.
The Head Madman disagrees, apparently. He swears at me quite fluently and at great length.
“Let’s talk plot,” I say.
He tells me where I can put my plot — the Madmen aren’t ready yet. I wish I could wring the little so-and-so’s neck, but it’s tricky to throttle a figment of your own imagination. The Head Madman knows this and smirks.
I swing the sledgehammer at him. Being imaginary, it passes right through him. Ignore the fact that the sledgehammer is also imaginary, and so is the door on which it was so effective only a minute ago. We all know about consistency here in the imaginary dark place at the back of the mind, don’t we?
Obviously, the Madmen will not be hurried. Not without C4, anyway. I stand outside the door saying, in the most dangerous voice I can muster, “Cyclotrimethylenetrinitramine. Cyclotrimethylenetrinitramine. Cyclotrimethylenetrinitramine.” The Head Madman, I know, is listening. He’ll get the message. To make sure, I say “cyclotrimethylenetrinitramine” a few more times and then go to bed.
Wake up at eight to three in the morning, hearing the Madmen knocking at the door. By the time I get down the stairs, they’ve disappeared back behind the (now rebuilt out of steel instead of wood) door. But on the bottom step, there is a package.
Pages of paper covered with inky little fingerprints and plot points in crabbed handwriting. Exactly what I’ve been waiting for.
That wasn’t so hard, was it?
Author’s note: Fornits are an invention of Stephen King. They live in authors’ typewriters, are very rarely seen by the sober, and prefer to eat bologna and peanut butter. They’re a little messy but they repay the small task of cleaning up after them with their inspirational magic dust, called ‘fornus.’ They appear in his story “The Ballad of the Flexible Bullet,” found in Skeleton Crew.