Canning the Muse

When my kids were little, I used to sneak into the bathroom with my writing pad and lock the door. I’d put down the toilet seat (somebody had to do it), and get comfortable; then a switch would flip in my brain and I’d pour my inky prose onto page after page of a budding novel. Behind a locked bathroom door was the only place I could find relief from the constant demands of my life; the only place that allowed me real uninterrupted writing time. Why? Maybe I felt safe or sheltered enough to relax and let my thoughts flow. Maybe I knew my time in there was limited (I work well under deadlines). Maybe I thought, if I’m going to write crap, I’m in the perfect place. But, it wouldn’t be long before the clamoring would swell outside the door.

Child #1: Mom, what are you doing in there?
Me: What do you think I’m doing?
Child #2: Are you crapping?
Child #3: Shhhh! That’s a bad word.
Child #2: Are you still going to the bathroom?
Me: Yes.
Child #1: Gawd!

Then I’d see small fingers wiggle under the door and hear a gaggle of giggles as prying eyes strained to peek at my feet. My concentration broken, my pen poised rigidly over an unsatisfied pad, I gritted my teeth. I was just getting to the good part! What inevitably followed was the rustling and grunting that one hears at a varsity wrestling match. This was the usual banter:

Me: Girls! Go play, and I’ll be out in a minute.
Child #1: That’s what you said ten minutes ago.
Child #2: Yeah, and ten minutes before that.
Child #3: And an hour before that!
Me: Go . . . play! And . . . I . . . will . . . be . . . out . . . when . . . I’m . . . done!

The giggling and tousling would fade away, and when I was satisfied they’d gone, I’d delve back into my thickening plot. Oh, this is going to be so good! I’d think. Readers are going to eat this up! I’m going to be a bestseller soon!

Bang, bang, bang. The door would rumble beneath little fists.

Child #4: Mom, there’s a giant spider!
Me: Has it eaten anyone?
Child #4: (silence) He’s looking at Sam.

Sam, our fiesty fat feline was known to torture exoskeleton types, usually to his peril.

Child #4: Mo-o-om! Sam’s going to get bit and have to go to the hospital and get dead!
Me: (deep, desolate sigh) I’m coming.

I would toss my pen and pad on the tile and bid farewell to my muse, realizing that I’d sat there so long, my thighs had gone numb. I’d flush for good measure and unlock the door to an audience of six, including Sam, and Georgie the bouncing mop, otherwise known as a Shih Tzu. Little devils, all of them, had tricked me once again into abandoning my post!

These days, I don’t have to hide out to get writing done, but when I’m really stressed and the creative juices just won’t flow, I wonder if my muse could benefit from a good can session. Once upon a time, I wrote probably half a book in there. Then again, since that manuscript still sits unpublished, maybe it really was crap after all.

2008 © K. Jayne Cockrill