“Let’s just throw a pity party and be done with it,” the muse said angrily.
“I will invite the grief counsellor, Crocodile Tears. We will have to send out smoke signals as he is alone in the wilderness crying his heart out. It’s a crying shame that you have to disturb the empathetic man, but we really have no choice as you have already killed and buried your writing career within the space of your egg-head. Grieve about it and then get on with it or own up to your idiotic fear and write! I can only do so much, you know and heaven knows you have been going on and on about it. I shall immediately find a Krazy Straw so that you can suck it up. Grow a pair or wear some big girl panties, better yet I can loan you my new leopard spot g-string.”
She cracked her whip, flounced away and left me sitting in a miserable heap. A dung beetle crawled over my knee and a vulture hopped closer, his beady eyes intent upon having a beak full of some cowardly chicken. I gathered myself and trudged home, feeling sorry for myself. Tomorrow, I would have to face the dreaded blank screen of Microsoft Word and try to dredge up the words that were as deeply buried in their watery grave as Atlantis. I think I should wear my brainy thinking cap, don’t you?