by Margaret Lucke

My Muse wanders into my office, tea mug in hand. As usual, she’s late.

“Finally!” I say. “Where have you been?”

She comes around behind and peers over my shoulder at the screen.

“That page is blank,” she announces.

Talk about stating the obvious.

“Well, duh,” I explain to her.

She leans forward to look closer. Tea splashes on my shoulder. “Why are there no words on it?”

“Because I haven’t started yet. I don’t know what to write.” Rubbing at the wet spot, I whine, “It’s your fault. If you would just show up on time …”

“Oh, you don’t need me.”

“Yes, I do.” Then I make my dire confession: “I have writer’s block.”

She laughs, which is not the response I was hoping for. “What a silly notion.”

“Are you claiming there’s no such thing as writer’s block? Because I can assure you it’s real. I can’t tell you how often I’ve been afflicted with–”

“—with fear, lack of confidence, perfectionism, procrastination, other things in your life that demand time and attention, and outside distractions. You know, your neighbors really should get rid of that annoying rooster–”

A loud cockle-doodle-doo from the adjoining backyard punctuates her point.

 “–but all of those are only excuses,” my Muse concludes. “All you have to do is start putting down words.”

By now I’m up from my desk, pacing around. The sight of the empty page has become unbearable. “I can’t just fill a page by writing blah blah blah one hundred times. The words have to make sense. They have to tell a story. They have to be exciting and compelling so the reader will get hooked and keep on reading.”

 “No, they don’t. You know what Nora Roberts has said: ‘I can fix a bad page. I can’t fix a blank page.’ At this point it’s okay to write drivel. Let your characters loose to wander around. They’ll stumble on the story sooner or later. Once they do, you can go back and pretty up the words.”

She sits down in my chair and sets down the mug. For a few seconds her fingers fly across the keyboard. Then she gets up again and dusts off the seat. “Okay, your turn.”

I read what she’s written: Once upon a time. Not much help. “What comes next?”

“Oh, you can figure that out for yourself.”

“But this is your job. You’re the Muse. You’re supposed to inspire me.”

“I just did.” She takes a sip of tea.

I stare at the words. No matter how hard I strain my brain, no thoughts are forthcoming. Finally I say, “I really need your assistance here.”

She shakes her head and giggles. “No, it’s up to you.”

“I can’t do it alone. What will it take to get your help?” I think for a moment, then say, “Suppose I bribe you with chocolate?”

My Muse breaks into a grin. “Well, why didn’t you say so? I prefer the dark kind. Almonds in it would be nice.”

I go to the kitchen and bring back a treat for each of us. When I sit down again, she places her guiding hand on my shoulder. I retype her phrase—Once upon a time—and then I make myself keep going.

Words tumble onto the page. They are clunky. They are awkward. To be honest, they are a hot mess. But slowly, oh so slowly, I can see that a few good ideas are beginning to emerge.  My Muse and I can fix the words later—so long as I remember to replenish my supply of chocolate.

* * *

I’m honored and delighted to be teaching a class called “Writing Genre Fiction” for University of California–Berkeley Extension this winter – 10 Thursday evenings, January 22-April 2 (no class on February 26 because I’ll be at the wonderful Left Coast Crime convention). It meets on Zoom so you can attend from anywhere. We’ll explore popular genres of fiction—mystery, thriller, science fiction, fantasy, horror and romance, covering techniques that are essential to all fiction while examining the characteristics, conventions and reader expectations associated with each genre. You can learn more here.

Let’s have some fun today. Help me finish this story.

The holidays are fast approaching so I thought we should all take a deep breath and kick back with a cooperative mystery for us to solve before everything gets crazy-busy.

 The best story I ever heard took place in the ladies’ bathroom at Mission Ranch in Carmel, a gorgeous property on the Monterey Bay owned by Clint Earwood. The only thing that has kept me from turning it into a fun short story is that the ending remains a mystery.

There’s a small two-stall bathroom just outside the property restaurant which is as quaint and charming as the setting itself so I was happy to head for it when nature called. When I went inside, both stalls were occupied. The women in the stalls obviously knew one another and were engaged in a conversation. I had to wait for one of them to come out before I could attend to business.

I’m a writer which means I eavesdrop, but even if I weren’t, their conversation would have been enticing.

… “that’s when I realized the door had locked with me inside. I tried but I couldn’t open it. I pounded on the door and called for help, but then I looked at my watch and saw it was after five o’clock. I guessed the building was empty except for me in the bathroom. The worst part was that it was a Friday night and probably no one would find me until Monday morning.”

“Weren’t you scared?”

“Not really. I mean I was concerned, but I was in a bathroom so I had water and facilities. I even had half a sandwich in my purse that I saved from lunch and it didn’t have mayo on it so it would be safe to eat whenever I wanted.”

“That’s not much to eat for a weekend.”

“No, it isn’t, and I really didn’t want to spend the weekend locked in a bathroom.”

“Did you try using your phone to call for help?”

“You know how bad I am about keeping that thing charged. It was dead.”

“So, what did you do?”

At that moment I heard a flush. One of the stall doors opened and a tall woman came out and headed to the sink to wash her hands. She smiled at me and nodded her head ever so slightly to indicate I could now use her stall. I went inside and closed the door as their conversation continued.

“Well, I definitely didn’t panic. I noticed there was a small window on an outside wall. I could see it was outside because even though the glass was sort of frosted, I could still make out trees in the distance.”

“Uh huh.”

“I pushed it and the bottom pane slide up.”

“That was lucky.”

“It was. I yelled some more, but it seemed no one heard me. The window opening wasn’t very big and it was at about chest height…anyway, I’m petite and I figured I could just squeeze through it. The only problem was getting up high enough to do that.  I looked around and found a trash can. I upended it and pushed it under the window. Doing that made me up high enough that I could go out of the window, although I’d have to go head first which I didn’t like.”

“Head first?! Where would you land. You might hurt yourself.”

“I looked out. There was a high shrub, a camelia I think, not anything prickly, but a nice soft looking one so I thought I would make a soft landing. The only problem was I was wearing a lovely new outfit—a soft cream-colored cashmere sweater and matching wool pants—and knew I’d ruin my clothing squeezing out the window.”

“What did you do?”

I heard another flush, the second stall door squeak open, and the sink being used again.

“The only thing I could do. I tossed my purse out the window and took off my sweater and pants and tossed them out too, and then I climbed up on the trash can and…”

That’s when the women left the bathroom. What happened next remains a mystery to me. How would you finish the story? There’s a free copy of “What Lucy Heard” in print or for your e-reader for the person who comes up with the best ending. It seems like an appropriate title as a reward since the book is all about hearing something curious, too.