I can hear my friends and family asking, “Who is Rufus?” as they scratch their collective heads in bewilderment.
Well let’s back up and start at the beginning….
Rufus is a muse – well more specifically, the one that apparently is either assigned to me or maybe volunteered. I’m not really sure how that works.
According to Wikipedia, “The Muses are nine goddesses in Greek mythology who control and symbolize nine types of art known to Ancient Greece, and are associated with artistic inspiration.” So basically, its nine ladies that provide a reason for an artist to do their thing.
“The Muses were Greek goddesses, daughters of Zeus, who presided over the Arts and Sciences. If they sent you their inspiration, you’d be able to come up with that brilliant idea that was escaping you all day – or suddenly find the answer to a nagging problem. Something like being touched with a magic wand. The point I’m making is that you should be prepared to invite the Muse into your work.”
Have you seen the Disney Cartoon, Hercules? Those singing songstresses touting Herc’s glory were muses. What about the 80’s movie, Xanadu? Yep, those ladies of light were muses. (I admit that I do like the movie – Olivia Newton John is a heck of a singer, but I love anything that has Gene Kelly in it – even mediocre roller disco films.)
But I digress.
Since I began this long hard journey called “becoming a writer”, I have joined up with a lot of groups on Facebook and become friends with many people who also write. When someone mentions the word “muse”, most think of those nine lovely graceful ladies and perhaps for others that’s the way it goes. Sadly, that’s not me.
I have determined that my muse is a 320 pound sweaty bald headed jerk. He is mostly a lazy bum, sitting around swilling beer and belching garlic. I have named him “Rufus”. Why, you may ask? Because in my mind, that is his name.
Rufus is not particularly motivated for the most part. He’s happy to just leave me alone and let me flounder helplessly like a kitten in a creek. I think the bastard even laughs at my helplessness at times.
When I get writer’s block, I beg Rufus to help. I try to entice him with promises of comfort, food and all the cheep beer he could possibly drink. He laughs.
Then, when I have given up and decide to watch a movie, suddenly there he is. Bellowing at me as he grabs my hair in a caveman like pose and drags me to the computer. “Write,” he grunts and proceeds to belt me over the head with his huge bat of inspiration. Yes, I know that inspiration should be gentle. Those broads of ancient Greece are always depicted as enticement with nudges and guidance.
I hate them.
Maybe Rufus was once one of them but was cast out and changed gender? Who knows. I do know that when he is being a harsh task master, I will type my fingers down to the bone before he finally wanders off to his own happy place and I can soak my fingers in ice water.
So if you don’t hear from me, blame Rufus.
Ah crap.. here he comes again.