I've heard tell that we writers have muses. Greek Goddesses of myth that offer inspiration and ideas to poets, writers, and artists. I am not of Greek origin, and though I've eaten my share of baklava over the years, I don't believe I've found favor on Mt. Olympus.

If I truly had a muse, I am sure she would take pity on me, and only give me bursts of inspiration when pencil and paper are readily available.

Would a muse keep me awake until four in the morning? Would she make me drive through stops signs and head down one way streets? No. A muse would never do that.

What I have is an imp!

My personal imp delights in making me look like an empty headed boob. He taunts me with ideas when I'm in the middle of important adult discussions. He dangles words in front of my face as I drive and has, on more than one occasion, caused me to burn a meal. My imp relishes days when my schedule is full. It is then that he tempts me constantly with well turned phrases. He's a naughty fellow who scoffs at invitations, dropping in when least expected.

Although he's a fiendish little urchin, I've grown accustomed-- actually enjoy -- having him around. He makes life more interesting. He helps me explain laundry in the freezer, oranges in the oven, and brushing my teeth with Ben-gay.

When he's not around I miss him, and take up reading to fill the time. Before long that bugger shows up, always when I'm in the middle of an irresistible chapter. Tapping at my forehead and whispering in my ear like a rambunctious toddler awakened from a nap. Play with me!

I am not immune to his charms and, being my personal imp, he knows how to work me. Before long, the book is set aside and I'm bursting with words -- glorious words!

Funny -- my imp always knows when there is going to be a knock on the door.

All content copyright © Lisa Wheeler, 2001-2017. All rights reserved.

Site Designed by Donna Farrell

Follow me on Facebook!