A Musing: Dee

There is a tiny fairy, no bigger than my middle finger, who I sometimes find perched at my shoulder, gently tugging my ear to announce her presence. Dee, as she has come to be called, is an interesting character. She is hardly thicker than a pencil, her eyes are large, round and ridiculously disproportionate to her body, her fingers and toes are unusually long (her fingers being half as long as her body), her ears are long and pointed, and her head is bald except for a spot of hair gathered at her forehead.

She is rather temperamental, as muses tend to be, often reacting to things I can't comprehend. She does not think in the same way I do, or even in the same way of anyone else I know. Her expanse of knowledge is a bit broader than my own, though she chooses not to share beyond what I already know. She is a very harsh critic, often times laughing at what I wrote more than inspiring it. She is also very demanding, often times dragging my character in to interrupt my thoughts when she decides now is the time to write, not later. In many ways, I should despise her. When I first met her, she was sweet and considerate. But, as I grew as a writer, she dropped the many masks she wore until she became the muse I know today.

I suppose it is thanks to her infinite knowledge that she came to me the way she did. For the first few years that I wrote, she delved into the world of short stories and poetry. They weren't great, but it was a start. Dee knew it and I knew it. She was very loving, feeding me inspiration on a weekly basis so I could complete the writer requirements my eighth grade English teacher had set for our class. I didn't recognize her hand in things until much later, patting my own back for many jobs well done. As eighth grade ended, so did my need for Dee's gentle prodding.

A little under a year later, my need for Dee returned. She was a bit spiteful, as was to be expected as reaction to my cold shoulder. She allowed me to flounder with several badly written poems before she once again tugged on my ear and whispered the words of inspiration I needed. Yet, poetry wasn't Dee's true calling, nor was it mine. I dabbled in short stories, remembering the dozens I had written before, but Dee lost interest quickly. She was still a nameless, faceless presence peering over my shoulder and speaking only when neeeded.

To Dee's utter delight, the idea of writing novellas was introduced to me. It was what she had been waiting for. She was no longer the silent, sweet, rarely critical muse I had known for two and a half years. The chance to write longer works was what she had been patiently waiting for. She pinched my ear often, tugging until I had no choice but to listen to her frequent babbling. She drowned me in her eager attentions until my life was consumed with writing. I wrote during any freetime I had during classes and after classes, and even time that wasn't so free. I filled notebooks with story ideas, story scenes, character sketches, and the occasional completed story.

She began taking to fits of temper when I ignored her pinching and prodding for too long. She would storm off for days or weeks, leaving me without a thought of what to write. When she would return, she had dozens of new ideas and I was often times racing to keep up with her. By the end of my high school years, we had reached a silent agreement. She would give me the time I needed to do the things I needed to get done, in return, I would give her as much time as I could spare. It wasn't a perfect arrangement. Dee oftentimes forgot herself and would tug on my ear in the middle of a calculus test or during a physics lecture. Sometimes, I got caught up in friends and school and forgot to give Dee the time she wanted. This often ended in very late nights as Dee demanded the time I reserved for sleep in payment.

Slowly, Dee's tastes began to change, so did mine. We lost interest in the trivial tales of teen romance and high school drama. Our heads were turned by the lure of books in print when we rediscovered old childhood favorites. Dee's ears pricked up at the idea of fairy tales (she always had a soft spot for fairies, being one herself). She dragged out an old short story, pinching my ear and reminding me of it for several weeks before I got the clue. Together, we sat down and wrote the short story into a novel.

It was then that Dee made herself completely known to me. For seven years, she had kept herself hidden from my sight and not revealed her name. To my surprise, she wrote herself into the story. We had gone through several copies of characters that would lead our heroine down the proper path for the story. At my wit's end, Dee reminded me of the saying: "Write what you know". I didn't realize who my new character was until she tugged on my heroine's ear just as she had tugged on my own for so many years. It was indeed a pleasure to finally have a name and face to put with my muse. It was the perfect role for her, too: the fairy who wove fairy tales.

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The M.U.S.E. Contest  [E] Currently CLOSED for ideas. by Sage