My Worst Critic

A conversation with the voice inside my head.

Darkness crept over the town.
“No, that’s not good”
It all started when Margaret received a mysterious letter.
“Nope…try again.”
I sighed and stopped typing. "This is no good," I said to myself. " I don’t have enough experience to draw on. I've gotten one scary letter in my whole life.”
“It was a birthday invitation from your cousin, Beatrice. Not exactly scary”, my muse reminded me.
"So? She still gives me the creeps. She used to roam around the front yard looking for live grasshopppers to eat," I told him. But, nevertheless, I kept writing.
It was a dark and stormy night.
“Whoa! How original is that, Mark? You conjure that one up all on your own, buddy?”, my muse asked sarcastically.
"Not a chance. But all good horror stories start like that. Well, most of the classics. Ugh…ok, scratch that opening.”
If my muse had an actual face, I would have punched it. Well, may that’s not entirely true. As a writer, I know more often than not your own personal horror story starts by looking in the mirror.
"Oh, shut up," I muttered and continued writing.
Margaret was having trouble getting to sleep that night. She was writing in her journal when suddenly she heard a hard knock at the door. Choosing not to investigate, she decided it was merely the wind and rain and nothing more.
“Ooooh, Probably someone delivering that horrifying birthday invitation”, my muse said mockingly.
"Nope, much more scarier than that." I shook my head and I started typing again.
Margaret nodded off for a few minutes, but was reawakened by rapping at the window. Was it a spectre come to torment her?
“Maybe it was her cousin come to see if she was coming to his party.”
"Huh? What are you talking about?" I said, blinking.
“What a shame.”, muse asked with a tone that suggested he was shaking his head…if he had one.
"Whatever”, I said.

Sitting on her window ledge was a rather large grey rat.
My muse muttered, “Honestly, dude . . .”
The rat looked up at Margaret. "Hello young lady. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Herbert."
“Herbert? Seriously?”, my muse asked.
“Shush!”, I exclaimed.
Margaret screamed in fear. When they first moved to the big city, her parents had always warned her about talking rats, but she had never taken heed of their warnings. Who would guess that she would actually meet one!
"See! I bet you a million bucks that hasn't been published yet!", I exclaimed.
“Only because no decent publisher would want that sort of Poeish cliché garbage,” my muse snickered back at me.
The rat kept talking despite the young girl’s shrieks. "I have here for you a mysterious letter,” said the rat holding out an envelope with his tiny hands.
“Hey, Mark. Doesn’t her cousin know about the U.S. Postal Service?”
“Shut up! It’s not an invitation! Besides, what’s so scary about the U.S. Postal Service?”, I barked back at my muse.
My muse couldn’t help but chuckle back, “Are you kidding me?”
Margaret opened the letter slowly.
“Oh, you have such a way of building suspense.” my muse said, mocking me to no end.
"Hey, this is some good scary stuff I have here. You gotta give it time to build up some more.” I countered.
My muse simply let out a long groan.
The rat took a bow and disappeared into a flash of light that seemed to come down from the sky. Was it an alien disguised as a rat?
“Oh, please turn it into a science-fiction story. You know you're better at that genre,” Muse pleaded.
I conceded and sighed. "Fine."
Before Margaret could open the envelope, there was another knock at her window. The young girl prayed it wasn't that creepy grey rat again. But alas, it was an owl. The owl extended his wing and introduced himself as ‘Oliver’. He also claimed to have a very important message for Margaret. But the letter he brought could not be opened until the clock struck midnight.
“Ok, talking rats and owls, strange letters, clocks striking midnight…this is greatly way too cliché,” advised my muse.
I rolled my eyes. "Fine. Then tell me where I need to go with this?”
“Hmmm . . . how about vampires from outer space?”, my muse suggested.
“Nope”
“How about a guy who gets sucked into a video game and has to play the games to survive?”
“Already been done, my friend.”, I sighed.
“Ok, then how about a story where they use meat as a source of fuel for automobiles?”
“Now who’s coming up with silly ideas.”, I mocked back.
“Okay, this is just plain sad. You can’t come up with anything to write tonight? Antything?”, Muse asked.
"No, I can’t conjur up any decent plots. Besides, it’s not up to me. That’s your job! You are supposed to give me the ideas! What good are you, anyway? I spent half the night just sitting here, staring at a screen and arguing with you about…”
My eyes widened.
"That's it!”, I practically leaped out of my chair.
"You're not going to let me go to bed early tonight, are you?" my muse asked rhetorically.
“No, my friend. We’re just getting started!”