My Shorts, and Flash Fictions - 11. The Bipolar Writer’s Muse

“Well, it seems like now is a good time to write,” I said to myself as I sat down at the kitchen table, with my laptop, notebook, a cup of coffee and some mechanical pencils. I had done all the other tasks I had set for myself and had the house alone for a few hours. Only me and roomie’s dog, I liked it like that. Having grown up mired in depression, and diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I found solitude to be my refuge from others. No one can judge you if you’re alone.

As I waited for the six-year-old laptop to fire up, I sipped on my coffee, and looked over my notes and talked to myself, “So, who is talking to me today? Is it AJ and Tommy, or Aeris and Will? I so need to work on Devin and Brandon’s story. That one has a deadline to make it into the Fall Anthology, but they aren’t talking today… Heh, Evan is screaming at me to let him find Marcus.”

Time passed, as I logged into my laptop, started up the programs I needed, and finally had a blank Word Document that stared at me in the face… “FUCK!!! I hit that mental wall, again.”

I wasn’t sure if it was an overactive mind, or my disorder messing with me, or something else, but no one was talking. They did, while I getting ready, but now they didn’t utter a sound. “What the fuck. I had everything ready, and now I can’t work on anything. God, I am such a loser.”

“No, you’re not,” a voice said to me.

I paused my verbal assault on myself and looked around the room. “Who’s there?” I asked.

“Someone who is here to help you,” the voice responded, as a mysterious tall person materialized in next to me.

“I know I am not off my meds, and I’m bipolar, not some paranoid delusionist… so what in the world is you,” I asked the stranger. It was only now that I realized he was gorgeously tall, well built with hazel colored eyes, and jet black hair. He had some Native American in him, and the shocker was he was stark naked. I couldn’t help myself but look at his ample endowment.

I barely recovered from my shock when he spoke again. “You’re not hallucinating, and this is not related to your mental disorder. I’m your muse, and I am here to help you.” He pulled up a seat and sat next to me. “You can call me Spirit.”

“Alright, Spirit. I’ll play along for a while, but I’m feeling like I’m going crazy here.”

“Don’t be. Many writers interact with their muses in their own ways. You wouldn’t believe who talks openly, in front of non-writers with theirs. Let’s just say, they are repeatedly on the best sellers list.”

I chuckled some, as I remember reading about that somewhere, and then remembered my manners. “Would you like some coffee, or some of the roomie’s unsweet ice tea? Some underwear or a blanket?”

He laughs and shakes his head no. “I’m fine, but if you want me to cover myself, I can.”

“That might be for the best. To type, I’ll need both hands for the keyboard.” We both laugh at my crude joke, and in the blink of an eye, he has clothes on; a plain white t-shirt and black athletic shorts.

“Now, are you ready to write?”

“I am now, but I’m stuck with this mental block. It keeps happening.”

“I understand. The Great Spirits which created all things gave you additional hurdles to overcome. It wasn’t for spite, but so that you will know how significant it was for you to accomplish what you set. Look at what you already have done? You have several stories published, both online and in print. Wonderful writing friends and people that support you…” Spirit paused, and rubbed my shoulder. His smile lit my heart, and his voice sounded like a summer zephyr blowing across wind chimes. “Now, who is talking to you?”

I turn back to my notebook and look at what’s written there, “Devin and Brandon, are talking to me the most, as their story needs to be done soon. Though, I may condense it, as it’s getting to be too big for the anthology.”

“Why only for the anthology? You can easily publish it separately, and note it as inspired by the anthology theme.”

“I could do that.”

“Keep in mind, as you work, but I know you will do well.”

“Thanks,” I said blushing at his praise. I started typing losing all sense of time, as I wrote on my anthology piece. As I typed, I heard Spirit as he walked around the house, as he played with the dog, and got me another cup of coffee, when finally I heard the roomie’s car pull into the driveway.

“I have to go now, but I will be around when you need me.”

“Thanks, Spirit. I appreciated the help.”

With a smile, he dematerialized, as my roomie walked in through the front door. Though I was now without him there physically, I still felt him near me, as I wrote my story.

The End.