Writing Workshop - X
Prompt: "What's the most you've ever paid for something you didn't want?"
This should be fun, I told myself as I picked up The Pocket Muse. It was a small hard bound book in blue-grey with a black spine. 'Endless Inspiration' , the caption claimed. Considering how little I had written in the past few weeks, I felt I could do with some outside help.
"That will be $30.99, Ma'am," said the cashier. Man! It sucks to be in Canada*. I went home, cleared the coffee table and placed The Muse on it. Now it will beckon me everyday, willing me to write instead of being a couch potato.
Two weeks passed.
"Aren't you going to atleast open the book?" asked The Mr, amusement writ all over his face.
"How do you know I haven't? You're anyway never home in the mornings," I countered, though I knew he was right. I've barely gone past the spine.
"I need a new notebook and a fountain pen. I write better with fountain pens." With that I picked the book and moved it to the study. who ever writes sitting at the coffee table? Plus he rarely walks into the study. I can write undisturbed.
The next evening when The Mr entered the study, I was at my writing desk with a beautiful green fountain pen and brand new Van Gogh leather journal by that famous boutique. He stood over me as I calligraphed(is that a verb?) my name - 'Pon. Chidambarakumari'.
"Looks like your name will need a new book all by itself," he joked.
"Very funny," I smirked.
"So how much did all this cost?"
"Plus another 20 odd dollars" I mumbled under my breath and then added, "Creativity is priceless," my voice a tad shrill.
The Mr smiled an all-knowing smile and walked out. I opened The Muse. The 'About The Author' section ran for some 4 pages. What? Who cares about her? Show me The Muse, woman! Realizing this wasn't going to work, I closed the book and re-opened it on a random page.
Page 82: 'Second Follow Up Notice from The Department of Procrastination Prevention'.
I wrote it down neatly in my journal. I shifted myself in the chair, draped my legs over the left arm of the chair, closed my eyes and just sat there. In Anticipation.
The next thing I knew there was a loud noise. I opened my eyes and found the journal on the floor. I must've fallen asleep. I picked up the journal and looked at the prompt. What kind of lame ass prompt is that? And they paid her to publish this? I arranged the journal and The Muse neatly on the desk and walked out. I needed new cushions for the chair.
A pair of silk cushions, a new Feng Shui book, Art for the wall, 2 CDs of inspirational Bach and a box of cookies later, I was back where I started. The Mr greeted me with a raised eyebrow, as I entered the living room. Darn it! How does he do that?
I cleared my throat and announced, "I am going to be a painter."
* Writer's License.
The Missus says: Treat piece as fiction.
The Mr says: Fiction? What about the Muse which is gathering dust since last year :D And the incomplete 'paintings' piling up in the corner of our study?