The whiskey splashed into the glass, slowly filling to just below the rim.  Alvin downed it with a single swallow and began pouring again. They’d cut him off at the bar downstairs, apparently his card didn’t go through last night.  It’s as if it was his fault that he had to drink so much to shut her up.

Oh, hey. What if…what if…what if you wrote a story about…

He downed the second glass  and slammed the glass back down on the table and poured another. It wasn’t even good whiskey. But it was the only thing that would make his Muse shut up. Originally she’d been a blessing. She’d come to him in his sleep one night, when he was struggling to find something to write.  He’d woken up immediately and rattled off nearly 20,000 words by the time the rest of his part of the world was getting out of bed. By lunch time he’d added 10,000 more. His output was unbelievable. THe kind of thing that writers would kill for. He’d finished his first draft by just past dinner. He’d gone downstairs to the pub to celebrate, a few drinks, some greasy food. It had been great. Until he woke up again in the middle of the night with his next idea.

It had been like that for weeks. He’d pound out one finished manuscript when another idea would pop into his head. His Muse wasn’t giving him any time to revise his works. No time to send them off to be rejected or accepted by a publisher. All he had time to do was finish up the perfect idea that he was given, have a small breather, and then hop onto the next idea that his Muse pitched to him.  The real problem was the breaks in between were getting shorter and shorter as he typed his fingers raw.

Or you could go back and continue the one about the Airship pirates. They could find that artifact that was hinted at in the third book…

It had finally gotten to the point where she didn’t even let him finish an idea. Now his apartment was littered not only with completed first drafts of manuscripts, but mountains of half-finished ideas. As soon as he sat down and tried to make some head-way on one of the ideas it was interrupted by a new great idea.  The Muse. Would not. Stop.

He’d tried all sorts of things to quiet her. Marijuana didn’t work. She had started pitching him ideas for themed cookbooks. He’d gotten halfway through his 101 Recipes with Doritos before he’d forced himself to stop that particular madness. Opiates hadn’t helped either. He’d gotten some interesting Sherlock Holmes type fiction out of that week, though.  He’d tried alcohol and it seemed to work at first.  But then one night after binging on some bottom shelf vodka he found himself writing what he had tentatively titled The Next War and Peace. He couldn’t help but feel like that was slightly presumptuous of his Muse.  Rum had resulted in approximately four books on airship pirates.

Finally he had found whiskey. It had to be Scottish or Irish whiskey, of course. Bourbon would just make his Muse start coming up with ideas for the Next Great American Novel. But a handle of Scotch or Irish Whiskey and she would quiet down. He’d managed to mail off a couple of the manuscripts to a publisher or two. And now was waiting to hear back. But Alvin was running out of money. And his Muse was becoming more insistent.

You know what this world needs? The Next Ulysses…

There was only one thing Alvin could think in response to this. Oh shit.

Apropos of: This Prompt


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