The Wandering Muse
by Michael A. Kay

 

“I am having the most terrible of troubles with my writings, you know, doctor.”

Dr. Leopold Fieklegrubber peered across his desk, his close-set eyes blinking rapidly as his short, plump fingers formed themselves into a steeple, as if of their own accord. His visitor, the well renowned gentleman author Siegfried Aftagut, looked back, calmly, and adjusted his spectacles with a nonchalant forefinger.

“Can you help me, doctor?”

The doctor coughed politely, and rose from his desk, moving towards the room’s only window. He gained nothing in stature or in height as the tall, wide window which gave the office such an illusion of openness dwarfed his stout little frame. Several stories below them the tendrils of Vienna unfolded and sprawled, metal skyscrapers glinting in the mid-afternoon sunshine, and the doctor rose to the balls of his feet in pleasure as his doughy features were bathed in the warm glow.

“Well,” began the distinguished little physician, hands firmly clasped behind his back, “can you explain to me the extent of your condition?” He turned back towards the other man, head to one side and still blinking. “Do you, for example, have problems concentrating when you are writing? Or is the problem perhaps more with thinking of things to write about in the first place? Tell me.”

The other thought about this, hand on chin, then looked up, brow knitted tightly in concentration. “Dr. Fieklegrubber, the problem arises when I try to think of a new idea. The problem arises also when I want to work upon something I have perhaps already started, or that someone else has written for me. The problem arises both when I try to force an idea and when I attempt to allow one to come naturally. In short, doctor, it is a ridiculous writer’s block.”

“It has lasted long?”

“Many months now. I am completely incapable of writing anything interesting; I must resort to factual accounts and architectural reviews.”

“Hmmm. It is as if, maybe, your muse has deserted you, yes?”

Aftagut sat back slightly in surprise, his eyebrows raised. “What an intriguing thing to say. From a medical man I should not expect such a thing?”

Dr. Fieklegrubber placed both hands on his desk and leant heavily on it, leaning in close to Mr. Aftagut and holding a desperate and intense kind of eye contact. “Mr. Aftagut,” he started, quietly, “Please understand that this is not the first case of its type that I have encountered in my career. But perhaps it is to be the first that I can observe at such close quarters. I must confess to being quite excited.”

There was a pause, into which Siegfried Aftagut interjected a tentative: “Yes…?”

“I think that, perhaps, maybe, we have here a case of a wandering Muse…? You understand me?” He blinked compulsively.

“Not entirely…” admitted Aftagut, arms folded incredulously.

Fieklegrubber sat down again, and, enveloped in his overly padded swivel chair, felt comfortable enough to expound his theory to a sceptical audience. More blinking. “You see, imagination is a most fickle thing; it is brought, of course, by your Muse, a spirit or entity quite non-corporeal in nature, and quite nomadic. It does not like to be confined to any one place - and by place, I mean of course mind - for too long.”

“Indeed…?”

“Thus, when a Muse gets bored, as is want to happen periodically, and desires to move on, it does so, providing its benefits to another soul with whom you are sharing its attentions. Normally, my research suggests, a Muse will only move between two people, sometimes a third, but never more. For as well as being famously nomadic, Muses are also notoriously lazy.”

Aftagut glanced around the office again; odd, it seemed a fairly respectable place to work. The plants, at least, were the right colours, and the paintings were hung the right way up. The desk was tidy. It all looked sane enough; perhaps the good doctor appreciated a good juxtaposition, he thought, absently poking at his spectacles.

“If your theory is correct: how would you propose to find the other man currently in possession of my Muse?” he inquired, with the curiosity of a man who is following a darkened path at night only to see where it goes.

“This is quite simple,” was the reassuring response. “You must first draw up a productivity graph.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. Simply plot the number of works you turn out in a given period against time.” The doctor used a piece of paper and a pencil grasped between stubby fingers to illustrate his point. “It is likely that you will see a pattern: long periods of productivity followed by lulls of equal length. This length is the attention span of the Muse; all you must then do is find the man whose productivity graph is the exact opposite of yours. He is productive when you are not, and vice versa.”

“Ah.”

“You think you can do this?”

“Yes, why not? Only, how am I to know where to start to look for this man? Could he not be anywhere? Could he not live in Spain, for instance, or America?”

“Muses only speak one language; I have told you they are lazy. Your ‘other half’, as I will speculatively call him, most likely resides somewhere quite nearby. Possibly right here in Vienna.”

Aftagut raised his eyebrows. “I see. And when I find this man, what then? I should, perhaps, ask him to give me back my Muse?”

“Yes, you could do that,” nodded the doctor, sagely, “but I doubt that this course of action will be a very productive one for you.”

“No?”

“No. You understand that he has as little control over the Muse as you do. If you are to regain control of it from him, the only sure way to obtain it is to remove the other man from the Muse’s future plans.”

“Oh? And how are you suggesting I do this?”

“You bring him to me, and I shall… deal… with him.”

“Deal?”

“Unless, of course, you wish to kill him…?”

“But that is absurd!”

“Regrettable.”

“It is impossible!”

“Challenging.”

“You surely could not condone such a course of action, doctor?”

Dr. Fieklegrubber smiled amiably. “My job is to ensure the welfare of my clients. This other man is stealing your livelihood with his continued existence, is he not? You are not making a living from your writings these days?”

There was a pensive silence. “You are right, I suppose…”

“You have drawn such a graph as I have described?”

“I have.”

“Might I see it?”

“You might.”

Aftagut passed the sheet of paper across the desk and looked around the office again. Something was different from the last time he had been here, but he couldn’t for the life of him put his proverbial finger on it. He did like those curtains, though.

Dr. Fieklegrubber studied the graph intently, blinking profusely, and then looked over the top of it at its originator. “Your Muse has a long attention span,” he remarked, mildly.

“So it would seem,” Aftagut nodded congenially. “But tell me, doctor,” he added, leaning forward in his chair, “how it is that such a man as you can come up with the truth of such a theory as this when no other man has?” He adjusted his spectacles with an inexplicably nervous gesture. “You must have quite an impressive Muse yourself?”

“So it would seem,” parodied the doctor, putting down the graph, his tone suddenly colder, harder. “And it is staying with me.” He smiled malevolently.

So that was what had been different about the room.

-Michael A. Kay, a nineteen year old student of the History and Philosophy of Science at the University of Leeds, is quite happy. He is is happy because this is his first paid publication, although he has been published previously in Jupiter Scifi and Planet Magazine Online. He has been pestering his family and friends with his irrepressible urge to write short stories since he was thirteen, and doesn't intend to stop now just because he has university essays due in. He has no idea what he's going to do with his degree, but harbours aspirations to journalism. He loves history. And science. And people fascinate him. However, he is no good at writing bios.

 

 

 

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