Paul's Muse

Paul Matthews stared at the blank page in front of him. He'd gone into his small office right after breakfast, and it was now nearly noon. Try as he might, there just wasn't anything he wanted to write about. At least, nothing he hadn't written about before.
Last week's effort produced part of a novella about vampires and witchcraft. Paul felt the writing was pretty tight, and he was pleased with the smooth, easy way the words flowed onto the page.
But then, he ran into a wall. The words began to spit and sputter, finally grinding to a halt in the wee hours of Sunday morning.
On Monday, he expected to open a new notebook and relish in the joyful dance of pen on paper, until a sore arm or cramped fingers halted the process. But, his mind was still as blank as the paper.
All authors fear writer's block, and Paul was no exception. Two years ago, he'd given up the security of a 9-to-5 job to devote all his time to writing. It was hard at first, but each time one of his short stories was published, it opened the door to something else. Each paycheck was larger than the one before, and his feeling of financial security returned.
Paul was called the 'anything-and-everything guy,' because he wrote about so many different subjects. His bio listed everything from a report about a savage dingo attack in Australia, to a romantic thriller, set in Egypt. He truly had the knack for writing. The fact that it allowed him to work at home only sweetened the deal. Life was good.
Until today.
Rubbing his temples, Paul felt like a horse straining at the bit. C'mon, what is this? Writing was never this hard before. All I want is one little idea. Is that asking too much?
With every child's uncanny ability to interrupt at the worst possible moment, Elly swung the door wide open, causing it to bounce off the wall.
"Hi, Daddy!" she said, squirming under one of Paul's arms and up to a knee. "Whatcha doin'?"
Deep breath, Paul said to himself. Count to ten.
"Daddy's working, honey." he said, with exaggerated patience. "I thought we had a rule about not bothering Daddy when he's in his office?"
Elly's smile slid down her face, until it turned into a pout.
"I'm sorry, Daddy." she said. "I did-ent think you were busy, so I brought you a cookie."
Her offering was once a chocolate chip cookie. But, the indistinguishable shape that laid in the little girl's outstretched hand was a gooey mess. The chocolate had melted onto her fingers, where it mingled with the grime of her morning's sandbox play.
"Uh...no, thank you, honey." Paul said, wracking his brain for an excuse. "Daddy can't eat the cookie because...because...it might make me want more cookies!" he finished, with relief. "And, if I have to go and get more cookies, I won't be doing my work, will I?"
Patty thought this over with all the concentration of a four year old.
"Now, Daddy needs to get back to work," Paul said, "so, why don't you go see if Mommy needs your help in the kitchen?"
"OK, Daddy! Bye!" Elly leaned around him to wave at the computer. "Bye!"
With the door closed (and locked, this time), Paul sighed. The paper on his desk seemed to be mocking him. He could almost hear it saying, Why did you come back? You won't do anything more than you've already done...which is nothing!
"Aw, shut up." he grumbled.
Turning on the computer, he started the word processor. Maybe, if I just start typing, he thought, something might pop into my head.
'Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country...Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country...Now is the time...'
Just then, Janie called him to lunch.
As Paul reached to shut off the computer, he brushed a post-it note that read, "Save! Save! Save!"
Save what? he asked himself, and wished for his old Underwood typewriter, so he could slam the lid down on it.
.....
Elly's incessant pre-school chatter entertained them through lunch. When she finally bounded away from the table, she called over her shoulder, "Say Hi to Bluto."
"Who's Bluto?" Janie asked, when Paul carried his dish to the sink.
"Bluto? I don't know." Paul said. "I thought she was talking to you."
"I don't know any Bluto." Janie replied. "On your way back upstairs, could you carry that basket of laundry for me?"
"Yeah, sure." he said, dreading the thought of having to face that blank screen again.
.....
Paul stared absently out the window, his cigarette smoke drawing lazy curlicues in the air. He was trying one of his last resort tricks. First, he'd pick a distant target to focus on. Once he memorized it, he'd close his eyes and try to draw it on the inside of his eyelids. Somewhere in the middle of all this, an idea would pop up, and he'd be off and running again. It had always worked before.
Flowers...pretty colors...carnival (did that). Soft petals...romance (did that). Jagged edged leaves...teeth...vampires (did that). Knife...detectives...mystery (did that). Surgical knife...hospitals? Doctors? Hmm...
Elly knocked timidly on the door.
"Daddy? Can I bring you a pop?"
Feeling bad about chasing her away earlier, he called, "Of course, honey. Thank you!"
Quick as a flash, she was back at the door, struggling with two different kinds of pop and several cookies. Carefully arranging the soda and cookies on the table, she took one over to the small shelf behind the computer.
"That's for Bluto." she said. "I have to take my nap now. Bye!"
Maybe Daddy should join you, Paul thought. I'm sure not doing much here. Now, what was that idea I had...?
.....
The computer screen remained stubbornly blank for three more days.
Paul tried flipping through encyclopedias...phone books...even Janie's sewing pattern books. He went for long rides and even longer walks.
Then, for lack of anything better to do, he went through his files and trashed the useless stuff. After that, he cleaned out the cabinets and closets. The shredder tirelessly ground away at pile after pile of paperwork, reducing it to confetti.
That done, he pulled the fuzzy duster out of the closet, climbed onto a chair and started to dust the shelves. Before long, he was hacking and wheezing. Inwardly, he cursed himself for demanding that Janie stay out of his office. As a housekeeper, he stunk.
Some of the fuzz got stuck on the shelf hook and he pulled harder on the duster, trying to dislodge it. The shelf shifted and three books tumbled off, falling behind the computer.
Taking a deep breath, Paul got down on his knees and crawled under the table, through the dust bunnies, to reach the books. May as well clean this while I'm down here, he thought. Boy, if Janie could see me now!
As he worked, he remembered the cookie. Better pick that up before the ants find it. But when he reached the shelf, it was gone.
Good girl! Paul thought, inwardly congratulating Elly for picking up after herself.
.....
"Night, night, Daddy!" Elly cried, as she blasted through the office door, scaring Paul out of his wits.
"Honey! Don't do that to Daddy! You really scared me."
"I'm sorry, Daddy. I did-ent mean to."
"That's OK, baby." Paul soothed. "It's just that Daddy was reading a scary book, and when you came running in..."
"How come you're reading, Daddy? I thought you were s'posed to be writing."
"Well, let's just say, Daddy's having trouble finding his muse right now." he said.
"What's a muse?"
Paul laughed. "It's a silly superstition that some authors have, about a little man who supposedly gives us our ideas for what to write about."
"Oh, like Bluto!" Elly said. "Are you trying to find him? Cuz I know where he is!"
"What?"
"You said you could-ent find your muse." she repeated, patiently. "And, a muse is a little man, like Bluto."
She ran around to the back of the computer, where the little shelf was.
"I know where he is." she pointed. "He's right there!"
"Oh, you have a new little friend, do you?" Paul said. "Tell me, did he eat that whole cookie? Or, did you clean it up like a good girl?"
"I did-ent take it. Bluto ate it." she said. "He likes cookies! I'll show you."
She raced off to the kitchen, while Paul sat, shaking his head. What an imagination she has! I should be asking her for ideas.
She returned, pouting.
"Mommy does-ent have any more cookies. All she gave me was a cracker." She held it up to show Paul. "I don't know if Bluto likes crackers."
"Well honey, the only way to find out is to try." Paul said. "You never know. He might love them."
"OK, Daddy. I'll try." She laid the cracker on the shelf.
Paul came around to watch, enjoying playing Pretend with his daughter.
"Well, what do you think?" he asked. "Does he like them?"
To his surprise, the cracker wiggled...tilted...and one side lifted up. A tiny piece snapped off and, crumb by crumb, began to disappear.
.....
"Daddy, are you OK?"
Paul had landed on his bottom and was crab-crawling backwards, away from the computer.
"I'll go get Mommy!" Elly said, eyes wide.
"No! No, wait." Paul held up one hand to stop her. "C'mere, baby."
She waddled over and crawled into his lap. Paul pointed at the shelf.
"Do you...do you see a little man on the shelf, honey?"
"Uh-huh."
Paul took a deep breath. While he talked, the cracker continued to disappear, bit by bit.
"What does he look like?"
"He looks like Bluto." Elly said. "Like the cartoon. Is Bluto your muse, Daddy?"
"I don't know." Paul said, softly, as if in a daze.
"I'll ask him." Elly said, and before Paul could catch her, she hurried over to the shelf. "Are you my Daddy's muse?" she asked, hands on hips, in a perfect imitation of her mother. "What? I can't hear you." she said, bending closer.
Paul's heart was in his throat.
"Maybe you shouldn't get so close, baby." he ventured. Could Bluto hurt her?
Elly giggled. "That tickles!" she said, rubbing her ear. "OK, I'll tell him."
Turning to Paul, she said, "Bluto says he is your muse! But, he can not help you anymore, cuz you don't believe in him."
"Huh?" Paul said, while Elly bent to listen again.
"Bluto says he helped you lots of times." she reported. "He says to 'member the time you wrote about the bad guys in the desert."
Paul's mind was wrenched back to the day when he sat on his bed, writing about the three men in black. When he finished the chapter, he sat back to re-read it, thinking, this is good stuff! He knew it was his hand that put the words on the page, but he'd always felt like someone else had done the writing. It certainly wasn't his idea. His outline had nothing about villains in it.
"I remember." he said, in a whisper. Turning to his daughter, he asked, "Did Bluto write that?"
"Uh-huh. And, he says he helped write the fairy tale, too."
"Yeah, that's right! Paul thought. I was stuck on that one, too. Really stuck. But then, I got the idea about the dragon...
"Baby, ask Bluto why I can't see him."
"I told you, Daddy. Cuz you don't believe in him." she said. "Why don't you believe in him? 'Specially since he helps so much?"
"I always felt there was someone else there." he said, to himself. "I knew it wasn't all me...the words would come so fast...and the ideas. They'd appear out of nowhere! Just when I needed them, too."
Glancing back at the shelf, he saw a vague outline of a man, no more than six inches tall! Hoping this was a breakthrough, he searched for something more to say.
"Bluto? Do you mind being called Bluto?"
The little man shrugged, and Paul realized he could see the man's face, now. Keep talking!
"Where do you live? Do you stay here? I mean, where do you stay when you're not...helping me? he asked.
Bluto spread his arms to indicate the shelf.
"You sleep there?"
A nod. The man's image had filled in so well that Paul could see his tiny suspenders and the miniature laces in his boots.
"Would you like something better?" Paul asked.
A shrug, at first. Then, a nod.
"Baby," he asked Elly, "Do you have a dolly bed that Bluto can use?"
"No, Daddy." Elly said, sadly. "My dolly bed is too big."
Then, her face brightened. "Mommy's minis!" she cried, referring to Janie's miniature collection.
"Yeah," Paul agreed, "they'd be just right!"
.....
A year later, Paul stood next to his desk, pointing to the same small shelf, while cameras flashed. It was elaborately furnished with everything imaginable. A miniature four-poster bed, with velvet curtains. A perfect little living room set, complete with tiny electric lights. And, a one-of-a-kind working jacuzzi!
"I owe it all to my muse!" he told the reporter. "Without him, I wouldn't be where I am today!"
The photographer set up a couple more shots...Paul, squatted down next to the shelf, pretending to listen to Bluto's advice...and then, acting like he was shaking hands with an imaginary man on his shoulder.
Of course, neither the reporter nor the photographer could see the tiny man sitting in the spa, making fun of the whole procedure. It was all Paul could do to keep from laughing out loud when Bluto dropped his trunks and mooned them!
.....
"Eccentric millionaires, eh?" the photographer said to the reporter, as they loaded up their van.
"Gave me the creeps!" the reporter said. "Especially the way he kept talking to the shelf, like there was really someone there." He shook his head. "I'm just glad to be outta there."
"Yeah? But, what if it's true?" the photographer asked. "That guy's had three best-sellers in a row. He's got more money than his grandkids will know what to do with. Why, he's as famous as Stephen King! I wish I had an invisible guy to sit on my shoulder and tell me where the best pictures were going to be."
.....
Later, in the darkroom, the photographer was washing a close-up of Bluto's tiny bathroom when he noticed a blemish in the picture. Squinting, he reached for the magnifying glass. What is that?
Suddenly, his eyes went wide. I don't believe it! he thought. That guy was on the level!
The tiny jacuzzi was the focus of the picture. And just above the waterline, there was the faintest outline of a miniature butt.