The Muse

20 Weeks To Go

After shopping we drop off my packages at my apartment. Then we go back to Jo's. We step in and she sighs. Jo takes my coat and hangs it in the closet. She makes a path, clears a space on the sofa and plops down and starts to rub her temples.

"What am I going to do?" She mumbles. She doesn't expect an answer. But I know she has to ask it anyway. I stay quiet and walk over to the little area she uses as a home office. It's in the corner of the living room. It uses a couple of bookcases to wall it off. I always liked this private spot. And by the look of it Hurricane Clove hasn't penetrated the walls. On the shelves of one of the bookcases are books, of course. Mostly reference books with a smattering of fiction, non-fiction and past issues of Vogue.

On the other are three typewriters. An old manual that belonged to her Grandfather. He published a few novels in the forties but is best known as a war correspondent during World War II and the Korean War before settling down in New York to work at one of the various newspapers in town.

The second one is also a manual typewriter. A little bit more modern. This one belonged to her Father. He wrote all his books on this including his best seller "My One Life." I read it in college when I first met Jo. And I read it again once when I was on sick leave. It's a wonderful book whose main character is a tortured writer on the verge of a break down. It was quite autobiographical.

The third one is a small electric Jo used in college. Even though word processors were available to us, she insisted on writing on this typewriter.

On the side desk is a big IBM Selectric. She got it from the magazine when they were throwing them out. She uses it occasionally. She uses it when she thinks about the written word on paper. There is something romantic about that.

And of course there is a Mac desktop and her Macbook also. I look at a pile of pages next to the Selectric. They are a story. I sit down and start to read. She has started to write again. "Hey." I call out.

"Yeah."

"When did you write this?"

"During the week."

I always enjoyed reading Jo's stuff. It's always witty and insightful. Whether it's fiction or commentary. She writes once in a while for the magazine but she mainly edits and decides what goes in, what doesn't and where it goes. "It's good." I comment.

"It's okay." She responds back.

"No. It's good."

"You only have about twenty pages."

"Where's the rest?" In her computer?

"In my head."

"Why isn't it on paper?"

"Because I can't get it out." She gets up and leaves the room.

Jo used to write a lot but never could get anything other than articles and short stories published. I always enjoyed her stuff but what did I know.

I walk to the kitchen and see her looking in the refrigerator. "Want something?" She asks me.

"Yeah. Diet-Coke or Pepsi." She grabs a drink for me and her, hands me mine and walks back out to the living room. "Why did you start writing again?" She looks out the window at the buildings across the street.

"Clove insisted. So one night I sat down and pounded out twenty pages. Just to placate her"

"Why did you stop?"

"There was no more." She has a blank look on her face. Just like her writer's mind now.

"Bull shit." That gets her attention. "There is something in that head of your's to write you just don't think it's good enough." The tension between us is thick. "What did you always tell me. Painters paint, writers wr..." She cuts me off.

"I know the saying. But it's not that easy. I have nothing to put on paper."

"Put down anything. Even if it's shitty. You just need to get back in the game." She starts to make a face. "How much did you write daily in college? Five hundred words a day." She looks up at me.

"Seven fifty."

"So sit down and write seven hundred and fifty words today. And then tomorrow and then the next day. If it's crap, so be it." She gets up and walks around the room. She finally grabs the Macbook and hooks it up to the printer.

"Do me a favor and scan these pages in." She sets up the program and shows me what to do. She then sits down in front of her desktop and starts typing.

I finish scanning in the pages. "What do you want me to do now?"

"Nothing. Read a book, watch TV. Make dinner." She doesn't need me to help her write but I don't want to leave. I text Peeta to tell him I'll be at Jo's for a while.

I sit on the couch and turn on the TV. "Use headphones please." Comes from the makeshift office. I scan the channels and look for something to watch.


"Kat. Wake up." I get poked.

"Peeta. What happened to your voice?" I try to get up but I'm so groggy.

"It's me Jo. You fell asleep."

"Oh shit. I have to get home." I wipe the crap out of my eyes.

"No you don't. It's late. I already spoke to Peeta and told him you were staying here tonight. He left you a voicemail. Have something to eat. You didn't have any dinner." I get up and go to use the bathroom and see it's after midnight.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"Sorry." Is the only response I get as she pecks away at the keyboard.


"Thanks." I hear.

"For what? And what's wrong with your voice." I ask Peeta.

"It's me Clove."

"Oh, hi. What time is it?" I ask her as she covers me with a comforter. "Where's Jo?"

"I put her to bed also. And it's four." I'm still confused why I'm looking at Clove.

"Why are you in my apartment?" She giggles.

"You're in Jo's and thanks for getting her to put down the words that have been swirling around her head."

"Hey. No problem. Good night." Clove starts to walk away. "You know you're her muse."

"I could tell when I looked at the story." Clove says as she makes her way to the bedroom. She's peaked my interest but I'll wait to be shown.

As Clove walks away I realize a few things: First, Jo was right, she hs really good taste. Second, she is really hot. She has this really hot... well enough of this talk, I've got to get some sleep. Good night..