Brain is fried
I’ve been writing for several hours now. I can always tell when it’s a good jag because it feels like a hangover when it’s done.
My muse is like Kramer from Seinfeld, and I’m Jerry. I can be chilling in my apartment or whatever, and he just bursts in the door. After he grabs something in the fridge he sits me down at my computer and says “giddy up!” in that shaky spastic way of his.
I giddy up and 7 to 10 pages later, I sort of snap out of it feeling woozy.
It’s odd shit. I often thought that my muse would be more like Kate Winslet in some bodice ripper movie that I would have to find her, and save her from running her horse off a cliff.
Nope, I’m from NYC and my muse has to be Kramer. Although I did have a choice of such luminaries as Mae West, Jackie Gleason, and Tonto from the original Lone Ranger TV show (he’s from Brooklyn, actually they all are). Although I sort of wish my muse had that tough guy Humprey Bogart deal. But I don’t think I would get any work done, because we’d smoke lucky strikes and drink scotch while making tough guy looks at everyone else in the writers room.
Kramer though, I suppose it could be worse. It could be Mr. Costanza.
