31 Jan 25

“Kerplunking” as a metaphor for our lives

“I’ve got it,” I say to myself, as I type furiously on my current work in progress. Stuck at 50,000 words for more than a week, I’ve been struggling to pull the manuscript together.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea.”

My hands freeze over the keyboard, my concentration broken. Moose, my undependable, unreliable muse, is in the doorway, coffee cup in hoof. I’m not sure how he does it—hold the cup with his hoof.

“Where in blue blazes have you been all week? I’ve needed you.”

“Easy there. I’ve been busy.” He sits on the wingback chair by my desk.

I narrow my eyes. “What’s that hard hat on your head?”

“What hard hat?” He reaches for the top of his head, as if he’s forgotten he’s wearing a hard hat with a light on it, just like the kind…no, it couldn’t be.

“Oh, this hard hat? Do you like the light?” He switches it on.

“Yeah, that. What gives?” I’m sure whatever I was writing prior to his grand entrance has flown from my brain. Resistance is futile.

“I’m going kerplunking later.” He nods.

“Kerplunking?” I struggle not to smile. “What’s kerplunking?”

“Kerplunking. Exploring caves. You know the quintessential metaphor for exploring your inner self, digging deep within to find what you’re made of.”

He smiles, as if he’s waiting for my reaction. “I thought it would add depth to our prose.”

“Our prose? And the word is spelunking. You’re going spelunking.”

“Yeah, that.” Can moose blush? Because it looks like he’s blushing.

“Well, good for you. But what’s your idea this time?” I still haven’t accomplished much with the Christmas story he gave me. But I haven’t tossed it either.

He nods toward the laptop.

“No,” I say. My muscles tense. “No, it is not about my work in progress. You’re not going to change something.” I throw my hands up.

“Hear me out on this.” He sets the mug down. “What if you change the restaurant owner’s name from Adele to Suzanne? I think it would add a bit of pizzazz.” He splays his hooves as if he’s doing jazz hands.

I’m not so sure of the pizzazz, but I’d been thinking about. I have my own reasons for changing the name. “Okay, that sounds reasonable.” I retrieve my pen and write a note on my pad. I turn my attention back to Moose, who’s now totally engrossed in turning the light on his hard hat on and off, as if he’s sending a message.

“Good,” I say, “so we’re done here? I’ve got to get back to writing. I’ve just had a break—”

“Then Suzanne interacts more with your characters. Right? Because there’s gotta be a reason they’re saving her restaurant. I mean you don’t expect strangers to do something like that out of the blue.” He’s referring to my recently added subplot.

“But that would mean I have to go back and change every scene she’s in.  And there are quite a few. And I have to fit those changes around what I’ve already written, so I don’t lose the main plot.”

“Yup.” He nods. He stares into my eye. Oh, God. It’s a done deal.

“Okay, it makes sense. I’ll rewrite all those scenes.” I shrug. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Hey, by the way.” He picks up the mug. “You got any cookies to go with this coffee?”

I know I’m going to regret this. “Yeah, in the pantry. Help yourself.”

He jumps up and leaves the room. It’s my chance to start working on the changes. Easiest is the name change. I haven’t gotten far when Moose returns.

“I helped myself to another cup of coffee.” He raises the hoof with the mug. “And these cookies,”—he raises the other hoof holding three Oreos— “are amazing. Who knew Oreo made megastuff.”

He chomps on one. I go back to work. For a few moments, the only sound I hear is his chewing. Then…

“Now, you know that scene where everyone is talking about saving the restaurant?” He sips his coffee.

I groan. “You do know I’m in the middle of making your earlier changes?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” He tosses another cookie down his throat.

“Well, we need to ramp up the tension between Murphy and Noah. So we’re going to move that scene up a couple of pages. You know, place it in the middle of their separation—where they’re still angry with each other. That would make the scene less boring.”

“Boring?” You think the scene is boring?”

My muse shrugs. “Can you imagine the dialogue you can get? And the mixed emotions? Murphy could be thinking…”

“All right.” I sigh. Maybe it is boring. And it does sound like a good idea. “But that would require a total rewriting of that scene.”

“Yep, it would.” He takes a long gulp of coffee. “But you’re rewriting those other scenes anyway. What’s one more?”

Before I can answer, he rises. “Well, I hope our conversation has given you something to think about. I think it’ll help. Don’t you?”

“Wait. Aren’t you going to stick around? I mean, I need your help here. You’re the one who comes up with—”

“Nope. You can take it from there. I’ve got an appointment with a cave. You know, I do the heavy lifting in this relationship. I’m going to crawl through grottoes, I’m going to check out stalagmites. I’m searching for our inner depth, remember?”

He steps toward the door. “Remember, kerplunking is a metaphor for our lives. I’m digging deep so you can benefit. Tallyho.”

“It’s spelunking,” I remind him, as a stare at my manuscript.

24 Jan 25

When the 3 am idea strikes

I may be mistaken. Or I may be dreaming. But it feels as if someone is prying my eyes open. Someone or something is tugging at my eyelids. Then I hear the voice. That very familiar voice.

“I’ve got an idea. A brilliant idea for a story.” I open one eye. Moose, my writing muse, scrutinizes it, as he hovers over me.

“No, wait! Better yet! It’s an incredibly imaginative idea for a series. There’s no telling how many books you can get out of this.”

He examines my eye from several angles. “Are you in there?”

I’m barely in there.“What time is it?” I slowly bring my hands to my forehead, rubbing it, ending with circular massages at my temples. I finally gain the courage to open both eyes.

Moose leans over toward the nightstand. “Three am,” he says a bit too brightly.

“Can’t this idea wait until, uhm, maybe 8 am?” But I know the answer. This isn’t the first time my muse has nudged me awake to announce his ideas. To be honest, usually, they are good ideas. Brilliant? Well, okay, I’ll hand it to Moose, occasionally.

“So what’s this story about?” I pull myself up into a sitting position and grab the notebook on the nightstand, along with the pen. I told you he’s done this before. My pen is poised over a blank page.

Moose sits on the edge of my bed. That’s when I spot it. “What are you wearing?”

“This?” he asks innocently, making a Vanna White gesture over her garb.

“Yes, that.” It’s the only thing on his moose’s body. And it’s odd. “Is that a…tutu?”

He has a yellow, frilly fabric around his waist. When he sat, the layered edges popped up.

“It is!” He stands, then pirouettes. He has amazing balance for an animal his size. “Do you like it?”

“Why? Why are you wearing a tutu? At three”—I check the clock—“ten in the friggin’ morning?” My patience is running low.

“Because I was dancing.” He pliés.

 “Of course. Silly of me to ask.” I’m very aware that it’s an ungodly hour, I was awakened from a good dream, and my only desire is to get back to sleep. “So what’s this idea that can’t wait till the sun rises?”

“Okay.” He sits on the edge of the bed. There’s that spark in his eye. “So you know how Santa makes toys?”

No inspirational revelation there. I nod. Did I say my patience is getting short?

“What does he do with the leftovers? I mean, how does Santa know exactly how many toys to make?”

“Well he keeps a list,” I say. “And he just knows.”

“You’re not getting it. What if Santa had an overstock? What would he do with them? You know, Mrs. Claus wouldn’t want them cluttering up her house, would she? I see divorce papers in Nick’s future if that happened.”

Finally, it hits me. I know exactly what he’s talking about. “Brilliant. You’re right.” I take furious notes.

“And you know, Santa isn’t the only one with magic. Mrs. Claus has a bit of undiscovered magic as well.”

“Oh. My. God. She does. That’s it.” I stop writing.

Moose grins. “I told you it was brilliant.”

“You did.” I write down the ideas that come to me.

“Well, that’s all I wanted to tell you.” Moose glances at the clock. “It’s already 3:30! I’m late for my ballet lesson. Toodles,” he says as he chasses out the bedroom door.

“Thank you!” I call after him. I put the notebook and pen back on the nightstand. And get cozy in bed.

Such a good idea. I’m creating the setting and characters as I finally get back to sleep.

The next morning, I’m ready to start this story. I make myself coffee, boot up the computer, and retrieve the notebook from the nightstand.

As I settle in, I try to read my handwriting. I can make barely make it out. No worries, though, I know how this story is going.

I sip my coffee as I call up a new document. And I stare at the page. How am I even going to start this? Who do I introduce first? How do I describe the location?

“Moose, I need your help!” I call out into what feels like the void.

No answer. “Moose, I really could use your assistance. It’s about the idea you gave me last night.”

Still no answer. I’m about to call a third time when I hear splashing. What? Did I leave the shower on?

I jump out of the chair and sprint to the bathroom. I open the door I don’t remember closing…

Moose is in the bathtub surrounded by a gazillion bubbles, reading a book. A towel hangs from each of his antlers. He glances up at me. “How’s the writing going?” Moose asks he reaches for a fluted glass.

“Is that champagne?” My hands are on my hips.

“Yes, I’m celebrating.” He sips some, then replaces it on the edge of the tub. “I’ve moved up a grade in my ballet lessons.”

“That’s great. But,” —I take a deep breath, trying not to show my irritation— “I’m trying to write that story idea you gave me last night. I could use your help.”

“Oh, that?” He waves a hoof. “Can’t help you right now. I’m reading. You know digging deep into that well of inspiration by collecting ideas, experiencing the variety.” He glances up at me, his glasses low on his muzzle. “But, when I’m done maybe we can set a date, a time…you know to discuss it.”