7 Mar 25

“Women love a penitent man.”

I’m staring at a blank document. You know the type of document Jodi Picoult said you can’t edit. It seems I can’t even get any words on it.

“Terry, guess who I found?” It’s Moose’s voice. I guess won’t be editing this page for a while.

“It’s hard to say. Who did you find?”

Moose has been suspiciously out of the house all morning. He left bright and early, and was very evasive about where he was going. Martin, my slightly used character, on the other hand, has been in the kitchen creating a myriad of foods. Not anything with eggs, mind you. We’ve put the omelets on hold for a while.

You’d think I’d be able to get some writing done. Maybe I can’t write without interruptions. It’s a terrifying thought.

Moose saunters up to the doorway. “It’s somebody you know,” he sings.

“That could be anybody,” I sing back, hitting a high note I didn’t know I had. “Just tell me.” Really, where did Moose get all this energy?

He walks into the room, turns toward the hallway, and points a hoof at a man.

“Where did you find him?” I leap out of my seat and sprint to him. “Blake, what are you doing here?”

Blake Teesdale is a character from my books. We first meet him in Rewrites of the Heart. He’s the creation of JJ Spritely, romance author. He and Alex Zurich are her characters who jump out of their story to help JJ write her own love story—with varying degrees of success.

“Terry, it’s been a while,” he says, his black hair waving as he bends down to hug me. “Moose found me at the library. He said you needed my help?” His English accent is pronounced.

“He did?” I turn to Moose. “Why do I need Blake’s help?” Then I turn back to Blake. “It’s not that I don’t love you. I’m just at a loss of why Moose would search you out.”

Moose puts his hooves on his hips. Wow, I didn’t even know moose had hips. Anyway, he’s giving me this look like I’m lost.

“Because he’s needed.” Moose harrumphs.

“For what?” He may be a good muse, but sometimes he’s rather cryptic.

Moose sighs a frustrated sigh. “What is this man?”

I sigh a frustrated sigh back.

That’s when Blake interrupts us. “If I may make a slight suggestion, this conversation would go a lot smoother if you both just get to the point, mates.”

I steal a glance at Moose. “Yeah, mate,” I say, “get to the point. Why do I need Blake?”

“Because he’s a romance hero, and you have someone in your kitchen right now—”

Clank! Bang! Clash!

The noises are coming from the kitchen. Perfect timing.

“It’s all right!” Martin yells. “I’m perfectly fine. And I’ll pay for whatever I broke.”

“You better,” I say. I walk past Blake on my way to the kitchen. Wait a minute. How is Martin going to pay for anything? He doesn’t have a job. I wonder if the IRS would accept broken kitchen items as a business deduction. I shake my head. Probably not.

I walk into the kitchen, the large mixer is on the floor, what once was a large glass bowl is now shattered, and some type of batter is everywhere.

“Bloody hell!” Blake said. “What happened here?”

“I had a slight”— Martin eyes my character—“who are you?” “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

Moose steps around the shards of glass. Not an easy feat (no pun intended) for a Moose. “No, Martin, you don’t, but I’m hoping you two will become fast friends.”

I’m standing in my own kitchen, with two fictional characters and a muse. And somehow the muse seems to be taking charge of the situation. When did I lose control?

“You see,” he says, ignoring my dirty look, “Blake is a real romance hero.”

Ahem. Blake puffs up his chest. I shake my head.

“And I thought maybe he could help you learn the ropes of the job.”

I groan.

“What? What’s wrong with Blake?” Moose asks.

“What is wrong with me?” Blake crosses his arms over his chest.

 “If you recall, I helped you create him,” Moose said.

“You did.” I nod.

“And everyone loves him.”

I sigh. “They do.”

Moose smiles. “And isn’t that the point of a romance hero?”

“It is.” He’s got me. But, Blake?

“Martin, women love a penitent man.” Blake kneels next to him, helping with the cleanup. Well, that’s something.

“Apologize profusely and Terry will forgive you.”

“Really? She’s not going to boot me out? Last week I dropped a plate with an omelet.”

“Ooh. That might be a problem. But, if you’re remorseful enough, you should be okay. Go ahead. Try an apology, mate. Just make it sincere.”

I’m watching them. Closely. Has the mentoring begun?

“Uh, Terry,” Martin begins, “I’m sorry about this mess. As I said, I’ll pay for the damages.” He winks at me. Then he glances at Blake who mouths something.

“Oh…and I’ll try to do better in the future.”

“I accept your apology, Martin.” I buy myself some time. Should I make this difficult for him?

Blake nudges him. “See, it works.”

“I’m not sure it works the way you think it does. At least not on me. We’ll have to try it out on your leading lady.”

Martin’s still squatting, cleaning. “When will I get to meet her?” And he winks. Wow.

“Soon, I hope. I’m still developing her personality. I want to make sure it’s a perfect match.”

“Terry gave me Alex.” Blake sighs. “And she’s perfect. I love her with all my heart.”

Blake does love Alex Zurich. His devotion to her even amazes me sometimes.

“This is all great,” Moose interrupts, “but the bottom line is we’ve still got a lot of work to do. Martin still needs to be molded into the romance hero. That’s why I invited Blake to stay for a couple of weeks.”

“A couple of weeks?” I groan.

“Really, I can stay?” Blake springs up, and pumps Moose’s hoof. “Thank you. I won’t let you down. I’ll teach him everything I know.”

“I appreciate your enthusiasm for this project, Moose. And yours Blake.” I nod his way. “But I don’t have room for another character. Martin’s romance heroine should be visiting soon,”—as soon as I figure out who she is— “and there’d be no place for her to stay.”

Martin clears his throat. “May I suggest my bed?” And he winks.

“Yeah,” Blake says.

“Blake Teesdale you know better than that. That doesn’t happen until the characters know each other.”

“But it could be the start of a one-bed trope?” Moose says. “Think about it.”

“A one-bed trope?” Martin smiles. Widely. “Is that what I think it is?”

“It’s exactly what you think it is,” Blake says. He winks.

What? Is everyone winking now?

“Stop! Everyone stop! We’re getting ahead of ourselves.” They stare at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

“First, we don’t have a romance heroine for you, Martin. Not yet. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Martin nods.

“And Blake, do you think you can mold Martin into a romance hero? His previous backstory is that of a spy.”

“Ooh, the best kind of romance hero,” Blakes rubs his hands together. “Of course, I can.”

“See, it’ll all work out.” Moose waves a hoof in the men’s direction. Both are standing now. The floor is nearly free of debris.

“Here’s the deal. Blake, you’ll have to sleep on the couch. Sorry, but that’s all that’s left.”

“No worries, Terry. Remember that scene when I was at JJ’s and I had to sleep on the couch?”

“Yes, I do. Good. But you’re not here to goof off. You’ve got to shape Martin into a romance hero. You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“I can and I will. I won’t disappoint you.”

For some insane reason, I believe him. I’ll probably live to regret this.

“Okay, well, what are we waiting for? You two clean, and”—I turn to Moose— “I really could use you with this blank page I’ve been staring out.”

“I’d love to Terry, but I’ve got a horticultural class I must attend.” He eases himself toward the back door. Amazingly graceful for such a large creature. “It’s getting to be spring and all. I thought I’d freshen the front yard.”

He grabs the doorknob. “Tootles!” Martin nudges Blake. “Horitculture? That’s not something I’ll be required to know, is it?”

28 Feb 25

“You have to break a few eggs…”

“What the hell are you doing? You better not have brought a woman and,”—I flail my arms—“you know, had her stay overnight.”

Splat! The plate Martin had been holding crashes to the ground, and with it the omelet.

It’s too early in the morning for this.

“Look what you did!” Martin Moses, my new-to-me character, runs a hand through his hair. “That was my best one yet.”

“Best one? Yet? How many omelets have you made?” I take a deep breath. “Have you seen the price of eggs these days?”

Wait. There’s a deeper question here. “Why are you making omelets, as in multiple? How many women are here?”

Martin is the former character of Jack Sorbet, internationally acclaimed spy and thriller novelist—and a casualty of the author’s imagination. Martin’s story wasn’t workable, and he became an orphan character. A partially developed character without a plot or a purpose. And Moose, who apparently moonlights with Sorbet, brought him to me to rewrite him.

And we told Martin that in every romance book, the romantic hero makes an omelet for the heroine the morning after. Now I’m wondering how many women he’s brought home, er, to my place.

“You know you have to break a few eggs to make an omelet.” Martin glares as me, even as he’s picking up the shattered plate pieces.

“What a cliché,” I sigh. “Is that one of the lines Sorbet wrote for you?” I reach for the paper towels and help clean up the omelet.

“It is,” he says defensively, “and I like it.” He winks at me. “And it seems appropriate here.”

“Maybe your lack of your own story isn’t all your fault,” I say. “Jack should be a better writer than that. I’ll give you more original lines.”

“What the hell is going on here?” Moose enters the kitchen with a back from Zingo’s, the local supermarket. “Martin, I leave you alone for thirty minutes, and this?”

It’s rare for Moose to act responsibly, so I’m enjoying this. But I can’t let Martin take the fall for the accident I caused.

“I startled him when I walked in on him.” I’m still on the floor. “Martin, this omelet looks really good. By the way, why are you making multiple omelets?”

I admit it. I got sidetracked. I’m praying he doesn’t have woman in his room.

“Oh, Moose thought it’d be a good idea if I practice making them, as it seems to be a requirement in romance novels.” Still crouched down on the floor, he shrugs. “I’m just trying to get into character.”

Ahh, the man is trying. How sweet. But still…the price of eggs. I glance at Moose, who’s busy, well, he’s not busy. He’s sitting at the table watching us, grocery bag in front of him.

“I’m trying here,” he says, “I took the one thing Martin is excited about and had him practice. Hopefully, it’ll make him feel more like a romance hero.”

Martin stands. “I’m right here, folks. I may be fictional, but I can hear you.”

And the grocery bag. These two are masters of deflection. “What’s in the bag?” Rarely, if ever, does Moose go shopping.

“Eggs?” he whispers. “Three dozen eggs?”

“For Martin to practice with?” I ask.

Moose nods his head ever so slowly. I can barely see his antlers move. “Maybe not one of my better ideas?”

“Maybe not.” But honestly, Moose is trying. And Martin seems to actually be on board with being a romance hero. So progress is being made. Expensive progress, but progress nonetheless.

I realize I’m still squatting on the floor, paper towels filled with what honestly what looks like a delicious omelet. I also realize it’s deadly silent in the room. I suspect my character and my muse are waiting for me to explode.

I rise slowly, not for dramatic effect, but because my knees aren’t what they used to be. If they want to think I’m being dramatic, all the better. They’re staring at me expectantly. I turn and throw the omelet remnants in the trash.

“Okay, guys, here’s the thing.” It feels as if they’ve both taken a collective breath. “If you, Martin, are making omelets, and this is what you’re going to do in the novels I write, then I want to taste them.”

A smile slowly creeps across his face.

“I like cheese, onion, and if we have some ham, that would be great.”

“Yeah, yeah, we have ham. I’ll make you one right now.” Martin goes to the sink to wash his hands.

“Thank you. And make sure you make one for Moose and yourself. We’re going to have breakfast together.”

Moose beams. “Awesome. Then I didn’t screw up?”

“You did, but your heart was in the right place. Why don’t you get the coffee maker ready. I’m in need of coffee.” Lots and lots of coffee.

****

Martin has created three perfect omelets. Fluffy, filled with goodness, and delicious. I grab a paper towel from the roll on Moose’s antler, and wipe my mouth.

“Martin, that was delicious,” I say, as I rise, “you are making progress on being a romance hero.” He winks at me.

“But now, I must go.” I walk toward the door. “I’m headed to the coffee shop to get some writing done. I trust the two of you will clean up.”

I nod at Moose and smile. “You’ll help Martin, won’t you Moose?”

“I’m…I…”

“Great. I’m off. Toodles!” I say as I head for the office to grab my laptop.

“Wait!” Moose says.

I don’t stop, but I am listening.

“That’s my line!”

21 Feb 25

The rewriting of Martin Moses

I’m sitting at the kitchen table with Martin eating breakfast. This is Day 1 of Rewriting Martin Moses. He’s my slightly used character.  Moose dropped him off on my doorstep last week. Formerly a part of the imagination of the thriller writer Jack Sorbet, Martin lost his story. Jack just couldn’t write a book around him. Now I know why.

He stares at his French toast as if it were a bomb that needs to be disarmed. “I don’t eat French toast. It’s not my idea of a breakfast.”

I take a bite of the toast. Mmm. “Moose, you’ve outdone yourself this time. This is delicious.”

“Thanks, I think the natural tangy-ness of the sourdough bread really makes a difference.” He’s standing at the stove, a kiss-the-cook apron on, a spatula dangling from one antler.

Martin fork cuts a slice, squishes up his face, and puts it in his mouth. He chews slowly, very slowly. Perhaps it’s is past life as a spy that makes him eat that way. Maybe he thinks we’re trying to poison him.

“It’s adequate, I suppose.” He sighs.

“What is your go-to breakfast?” I ask, as I pour a bit more maple syrup over mine.

“What a normal guy eats.” He looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “Three eggs, four sausage links, two biscuits with sausage gravy, and home fries.” He shakes his head. “Not those wimpy hashbrowns.”

“So apparently, eating something like French toast makes you less, well, macho? Would that be the correct word?”

“Ms. Newman, I’m a spy. An operative. I lead a very high-stress, fast-paced life. My body demands those calories.” He lifts his cup. “At least the coffee is good.”

Moose moves to the table and adds a couple of more slices of French toast to the plate that’s well-stocked to begin with.

“Martin, this whole rewriting bit will go a lot faster,”—Moose sits at the table, an empty plate in front of him—“if you learn how to bend a little.”

Martin harrumphs. “I’m trying. It’s just I’m invested in my career. I’m good at what I do. And,”—he takes a deep breath— “it hurt my ego to get fired.”

Well, now we’re getting somewhere. I steal a glance at Moose. The spatula hanging from his antler has been replaced by a roll of paper towels. I grab one off the roll and wipe my hands.

“You never got fired.” I tell him. Okay, he did get fired. “You decided to retire.”

“I had no say in what—”

“Listen to Terry. It’s all about making changes to your character. You’re no longer who Jack Sorbet said you were. You now have the freedom to become anything you want.”

Martin raises his eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Within reason,” I say nearly spitting out my coffee. “Within reason.”

I grab another towel off the roll on my muse’s antler, and wipe my mouth. “Let’s start with the scenario that you’ve retired.”

“I’m a little young to retire, don’t you think?”

“No, here’s the beauty of rewriting your backstory. You retired early,” I tell him.

Moose squirms in his seat. “I see where you’re going with this. He got injured. Severely injured.”

“I did?” Martin takes another bite of French toast. I guess it wasn’t that bad after all.

“You did.” I say. “In the line of duty, saving the King.” I’m getting excited with what I can do with this backstory. “Can you do a British accent?”

“Of course, I’m an operative. It’s part of my cover to do accents.”

“That was a good accent.” Moose says through his chewing. It really was.

“So because you saved his life, he’s giving you,”—I shrug—“I don’t know something fantastic.”

“I know,” Moose holds up his fork. “A castle with acres of land. And perhaps a stable of horses.”

That’s good, I think, but Martin has to like it.

“I’ve always thought of myself as a castle-type of man,” Martin says, sounding distinctly British. He studies Moose, then me. “But is that even realistic?”

Moose laughs. “This woman here”—he points at me with his fork— “can make it realistic. Don’t underestimate her imagination.”

Martin sighs. “You promised me a love interest.” He winks.

Does that mean he’s in? He’s willing? I may have to get to know some of the ingrained habits of my-new-to-me character. Truthfully, he has a charming wink.

“Yeah,” I say slowly, “I write romance.” I put my fork down and rest my elbows on the table. “In romance, you have a happily ever after. That means, you have one”—I hold up my index finger—“love interest. You can’t go having trysts.”

Martin rubs the back of his neck. The rewriting of Martin Moses isn’t going to be easy.

“I’m not used to that.”

“But she’ll be your soulmate.” Moose pours more syrup on his French toast. “You’ll find her in the most extraordinary location, in the most unexpected way, and you’ll experience this zing of electricity you’ve never felt with any other woman in your life. Her mere presence will revolutionize your life.”

“Really? Soulmates? I’ve heard about those.”

“You could have one,” Moose says before he stuffs a forkful of toast in his mouth.

Moose holds up a hoof while he chews. Once he swallows he says, “It will be the most romantic moment of your life.”

“Will I have to eat French toast for breakfast for the rest of my life?” My adopted character scrutinizes his plate.

“Well,” I say, but Moose interrupts me.

“No, but here’s the deal. The morning after (if you know what I mean)”—he winks— “the man traditionally makes an omelet for the woman. And anything else you want to eat. Sausage. Biscuits with sausage gravy.”

“I do love to cook occasionally.” Martin retrieves his cup.

“You do?” Well, that’s something I didn’t know about him. That would make his character even more attractive.

“I’ve often thought about…no, it’s stupid. I’m just a character, after all.”

“Nothing’s stupid, Martin,” I say as I lean over the table. “And you’re not just a character. You’re a character with infinite potential.” I look him in the eye. “What have you thought about?”

He has a faraway look in his eyes. He runs his hand through his hair. “I’ve always wanted to go to culinary school. Become a chef.”

Moose spits out his coffee. “Holy moly, Martin. That’s great. What a wonderful twist to your story.”

I’ve got to agree with Moose.  What an absolute premise for a story.

“You’ve got it,” I tell him. I stand up and extend my hand. “If you’re willing to love one woman and only one woman, you’ll be a chef.”

“Really? Is the woman beautiful? Is she caring? She’s not a retired operative too, is she?”

“No, and she’s everything you want her to be. We can talk about that soon. What do you say?”

Martin grabs my hand and pumps it. “You’ve got yourself a retired spy turned chef. Thank you.” He winks at me.

Moose stands. Pulls a paper towel from the roll on his antler. “Well, that’s great. But I’ve got to run.”

“Where are you going?” I have plans to map out this novel. I need him for that.

“Martin and I are going to check out local cooking stores. And maybe sign us up for a couple of cooking lessons. You know, to help him get in character.” He nods at me, then places his attention on Martin. “Are you in?”

“I am,” he says. He throws down his napkin. “Let’s go.”

They act like kids as they scramble for the door.

“Hey,” I say, “who’s doing the dishes?”

“You are!” Moose says. “You can’t expect our guest to do them. Here, catch!”

He tosses the roll of paper towels to me.

Martin winks at me.

 “Toodles!”

14 Feb 25

“You can rewrite him.“

“Yoo-hoo, anyone home?”

I groan. I was in the middle of writing such an inspired paragraph. “Was” is the operative word.

“I’m in the office.” I sigh.

Moose, my writing muse, soon appears in the doorway. And yes, he’s a moose, antlers and all.

“You know how you were searching for an idea for a new book? Trying to come up with a new character?”

He’s right. I am. I want to start a new series. I’ve started a notebook listing names and traits for the perfect characters.

He steps inside the room. Behind him…is a man? A handsome man. Tall, black wavy hair, broad shoulders.  Are those blue eyes?

“Meet Martin. Martin Moses.”

“Uhm…Hi…hi, Martin.” I finger wave at him. He nods.

“Well, what do you think?”

“What do I think about what?”

Martin’s still in the doorway seriously studying my office. He’s squinting at the books on my shelves. Now he’s scrutinizing the photos on the walls.

“About Martin. He’s your new character!” Moose looks pleased with himself.

“I-I-I’m lost.” I shake my head. There must be cobwebs in my brain.

“Consider it a Valentine’s Day present. You needed a new character. I delivered.”

“Delivered?” I study the man again. “I don’t understand. Where did he come from?”

I have to admit, though, it’s not everyday someone gives me a handsome man…wait. What am I talking about?

“I need more context, Moose.”

“Martin Moses?”— he nods an antler toward the man still in the doorway. “He’s Jack Sorbet’s character.” Jack Sorbet is an incredibly talented author who writes spy novels and thrillers.

“So?”

Moose sighed as if I were so dense I couldn’t see the obvious. In the meantime, Martin is still in my doorway.

“Martin,” I say, “why don’t you come in and have a seat.” I wave a hand to the love seat. Make yourself comfortable.” This may take a while.

Martin nods in acknowledgement, then sits down.

“If Jack Sorbet created Martin, why is he in my office?”

Then it dawns on me. “How do you know about Sorbet’s characters”—No, it couldn’t be—“unless you’re cheating on me? Are you someone else’s muse too?”

Moose winces. “I wouldn’t call it cheating, that’s such a dirty word. I’m moonlighting. Yeah, that’s it. Moonlighting.”

“Why?”

Honestly, the muse can barely keep up his duties with me.

Moose shrugs.

“Wait. I don’t want to know.” I have more pressing matters to deal with, like the handsome man on the loveseat.

“I want to know why Mr. Moses is in my office.”

“Like I was telling you, Jack created him. I warned against it, but—”

“Hey, I take offense at that.” Martin talks?

I turn to the man. “We’ll deal with that later too. Just let him get through this story. Please.”

Martin nods.

“Go ahead. I’m waiting.”

“Anyway, Martin was in this story that just wasn’t going anywhere.”

Boy, don’t I understand that problem.

“And Jack abandoned the story. Shredded his hard copies of the incomplete manuscript and deleted it from his hard drive. Now, Martin is a character without a purpose. But worse yet, he’s a character with no story. No plot. He needs a story, a plot, and a purpose.”

“I do. I am in desperate need of a purpose.” Martin winks at me.

“And you needed a new character…” Moose splays his hooves. “You see what’s happening here?”

“Yeah, you’re dumping a used character on me.”

“Wait. One. Minute.” Martin jumps up.

“No offense Martin. But you’re already formed. You have backstory, habits. What am I supposed to do with that?”

Moose opens his mouth, but I hold up a finger. “And besides, you’re not a romance hero. Sure, you may find a woman someone along your mission, but you spy types never stay with her. Right? I mean the next mission and—poof!—you find another beautiful, if shallow, woman to make love to. And then you leave her. I need a character who commits to a happily ever after.”

Martin groans.

“See, Moose,”—I point at the man— “he doesn’t even like happily ever afters.”

Moose takes a step toward me, and whispers in my ear. “Terry, you can rewrite him.”

“I heard that.” Martin paced the room, then pivoted. “And I think I might resent it.”

Moose glares at the man. “Do you want your life to have a plot? Do you want your own story?”

Martin sits down. “I do.”

“See, he’s willing to change. The man needs a purpose.”

“I do,” Martin says weakly. “I do.”

“So it’s all settled.” Moose walks toward the back closet.

“Wait.” I take another look at Martin Moses. The man has a good name. And all the features for a grand romantic hero. “Martin, you were a spy?”

“Yes. Yes, I was…and a good one too. I don’t care what Sorbet says.”

During this conversation, Moose is inching toward the closet.

“Would you be willing to accept a happily ever after?” I place a hand on my hip. “Of course, it’d be with the perfect woman. I’d have to think about her characteristics.”

I’m slowly realizing that Martin Moses, former spy, may be just the man I’m looking for. I don’t know how Moose does this.

“The perfect woman?” Marin raises an eyebrow.

I nod.

“Well.” He smiles. I guess if you’re willing to rewrite me, I’m willing to be rewritten.” He winks at me.

“Perfect. You’ve got a deal.” I extend my hand and we shake on it.

“Moose, does Martin have luggage?” I figure he can have the spare bedroom.

“Lots of emotional baggage, that’s for sure.” Moose laughs. “No, just kidding. I already put his luggage in the spare bedroom. I had a feeling you’d keep him.”

Of course, he did.

“Okay, Martin. You can make yourself at home. Are you hungry? There’s food in the fridge. Help yourself.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep. Go get something to eat. We’ll talk later about what type of love interest you’d like.”

He smiles broadly. “Thanks. I’m starved.” He’s at the door, when he turns and says, “Thanks, Moose. I appreciate it.”

Moose waves a hoof and eyes him as he leaves. Then he opens the closet door.

“What are…?” He pulls out a tuba? I didn’t even know the closet was big enough to fit a tuba.

“Well, my work is done here.” He puts the tuba over his head.

“Shoot. These antlers get in the way every time.” He struggles with it for a while. The metal of the instrument clanging against his antlers. He finally gets in on and heads for the door.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“To music lessons. I’m learning to play the tuba. Enjoy your new character. I can’t wait to read the story.”

“You’re going to help me with Martin’s story aren’t you?”

“Byeee.” Moose waves a hand and leaves the room.

“Aren’t you?”

7 Feb 25

When inspiration strikes…in the shower

“WHAT?!”

I throw back the shower curtain and reach for the towel on the rack. I frantically wrap it around myself as I stare at Moose.

“What are doing in the shower? Have you ever heard of the word privacy?”

My muse sighs, sounding irritated. “Have you never heard of writers getting inspired in the shower?” He asks.

I turn off the water. “Yes, but—”

“Consider yourself inspired!” He flashes me a grin.

“Let me guess, you’ve got a brilliant idea that means I have to drop everything I’m doing.” I step out of the shower, wondering what he has for me now.

He follows me out. Thwack! Thwack!  I shake my head, and look down at his hooves. “Do I want to know why you’re wearing those things?”

He raises his hooves, then drops them down, chuckling at the sound. “I’m going snorkeling after our little chat.” He pulls a mask off one of his antlers. “See.” He deliberately puts it over his head—no easy task considering he’s, well, a moose.

He grabs the snorkel from the other antler. “Viola! SnorkelMoose!”

“I see. I’m going to dress. When I come out of the bedroom, I want to hear what you have for me.”

His snorkel moves in rhythm with his nod. I take that as a yes.

As I dress, he turns on the television. He’s got the news on, and he’s arguing with the anchor.

“Who made you an expert?” “But you didn’t ask him the most important question!”

When I emerge from the bedroom, he’s sitting on the edge of the wingback his moose elbows on his moose thighs. He’s still wearing the snorkeling gear. It’s quite a sight.

“Okay, tell me about your grand idea.” I walk over to my desk, retrieve my pad and pen, and then return to sit on the couch. “Out with it.”

He sighs. Evidently I’m interrupting. I snatch the remote and turn the television off.

Moose turns to me, coffee in hand. “I was in the middle—”

“First inspiration, then television.”

He nods, his snorkel dangling. “Okay, how about this”—he makes a grand gesture with his hooves, like he’s a film director— “Murder at the Bigfoot Convention.”

My eyes widen. “What a title. It’s brilliant.” I scribble the title down. “Tell me more.” I’m poised to take the details.

He doesn’t answer, but I hear a strange sound, like a blowing sound. I look at him. Moose is playing the snorkel like a wind flute.

“Moose! Stop it. You’re supposed to be inspiring me. Now tell me more about Murder at the Bigfoot Convention. It could be a great cozy mystery.”

“Yup, it could.” He’s now taken off the mask and studying it.

“Sooo, tell me.”

“It’s in your Physics Café universe.” He fumbles with the mask as he puts it back on.

“Ooh, that’s great. I’ve wanted to use that place more.”

He doesn’t say anything else. He’s thinking. That’s it. He’s considering his words carefully. Gotta love a muse who thinks before he speaks. But his thinking is stretching out a long time.

“Moose? What else?”

Moose jerks up from the fins he had been staring at. “What else about what?”

“About the new story?” I tap the pen on the pad.

“Oh, that’s it. Murder at the Bigfoot Convention set at the Physics Café.”

“Can you fill me in on the details? Just a broad outline. Who’s doing the killing? Who’s getting killed? Who’s solving the mystery?”

Moose furrows his brows. Gee, I didn’t know he could do that.

“I don’t know. I’m just your inspiration. Have you forgotten how our relationship works? I inspire, you write.”

I sigh. “You could help a writer out here—”

He shakes his head. “I come up with the brilliant ideas, you implement them. You develop a fascinating plot, you give the characters life. Before you know it, they’ll be jumping off the page.”

“Well…thanks. That’s quite a compliment.

“Well, I gotta go.” He rises from the wingback. “I’ve never been snorkeling before.” He crosses the room to the door.

“But wait…surely you’re coming back. Giving me more inspiration.”

“Quit calling me Shirley. And I’ll be back.” He shrugs. “Not sure when.”

“You’re going to renew yourself, right? Renew your imagination. Soaking up new ideas while you’re underwater? So you come back reinvigorated? Right? Snorkeling is a metaphor for life? Right?”

“Are you serious?” He places a hoof on the door handle. “I’m going snorkeling—that’s all. Not all of my activities have a deeper meaning.” He sighs. “Sometimes, Terry, a cigar is just a cigar.”

He opens the door, and raises a hoof. “Tata!”

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.”