The Storyteller's Muse

‘That’s exactly right,’ he confirmed. ‘Jenna and the baby will be a whole lot happier without me grouching around telling them to be quiet whenever I’m home. Now I will have family time and work time. No more sacrificing one for the other and getting neither!’

  ‘I think Sofie would be happier if I just moved out, period!’ Julian retorted, running his fingers through his long blond fringe to sweep it out of his eyes.

  ‘Why are you still going out with her?’ Monique threw her hands up in one of her mini French rages.

  She was really only part French, but she played it up as it got her noticed. Not that she really needed any gimmicks to be the centre of attention. Her thick mass of dark hair, dark brown eyes, large pouting lips and dancer’s physique made her very easy on the eye. She was passionate about dance and radiated her pending success through every fibre of her being. She was going to be a star — no doubt about it.

  ‘I’m still going out with Sofie because she keeps me on the straight and narrow, and she’s a damn good lay.’ Julian grinned in his classic James Dean fashion as he licked the edge of a rollie to seal it, ready to light up the second they hit the footpath, rain or not.

  ‘The only reason she doesn’t want you to spend your money on drugs is so she can spend it!’ Tyme shared Monique’s dislike of Julian’s current squeeze.

  ‘But if you knew what she spent it on, woo-hoo, you would not be complaining.’ His smile broadened, as the girls both rolled their eyes.

  ‘Pussy-whipped,’ Monique deduced, sounding disappointed in him.

  ‘So bad,’ Tyme agreed.

  ‘Well at least I’m getting laid,’ he defended.

  ‘There is that,’ Tyme sighed. She hadn’t had sex since the birth of her daughter; most men just didn’t seem to find a young, single mum very attractive and the men who did, Tyme didn’t want to know about. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t attractive, but she was a bit of a hippy who wore her blonde hair short and wore no make-up ever.

  ‘So not interested,’ Monique stressed, having just ended a short, fiery fling that had been way more trouble than it was worth.

  ‘I can’t say I’d mind.’ Nathaniel was deflated by the subject matter. ‘Jenna still hasn’t really recovered from having Amy. But my time is coming.’ He tried to sound positive, but was far from convincing.

  ‘She’ll get there.’ Tyme placed her hand over Nathaniel’s and smiled in encouragement. ‘She’s just exhausted.’

  ‘I know.’ He forced a smile. ‘Until then, I need some me time, so . . . let’s go and get ourselves some studio space, shall we?’

  ‘Right on, brother.’ Julian fist-bumped Nathaniel and they all rose to rug up and brave the elements.

  Peter loved how well-rounded Penelope’s characters were. Already he felt he knew them and wanted in on their camaraderie.

  Once upon a time he’d had friends like that — creative individuals who were all going to be famous and change the world. Yet one by one they’d all been absorbed into the social system, and had taken jobs they didn’t like to support themselves, their relationships and families. Of course, at the time, they probably hadn’t realised they were ditching their art to become working-class clones, for their intentions always seemed to be to return to creative pursuits. Still, as the years passed, those intentions appeared to Peter to have ebbed to little more than long-forgotten, unrealistic, unachievable dreams.

  ‘Many people surely have the same sad tale to tell,’ Peter informed Penelope during her evening blood-thinner jab. ‘I think it is incredibly clever that you are tapping into that deep-seated fantasy that lays buried in every dormant artist.’

  ‘That is completely unintentional on my part.’ Penelope waved away the flattery. ‘But my muses always seem to know what they are doing and they make me look clever. I have read theses written on my books that outline my genius . . . I don’t understand half of what they say I did, but apparently I’m quite brilliant!’

  Peter covered Penelope’s leg and chuckled at her claim. ‘So am I to assume that by muses, you mean your characters?’

  ‘Yes, my characters.’ She did not seem satisfied with that definition, however. ‘But if my characters were souls, they also seem to have an oversoul who directs the entire affair . . . asks me the right questions at the right time, sends in characters on cue and brings my attention to clues to follow, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Well then, say your muse sends in a character,’ Peter suggested curiously. ‘How do you know so much about them? How do you just create a well-rounded character, with history? Do you just make it up? Research someone like them? Base them on someone you know —?’

  ‘All of the above, and none,’ she replied to confuse the issue.

  Peter frowned, feeling she was teasing him.

  ‘Consider it this way,’ she suggested. ‘In the world of your story, you, as the writer, are a super psychic.’

  ‘Okay.’ Peter could see where she might be going with this.

  ‘So when your muse sends in a character, they may look like someone you’ve known, someone famous, or someone you know not at all. Whatever the case, you observe the character. How they dress will tell you a lot about who they are and where they come from. What you cannot derive from observation you just ask the character and they will tell you. If they won’t tell you, then they are hiding something, which will no doubt come to light later on in the story. But then being a psychic inside your own tale, you do get gut feelings, or wee visions, about your characters; you pick up on their thoughts and get inside their heads, whereas the other characters in the story cannot.’

  ‘Unless, of course, I’m writing a book about a bunch of psychics,’ Peter jested, knowing Penelope had done exactly that in the past.

  ‘Well, that’s when things really get confusing. One super psychic in a story is enough.’

  ‘And when you converse with your characters, do you do that . . . out loud?’ Peter felt a little odd suggesting such a thing.

  ‘When I am alone, sure,’ she encouraged. ‘But otherwise . . . people tend to think you are a little nuts.’

  Peter suspected Penelope was just playing him for sport now. ‘I think I’d feel a little silly.’

  ‘Did you never have an imaginary friend?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ he was shy to admit.

  ‘So feel silly!’ she suggested in all seriousness. ‘And when you get tired of wasting time being self-conscious about it, focus on being alone with your characters. Ask them what you want to know, and if they don’t tell you, extract it from them telepathically! You are the storyteller, you have the power — and if your characters won’t play ball, you can kill them off in the next scene, or recast them altogether!’

  ‘Ha!’ Peter was delighted by her premise. Penelope viewed the writing process from angles he’d never before considered, and her practices were certainly more unorthodox than those his English studies had cultivated. ‘But what if I prove to be a crap psychic and I fire a whole bunch of talented characters?’

  ‘Well, the crabby, old me would say, “then you’re not a writer”. But as your mentor,’ she added more fondly, ‘I will say instead, just trust the process. For at the root of all great art there lays a giant leap of faith, often many such leaps. Who cares if you feel silly? Who cares if you fail?’

  ‘I care,’ Peter stated indignantly.

  ‘And that is why, up to this point, you have not succeeded,’ Penelope advised kindly. ‘Art for art’s sake is the only reason a master artist creates. Not for the fame talent might bring, or the money, or the situation it might get you out of. It is the all-consuming, time-distorting joy of being lost in creation that drives us, for there is no greater feeling or reward.’

  ‘God I want to feel that.’ Peter was marvelling at her words. ‘I touch that place when working on your novel. But to be able to enter that place myself, without you having to lead me there by the hand, that would be the ultimate for me.’

  ‘All you have to do is let go of the need
for the approval of others. No one who ever achieved greatness asked for permission. Mark my words, Peter; utter abandon will free your spirit and lead you down the path of your own creative genius.’

  The old writer’s claims filled his chest with fire, as he realised he had nothing to lose by acting on her advice. ‘I know in my gut that you are absolutely right.’

  ‘Of course. I’m always right. Although writers do have the same brain patterns as the clinically insane, you do know that?’

  Peter looked to her, alarmed — was this her way of saying that he could follow her advice at his own risk?

  ‘It’s true!’ she teased. ‘But I also know, from personal experience, that if you care what other people think of your art, you inhibit the whole creative process.’

  ‘You have to dance like no one is watching.’ Peter nodded, enlightened.

  ‘Nobody is watching.’ Penelope gave a cynical laugh. ‘They’re all staring at their silly phones!’

  Peter laughed at her play on words. ‘Yes, “smart phone” is something of an ironic name for them. You certainly do have a cynical streak, Ms Whitman.’

  As do you, Mr Lemond . . . only my cynical streak does not give me writer’s block.’

  Penelope closed her eyes, which was her polite way of saying, You’ve picked my brain enough, now you may leave.

  ‘Point taken.’ Peter really didn’t want to end this discussion, but he had more story to transcribe and was equally eager to get back to work on that.

  At the apartment, all four artists were wandering about with huge smiles on their faces. The space was sparsely furnished: a couple of lounges, a coffee table, breakfast table, a desk and chair.

  ‘Four Kismet Way . . .’ Tyme found the address amusing. ‘Sounds like a mystery, Nat?’

  Nathaniel grinned at the suggestion.

  ‘And there are four of us,’ Julian chimed in.

  ‘You did go to school.’ Tyme glanced round to Julian and served him a teasing grin.

  Julian ignored her dig. ‘I was implying that Nat might write about all of us when we are rich and famous, and that would be a great title.’

  ‘I shall bear that in mind,’ Nathaniel assured Julian.

  ‘Even with all of Tyme’s art and all of Julian’s gear, there would still be more space in here than I could ever need.’ Monique was very excited and performed a long string of twirls across the room — which was her way of measuring the area.

  ‘The bedroom and bathroom are upstairs, out of the way.’ Nathaniel motioned to the iron stairs at the far end of the kitchen area that spiralled up to an open landing where there were two doors.

  The kitchen itself ran the length of the wall by the entrance door and was completely open to the huge, empty space downstairs. Large windows featured around the other three walls. It had a timber floor and an exposed iron support-beam ceiling that was over two storeys high.

  ‘We should grab this.’ Julian was gazing down at the quiet back streets of the industrial area. ‘There will be no one around here at night to complain about how loud my music is.’

  ‘I know.’ Nathaniel was very excited. ‘At night it will be so quiet around here you could hear a pin drop.’

  ‘Unless I’m here.’ Julian raised his brows.

  The apartment was not on street level because there was a double-storey car park beneath — and this also meant the security measures of the entire building were rather good.

  ‘I wonder why this apartment wasn’t torn down when they converted the rest of it into parking?’ Monique danced back over to join the group.

  ‘Good for us that it wasn’t.’ Nathaniel didn’t care why.

  ‘I’d feel safe here.’ Tyme chimed in with her approval, and everyone gave a cheer of excitement. ‘So what’s the deal? How are we going to work this?’

  They had discussed doing it, but had yet to really nut out the details.

  ‘Well,’ Nathaniel piped up as this had been his brainchild. ‘We could either have it for one week a month each —’

  Everybody groaned and screwed up their noses — that was obviously going to be hard to schedule around their other commitments.

  ‘— Or,’ Nathaniel spoke up over the pending protests, ‘we could each take it for half a week a fortnight and have one stint of three days and one stint of four per month.’

  Everybody was starting to nod now, and Nathaniel pulled out a piece of paper to get to work on a roster.

  Once that was sorted to suit, Tyme piped up to say, ‘But there will have to be rules like . . . you have to vacate by five o’clock on your last rostered day,’ she suggested, and everyone agreed.

  ‘You must leave the house tidy for the next person.’ Monique was looking at Julian.

  ‘I promise I won’t make a mess.’ Julian conceded that he was a bit of a slob at times.

  ‘And no bringing people back here,’ Tyme added. ‘I can’t leave my works here if there is a risk they might be damaged.’

  They were all looking at Julian again, and he began to take offence. ‘And what if I want to rehearse with someone? Or what if Monique is dancing a duet? Or Nathaniel wants to have a meeting with an editor? Or you want to have a showing, for that matter?’

  Tyme didn’t want to have to go through this with her dear friend, but she knew what he, or rather his band, were like. ‘Yes, but our business associates are not the types to get pissed and start doing things that later they cannot account for.’

  ‘Look, I promise I shall make my associates act responsibly.’ The musician raised both brows in the hope his friends would stop giving him a hard time. ‘We all know this is a good idea . . . so let’s go do this.’ He slapped a hand into his palm to get them motivated and off the subject of what a high-risk tenant he was.

  ‘I’m in,’ Nathaniel concurred and both the girls smiled and nodded also.

  ‘Excellent,’ Julian agreed, thinking he was very clever. ‘I get the first night here.’

  ‘Actually . . .’ Tyme reviewed their arrangement. ‘If you look at the dates on the monthly roster, you’re due to vacate by five o’clock.’

  ‘Aw, what?’ Julian had another look.

  It was Nathaniel who would have the first four days of studio time.

  ‘How’s it all going?’

  Peter was startled from his proofreading, and when he looked up to find Gabrielle Valdez standing by his station he shot out of his seat, alarmed. ‘Is it that time already?’

  ‘No, no.’ She motioned with her hand for him to calm. ‘I’m a bit early.’

  ‘Phew.’ He dropped back into his chair and ran both hands through his hair in an attempt to bring himself back to reality — what he wouldn’t give for a fantastic studio space to create in, even if it was haunted!

  ‘So?’ Gabrielle raised her brows, eager to have her question answered. ‘Is the story as intriguing as Ms Whitman is boasting?’

  Peter was surprised to find Nurse Valdez being friendly as she’d been practically ignoring him for days. ‘Well, Ms Whitman is a bit ahead of me in the storyline . . . but the lady certainly knows how to tap into other people’s fantasies,’ he admitted, and then had to query Nurse Valdez’s smile. ‘I thought you didn’t like me any more?’

  ‘If I liked you in the first place,’ Gabrielle teased. ‘You’ve just made Ms Whitman so happy and motivated, that I have to give you some credit. Jeez, she’s even been friendly.’ She rolled her eyes in a kooky fashion that Peter found rather disarming, and he smiled. ‘As a reward, how about I make you a coffee while you do your rounds?’

  ‘I’d really appreciate that, thanks.’ Peter had drunk way too many cups of coffee already, but he didn’t want to risk getting Nurse Valdez offside again.

  ‘Can I read some, while you’re away?’ She pointed to his laptop screen and Peter closed it up.

  ‘I would have to ask Ms Whitman’s permission.’ Peter didn’t want to refuse her, but the truth was he was afraid of being judged — the story was brilliant, it was his
transcription he was worried about. ‘I signed a contract, you understand.’ He rattled off the first good excuse he felt might hold water.

  ‘I understand.’ Gabrielle accepted his stance. ‘Still, I have been Ms Whitman’s nurse for over five years, I’m sure she won’t mind. But I’ll ask,’ she was quick to add. ‘I didn’t mean to put you in an awkward position.’

  ‘You didn’t.’ Peter made a move to get his rounds done so that he could get home and work on the book some more — he was obsessed and it felt fantastic!

  When he returned to the desk, he found his coffee . . . and Gabrielle with his laptop open reading the manuscript. ‘Nurse Valdez —’ Peter was about to launch into a lecture about respecting people’s wishes and personal property, when Gabrielle looked to him with excitement in her eyes.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ she gasped as she looked back to the screen. ‘Is the apartment haunted?’

  ‘That remains to be seen.’ Peter enjoyed teasing her in this instance.

  ‘Well, I love it so far,’ she said. ‘May I please be your reader?’

  Peter didn’t feel he had the authority to commit to that arrangement.

  ‘You know how slow it can get in here.’ She opened wide those large dark eyes of hers, and looked up to beseech him.

  Peter took a sip of his coffee before answering — it was good coffee for this place. ‘If Ms Whitman agrees,’ he said, and Gabrielle grinned broadly, knowing she would get her way.

  DEVELOPMENT

  Penelope was awake and deep in thought when Peter came in to bid her farewell for the day. Nurse Valdez entered with him and judging from the covert, encouraging looks they were serving each other, Penelope knew something was going on. ‘Are you two dating?’ Her assumption threw the two young nurses into a state of embarrassed amusement.

  ‘Us?’ Peter gasped.

  ‘No, no, no.’ Gabrielle waved her hands to the negative.

  ‘Then what is up with the two of you this morning?’ Penelope queried. The pair reminded her of a couple of kids who were avoiding admitting to some misdeed.