Entertaining Unexpected Guests

Did you miss the etiquette class on dealing with muses who knock at inconvenient times? Me, too, but here's what I've learned on my own. It's lovely when thoughtful guests at the door hand you chocolates, which can be shared right away. Or maybe an image for the poem on your computer. I'm grateful for a handful of wildflowers, even though it means I must rummage for a vase, find shears to clip the stems, and get delayed in the pantry. Such a gift might be half a line for a poem pages back, or a seed for one yet to be. But when the muses pull up in a battered truck to let you know they've got a new book idea, it's unsettling.

What does a graceful hostess do? We never want to turn away a muse, even when she's smelling like she's been too long in someone's attic: there might be cobwebs stuck to a musty sleeve and untidy sneakers. I do pull up a chair and listen. I start a new file and take notes. I enjoy the thrill of interruption, but try not to get entirely seduced. At some point in the visit, my eyes will veer to the clock or I'll unplug the teakettle, put the dishes in the sink, and loudly clear my throat. I'm pretty good at that.

There are half-written poems, which only I can attend to. The door and new file may be cracked open again tomorrow. I'll be here and listening, but beyond the sweet call of the new I want to hear a manuscript's final pages settling into place.

But wait… she's back again and it sounds important. I'll just listen for a few minutes, and have one more cup of tea.