In which Deb Kristina’s muse is unreliable

I like to imagine my muse with a cigar clamped in his teeth, wearing a fedora with a press card in the brim, and two fingers of whiskey at his side, the ice not having had a chance to melt in the glass as he takes another slug. He types furiously, of course, on a manual typerwriter which creates a serious din that means WORK is being produced.

(Sometimes, the soft tapping on my Dell just doesn’t feel significant enough. I miss the fierce way I could SMACK the carriage return arm and start another