The day this goes live, it’ll be Airplane Day!
I’m headed for a week of vacation in Texas, followed by a week at WMG’s Anthology Workshop in Vegas.
In preparation, I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time instructing the office staff and housemates on how to carry on in my absence. I don’t expect to return home to neat and orderly—not with my crew.
I don’t expect things to go flawlessly—so much has fallen apart, broken down, and went up in flames just the few days before the trip. No way all that’s settled before take-off.
However, a reasonably functional home to return to would be ideal. And a support staff ready to get back to work.
I stop short of making anyone vow a vow. Things happen. Some promises aren’t keepable.
For newer readers to the blog, this will give you a good idea of what I have to put up with to get anything written. You can click on the names for more background.
For my regular readers, well, you already know how this went:
Amara (a real, live rescue cat): You’re in charge. You’re always in charge, whether I’m here or not. Take inventory of your springs. Perimeter checks every two hours. Remind Father it’s always Tuna Feast in Gravy time. You’re the boss.
Malachi (a real, live rescue cat): I have not abandoned you. Father has a lap, too. Do not lick lightbulbs.
Stella (a real, live rescue cat): Keep the wailing renditions of “We’re All Gonna Die: Mother’s Missing Version” down to a dull roar and between the hours of seven p.m. and nine p.m. None of your two-a.m. serenades.
Zeppo (a real-ish pink cockatoo who’s fond of Biscoff cookies): I’ve set your headphones to play “Old Time Rock and Roll” at nine a.m. and five p.m., and you’ve got a fresh supply of Biscoff butter on the second shelf below your perch. We’ll talk UFOs when I get back.
Trudi (the concrete one in charge of marketing): All you gotta do is keep your bikini on and don’t fall off your scooter. Enjoy the silence for a change. We’ll shop for a storage trunk when I get back… Your wardrobe is out of control.
The Jiggle Dragons (the trio overseeing word count): Ya’ll are on vacation. Hang with Trudi and Zeppo. The keyboard’s coming with me.
Kate, Sawyer, Neil, Mozzie, Jesse, Walter, and Mr. Kaplan (real, live pet store fish): You are not nearly as hungry as you claim to be. Seriously. We know the fin-wiggling is manipulation, and all that staring out into the living room is creepy. Pace yourselves—the new jar of cichlid flakes must last until I return. Kaplan—You’re a grime-sucking machine. Keep up the good work.
The Hubs (a real, live rescue man in charge of the real, live rescue cats and the real, live pet store fish): I expect three cats (the exact same ones—no more, no less), seven fish (meh… just status quo here), and one Hubs (the exact same one—no more no less) to be awaiting my return—and for my to-be-read pile not to be covered in Cheeto dust.
Little Miss Muse (my always-present real, live muse): Here’s where the talks fall apart. I don’t want to take her. But she’s been with me from the beginning of this writing journey before I realized there was a journey.
She’s like Santa Claus. She watches me sleep (and drops muse bombs into the dreams). She knows when I’m up (and should be writing, and brings out the bottle rockets). She knows if I’ve been bad or good (waxing and waning word counts). Sometimes she brings me gifts of glorious plot twists and flow states. Other times she leaves me lumps of smoldering coal and tells me to work my issues out and call Couch Lady already.
Little Miss Muse on this trip, though? My skin crawls at the thought.
“I’ll be good. I promise.” She sits beside me as I write this, twirling her hair and popping grape bubblegum.
“I highly doubt that’s a keepable promise.”
She has a habit of getting kicked out of Vegas venues. And the last time, she cost me an airline ticket because she didn’t stick with me on the way home, so I paid for my winged imp to fly—first class.
This trip has multiple plane changes, a rental car, an Airbnb, the ocean, my friend from France, and a days-long anthology workshop with lots of other writers at an enormous resort. (Not the Golden Nugget, thank goodness. Little Miss has been banned from that establishment due to an unfortunate incident at the shark tank swimming pool and another “event” at the casino. I’ve no idea…)
I’ve no idea if any of the other writers are bringing their muses—winged or otherwise. Little Miss doesn’t always play well with others. Especially if the other muses are in the form of cats.
“I’ll be so good that you’ll have to write an entire blog series on just how good I was.” She picks at her nails and throws me an innocent grin.
I stare at her over the rim of my glasses.
“Seriously, I promise. We’ll get on fabulously.” She twirls off the desk and clomps down the hall in her high heels. I hear her rummaging in the closet. I hear a thud. Three cats yowl and scatter through the house. I hear clanks on the hardwood floor. She’s dug out her suitcase. The lavender leopard print one with the squeaky wheel.
If I force her to stay home, there’s absolutely no chance the house will be standing and even less of a chance that the office staff will remain on payroll.
If she goes, there’s a chance the Airbnb, the resort, and/or the hotel room won’t be standing. Or any of the restaurants.
Or the entire state of Texas.
I think I need to find a fountain. I have those shiny wishing pennies.
Maybe I cash those babies in. Shore up the travel insurance.
Because with Little Miss, anything could happen.
My muse drags her suitcase into the office, unzips it, and lays it open on the floor. She plops her tutu’d fanny inside, twitches her wings, and looks up at me with big, mischievous eyes.
“Okay.” I sigh.
“I can come?”
“Yes.” I dig in my wallet for the pennies. I know of one fountain in our town, restored a few years back. I don’t know if the water’s flowing, but we have had a lot of rain lately… “Start packing. No bottle rockets or lighters on this trip, though.”
She looks a little disappointed, but she spins out of the suitcase and heads for her stash of all things purple.
I must be nuts.
I look in my hand. Four pennies.
I’ll use them all, wishing at the fountain with my whole heart for a dab of magic.
Because Little Miss Muse and I have a decades-long promise to each other—a keepable one. She’s my muse, and I’m her writer. We’re in this for the long haul.
We belong together, even on Airplane Days.
And anything could happen...
