He looked up from his laptop, squinted. “I’m thinking something about Noel Coward, but...”
She propped herself up on the back of his club chair. “What’s stopping you?”
“Well,” he said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “I don’t really know anything about Noel Coward, and it doesn’t seem to be the intent of the prompt.”
“Research?”
“I don’t really want to know anything about Noel Coward. Nothing against him, but I’m tired and I’ve made it this far without knowing....”
The muse slid into the chair, lolling her head over the armrest nearest his desk. “Whine, whine, whine. So instead of researching, you’re going to write this conversation as your story for the night.” Speaking from this position it looked like she was talking out of her forehead. The writer cringed.
“Over halfway there. I must say, you’ve helped immensely. Couldn’t’ve done it without you.”
“Imagine what you could do if you really tried, instead of writing this nonsense.”
“Please sit up. I can’t have a conversation with you when it looks like you’re talking out of your forehead.”
“Poor you,” she said, sitting up. “You could have started anything: battlefield deserter, nervous almost-fiancee, frightened wheelman, Noel Coward—”
“Writer plagued by self-doubt.”
“Might as well just say ‘writer.’ But those who go beyond transcriptionists face their fears.”
He sighed. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“Maybe. But I doubt it.”
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