I didn't wait for a second 'knock' because the first one had already cracked the frame and bent the hinges.
I was wearing home jeans and a t-shirt. Some people got dressed up to meet their muses but this was my muse, I wanted her to see me as I was fresh off the bat. I opened the door envisioning some strong Greek Goddess/Valkyrie/Amazon with a brace of 1970 brass threaded Parker Pens in her hair and a satchel full of Moleskine notebooks, a pocket of Lamy fountain pens, Fürst mechanical clutch-pencils and a 1940s Hermes Baby typewriter under one arm. She'd have a smirk on her face, a crack of wit on her lips and be ready to shoot me up with midnight royal blue Waterman ink using a sharpened Lee Oskar diatonic C major harmonica for a needle.
I had to land a gorilla. The ink wasn't even dry on my discharge papers from Uni and here was all 200 pounds of hairy muse ready at my door making contented digestion belches as if she'd been recently snacking on saltines and pickled herring.
"Please come in," I said but I was dead inside. I then backed all the way into the living room.
In my rented student studio flat. There was no way we were going to continue the conversation in my 4 square feet of hallway.
Who was I kidding? What conversation?
"Can I get you something to drink? Something to eat?"
The gorilla made another contented belch, it sounded like a cat purring if the cat were sleeping in a tuba.
I heard a beep from my phone and took it out. It was a message from --
The gorilla, my muse, had broken my phone in half.
I went to my bed and sat down. There's no use arguing with a goril--
My muse had picked up my bed and broken the frame in half. I was dumped rudely on the floor beside my bag. My muse took the mattress and leaned it against the wall.
"Look, maybe we got off on the wrong foot, wanna watch some tv or somethi--"
My muse had bent my flatscreen in half. Then it picked up the media pc I used for network games and smashed it on the ground repeatedly until it broke like a coconut with all its hdd's spilling out like massive seeds. All my local saved games and top scores were ruined.
The gorilla looked at me.
I sat in a room filled with a symphony of destruction. This was my muse. It's not like I could phone in a complaint about my muse. It would be like calling the police about my cancer.
Then I had an idea. I took my notebook out of my bag, the one I'd carried around all summer and half filled with scribbled lines. I started writing down what had just happened.
The gorilla sat down.
I wrote half a page and still had the notebook and pen in my hands.
I pulled my laptop out of my bag.
The gorilla stood up.
At the desktop I launched Scrivener and typed up the notes I had just written.
The gorilla sat down.
Later that week I felt it was safe to turn on the radio. I made the mistake of turning it on before I started writing.
After I got a new radio, the work proceeded fairly smoothly.
No distraction is survived by my muse. She will destroy anything that gets in the way of my focus.
Endnote: Twenty years after I got my muse, I'm a married man with kids. I was careful to write my priorities down which is how my muse let this happen. I won't bore you with the details of how she chased away anyone who showed any interest in me before I hit on that solution.
My home once again has a television but I never watch it. There is once again a phone in my pocket but I write on it.
I am a published author and my muse is a gorilla.
She destroys anything which distracts me from my mission. She eats my bad drafts.
I am the luckiest writer in the world.
I got a gorilla for a muse.