I’m usually reluctant to talk about my muse, (in fact he doesn’t like it,) but he gave me a pass here, a nod, and said, “sure, go ahead.”

He’s been quite the backseat driver lately, maybe even moved up to shotgun. In the past he’s been more like the road weary hitchhiker, leaning forward once in while just to say, “turn here…slow down,” and keeping me in the dark, on edge, guessing if my throat would be cut and I, left for dead in a ditch around the next corner.

Eighty pages into my latest work I decided I wanted to write about genius: the Capote’s, Hemingway’s and Salinger’s, icons and influences of my youth. The James Dean’s, and Jim Morrison’s, (wonder boys) and the effect their work had on their lives, not culture, fuck culture, that’s been done to death.

All was going well, the main character had set out on his Ducati across the American southwest on his first book tour: Kansas , New Mexico , and Arizona , now he’s here, now he’s there. I noticed the last couple pages read like dictation, like a god dam travel piece. What the hell is going on, I thought.

And right over there, in my leather rocker, pivoting his wrist, swirling the ice in his glass of gold magic, was my muse. “What do think yer doin asshole?”

“What…what do ya mean?”

“Ya think yer gonna take this glass without even asking?”

“No… Of course not.” I lied.

“Ya think you can write about us…about me?”

“Well-I thought…”

“There’s the problem… Look Kev, You and I have been through a lot; if you’re gonna do this-do it right.”

“Ok, whudaya mean?”

Over the years he has popped in from time to time, splashing a little of that gold magic here and there and now he was sitting right in front of me and I was asking for the whole glass.

“Ya gotta start with theme this time dumbshit.”

A tricky proposition in my mind, so I ask, “really, ya sure?”

“Please…” he said, waving away my stupid question like it was an annoying insect. He pulled the rocker next to me and set that glass next to my lap top. The thought occurred to me to grab it, gulp the priceless liquid and suck the cubes gone, (gone being the keyword here and momma didn’t raise no fool.)

So there we were, and there he stayed. I didn’t realize until that day, that I was writing the biography of my muse: Sebastian, this writer, this artist that possesses me on occasion. He’s been a murdering son of a bitch through my editing and re-writes, but he’s right-he’s always right, and during the final draft hopefully he’ll spill that damn glass of literary magic all over it, cause it can change the world and I know it.

“That’s enough bullshit,” he said, “get back to work.”

Biography

Kevin Lynn Helmick: born in Fort Madison IA, 1963. began writing short stories and poetry in his teens. He now lives near Chicago, married with three sons. other titles by Helmick include The Lost Creek Journal, Clovis Point, and the yet to be published literary/adventure Sebastian Cross.

Here is his link to Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/Kevin-Lynn-Helmick/e/B003IR7PU0/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1278297189&sr=1-2-ent

… and here is his link to The Lost Creek Journal

THE LOST CREEK JOURNAL | By KEVIN LYNN HELMICK | Category: Poetry | Blurb