The writer had been working frantically all month. The words poured from her fingertips, filling her notebooks and speeding across the screen of her laptop. Ideas had come to her on the street, in the supermarket, on the train or during conversations with friends, sprinkling down like stardust. Her desk summoned her as she wrote well into the night.
One morning however, she woke with a heavy head.
Everything seemed different.
After breakfast, she sat at her desk and stared at the blank page. As much as she tried, nothing would come out.
It went on like this for a week. On Friday night, while the writer was fast asleep, a slender, ethereal girl opened the door to the apartment. She placed her bags on the floor and went over to the desk, flipping through the notebooks and then glancing at the computer screen.
Just as she thought.
Good to know she was useful.
She opened the bedroom door a little and peered in at the sleeping writer. Tiptoeing across the room, she gave the writer a sharp prod in the back.
The writer woke. She scrambled upright. She suddenly had an idea.
When she switched on the desk lamp, she stared at the laptop and smiled.
The girl, who was sitting in the shadows opposite, invisible to any human eye, sighed.
This writer was the most demanding she’d worked with this century. No wonder she’d had to go away for a week.
Every muse deserved a holiday.
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