They say every creative person has a muse. As a screenwriter, I'm no different. Some muses are actual human beings and some are fantastical creatures we make up in our heads. I have a muse of the latter variety.
My imaginary muse is a man of about 25, he's average height, lean, dark brown hair, blue eyes, and occasionally has facial hair. He wears gold lame bikini briefs. He has a very deep voice. His name is Alexander, never Alex. He is a real bitch too.
Most of the time, Alex likes to lay around the pool in his imaginary L.A. home, he soaks up rays but never tans to anything more than light golden brown. He never wears clothing other than his banana hammock, unless it's Mardi Gras when he dresses up in purple, green and gold beads, a fruit hat and flip flops.
Like me, he likes men, but unlike me, he is bone lazy and only works when I offer him chocolate. He never actually gets the chocolate, could be why he's so stubborn.
Nevertheless, Alex is my muse and most of the time, he is useful, helps find ideas and sometimes is the keeper of my talent. Sometimes, he incessantly sings "I Will Survive" and other disco hits for hours on end.
He can be a real bitch, but I love the little fella.
Now, where did I put that chocolate?
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