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[Sound of an ax chopping wood. Quirky music fades in…]
Christopher Gronlund:
I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is not about lumberjacks…
My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny—other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never—EVER—share a story about lumberjacks.
This time, it’s a light-hearted tale about a writer who trades in his long-time muse for another…to disastrous effect.
But first, the usual content advisory…
“Firing the Muse” deals with stresses and job loss around creative work. There’s casual alcohol consumption and smoking—and a very brief allusion to combat PTSD. Unless you consider “dammit” swearing, this is the sixth Not About Lumberjacks story with no language advisory. (I can already tell you there won’t be a seventh.)
To that point, the show is nearing its 50th full story episode in November. I have big plans for the annual anniversary show, including a giveaway.
All right, let’s get to work!
Firing the Muse
1957
The blank page in Warren Quinn’s trusty Olympia typewriter was ready for words that didn’t come. Like all the days before, he rose before the sun, made a pot of coffee, and sat down to write. The room normally echoed with the clattering of keystrokes and bars striking the typewriter’s platen, leaving behind the words of pulp stories read by millions. It was honest work, but it had become a task Warren no longer enjoyed.
He smelled the cigar smoke before a fireplug of a man in a hard hat materialized at his side.
“Mornin’ kid. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Butch.”
The pop-eyed man squinted and said, “Don’t gimme that—you’re normally typing away by the time I clock in. I told ya: no such thing as writer’s block, so get yer ass in. Not gonna happen if you mope around all morning on your keister.”
“I’m not blocked. I’m just…”
“Just what?” Butch said.
“Tired. I’m tired.”
“It’s early—you’re supposed to be tired. There are tired iron workers watching the sun rise over Manhattan right now. Tired women opening cleaners in the dark canyons of our streets. Tired people all over the city who would love to be sitting in front of a typewriter instead of doing what they’re doing.”
“Thank you for the reminder that everyone has it worse than me.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“I know. I’m not gonna let ya wallow.” Warren’s muse sat on the edge of his desk.
“I’m sorry I’m sometimes hard on you, but when you get paid by the word, you’re losing money when those fingers aren’t moving.”
“That’s the problem,” Warren said. “I’m tired of always rushing. And before you say it, I know, I know—I’m lucky to have this job. Sometimes, though, I want to write something requiring a bit more thought. The city’s full of authors writing novels, and I’m up in this little apartment telling stories that don’t matter.”
Butch blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling. “Don’t matter? Tell that to the guy who busted his balls ten hours in a factory for next to nothing—who sits down at the end of the day with a beer and reads something you wrote. That’s important to him. I’ve seen people on trains and buses reading your stories in magazines. Trust me, you don’t want to be one of those hoity-toity writers begging for attention because they don’t have what it takes. They only wish they had your chops!”
Warren sighed and said, “Things are changing, Butch. I’d be better off writing comic books.”
“Don’t talk like that, kid.”
“I’m not wrong. What happens when people move on from the kinds of things I write?”
“Ya deal with it then. But it’s no good worrying about tomorrow if it ruins today.”
* * *
The War changed Warren. It didn’t traumatize him in the same way it did many of his brothers-in-arms he served with while beating back the Nazis. He came back home with a perspective on life he didn’t have going in. To return to the factory work he did before the war was accepting defeat. He made it through the hell of the European Theater—why not give his dream of writing a shot?
As a child, Warren spent more time with his nose in a book than playing in the streets with friends. His early attempts at writing stories impressed teachers enough that he saved his money selling newspapers and bought a leather-bound journal and a Waterman fountain pen. Each blank page was an invitation to pour out a piece of his imagination to be shared with others. He decided to become a writer on his 13th birthday.
When he was fifteen, two books changed everything for him: John Steinbeck’s, The Grapes of Wrath and The Big Sleep, by Raymond Chandler. Until finishing The Grapes of Wrath, Warren believed “serious” fiction was a hardboiled tale in Nick Carter Detective Magazine. A choice was laid before him: go the way of Steinbeck or follow Chandler’s path? He emulated both, until—eventually—the War had the final say. Warren’s gift to himself for surviving? An Olympia typewriter and six months’ rent on an apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. Unfortunately, the words did not come as easily as he hoped. One night in a fit of frustration, he pulled at his hair and said, “I can’t go back. I deserve this one little thing, dammit.”
Warren screamed when Butch appeared in a puff of cigar smoke at his side. Warren grabbed his pen and wielded it like a knife.
“You can stab me all you want, but it ain’t gonna do nothing,” the squat man in the hard hat said.
“Who are you? How did you get in here?”
“I’m Butch. I’m your muse.”
“What?”
“Be happy—not all writers get one.”
Warren slapped his face, and Butch said, “I’m real, kid.”
“I thought muses were beautiful women?”
“There’s a lot ya don’t know.”
“Then why don’t you tell me?”
Butch explained that anytime Warren needed help, all he had to do was call on him. He told Warren to think of him more as a partner than a boss. The words would belong to Warren; Butch would be his motivation.
“And what if I don’t like this?” Warren said.
“Then you can trade me. You only get to do that once, but we’re sure I’m the right muse for you.”
“Who’s ‘we?’”
“Gods? I don’t know, I’ve never seen them. One day I’m sitting in my place, and then FOOM, I’m in your apartment. I’m not even sure how it all works. But I can tell ya right now, you’re not gonna want to get rid of me, ‘cause we’re gonna get things done.”
And they did…
* * *
Writing had lost its thrill. Where once, gritty detective stories and sensational tales of adventure stirred something inside Warren, the thought of sitting at his desk and going through the motions left him drained. Butch teased him when he moved out of Hell’s Kitchen and into Greenwich Village in the hope of reigniting his love for writing. With fewer places to publish Warren’s stories, he figured it was a way to double back on his earlier life decision and see what might have happened had he pursued Steinbeck’s way instead. To be less like Dent, Howard, and Hammett and more like Salinger, Ellison, and Cheever.
During a rough time when no publisher seemed interested in buying Warren’s short stories, he asked Butch what he thought about working on a novel.
“Why would you spend all that time on a chance, when you can write a pile of stories that make you money?”
“I’m not selling much, lately.”
“Dry spells happen. You’re a smart cookie and saved yer clams for hard times like I taught you. Give it a bit more time…”
* * *
On a particularly frustrating day when words and sales seemed lost for good, Warren called on Butch.
POOF!
“What’s up, kid?”
“I get one trade, right?”
“Huh?”
“In the beginning—the day you arrived. You said I can trade for another muse.”
Butch shook his head. “Don’t do this, kid. Not for my sake—for yours.”
“This is for my sake. My savings are dwindling. I don’t want to lose this place.”
“You were the one who wanted to move into fancier digs. You’d have a lot more money had you listened to me and stayed in the Kitchen.”
“Listening to you got me where I am right now.”
The burly muse narrowed his eyes and pointed a stubby finger at Warren “You’re not pinning this on me, kid. You were the one who chose what you thought was the easier route to making it as a writer. You were the one who looked at all your starts and stops and decided to write entertaining short stories and not risk it all on the challenge of a serious novel. I was assigned only because I was the best fit for what you wanted.”
Warren said, “Sometimes what we want in life changes.”
Butch threw up his hands. “All right, fine. I wish you’d reconsider, but rules is rules. I hope you find what you’re looking for, kid.”
With that, Butch disappeared. Eventually, even the lingering cloud of cigar smoke was gone.
* * *
The day after parting ways with Butch, Warren sat before his typewriter, waiting. In the back of his mind—and in his old journal—he’d pieced together a story about a writer struggling to make it in the city. Butch had told him the worst thing a writer can do is write about writers.
“People would rather read a book about a rusting fence than that!”
Warren finished his pot of coffee and went for a walk in the neighborhood to clear his head. When he returned home, words still didn’t come. He called out.
“Hello? Anybody here?”
Nothing.
“I’m supposed to have a new muse. Hello?”
Out of desperation, he was about to call for Butch when a lithe figure in a bathrobe materialized at the side of his desk.
“Are you my new muse?” Warren said.
The man rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands and smacked his lips. “What time is it?”
Warren pointed to his watch. “Almost eleven. I’ve been up for hours.”
“We need to get you on a different schedule if this is going to work.”
Warren extended his hand. “I’m Warren.”
“And I am…aware of that.”
“I need a little help. Just to get started.”
Warren’s new muse yawned and said, “Give me a bit of time to get some coffee and wake up…”
* * *
Warren’s new muse finally returned around two-o’-clock. He told Warren his name was Cristano and that he only had an hour to help.
“Nabokov’s muse is in town, and some of us are meeting up for drinks.”
“You know Vladimir Nabokov?” Warren said.
“No, I didn’t say that.”
“But you know his muse?”
“I didn’t say that, either.”
Warren surveyed his new writing partner. Cristano was indistinguishable from the aspiring Beat writers Warren bumped into on the streets. Counter-culture by design, they were people who tried too hard being different, all in an effort to fit in.
“So, who do you know?” Warren said.
“It’s not about who you know, man. It’s about the scene.”
* * *
Cristano frequently went missing for days. At first, Warren wondered if it was part of his approach, to force him to find his own words and sense of pride. But when Cristano did appear, he offered no help or advice.
“Are you really a muse?” Warren said one afternoon.
“Did I not just appear before you from nothing?” Cristano said.
“I didn’t ask if you were magical—I asked if you’re a muse. Have you ever helped a writer actually finish anything?”
“I don’t have to tolerate this.”
POOF!
He was gone…
* * *
Two months into his floundering attempt at a novel, Warren spent the morning reading what little he’d finished. He could hear Butch: “Never read what you’re writing until you’re finished with a draft! Stop looking for an excuse to not write! Put yer backside in that chair and get typing!”
Looking at what he’d written, maybe Butch was right—maybe a writer writing about writers really was about as exciting as watching rust form. While fewer places were publishing what got him to where he was, with Butch’s guidance, he’d have at least written a small pile of stories and not seen his savings dry up.
He thought about spending the day writing a detective story—even thought about calling out for Butch and apologizing. Instead, he went looking for Cristano.
* * *
While Warren moved to Greenwich Village in the hope of becoming a more serious writer, his writing schedule and Butch ensured he rarely got out. His former muse was like a protective father when it came to the neighborhood.
“I’m not saying don’t go to any bars bars, kid, but they’re not gonna do ya any good.”
“I’ve never had a problem with drinking,” Warren said.
“I’m not saying you do—this has nothing to do with booze. It has everything to do with not needing those kinds of writers in your life.”
* * *
Warren had passed the White Horse Tavern many times, but never stopped in. He figured, if he was going to find Cristano anywhere, it was a good place to start.
Warren expected a more refined space—not an everyday establishment with a dozen stools at the bar and half a dozen tables packed into a small area and a tiny side room with a few more places to sit and talk. It lacked the regal standing of The Chelsea Hotel or the Algonquin Round Table, and perhaps that was its charm. A bar once claimed by longshoremen, now overrun by writers and artists.
Warren approached a table and said, “Excuse me, I’m looking for someone named Cristano. Do you know him?”
The resulting sneers told him that, even if they did, it was best to move on. Other tables yielded more side-looks or “No”s. Warren was about to give up when a man in the back of the side room waved him over.
He tried a bit too hard to fit in: an open flannel with perfectly rolled sleeves over a white t-shirt. Jeans and boots that looked like they’d never seen travel or a day of hard work.
“Heard you asking about Cristano Leventis,” he said.
“I don’t know his last name…”
“Tall, thin blond guy with a face that looks like a classical sculpture? Bit of curl in his hair and piercing eyes? Arrogant as hell?”
“That sounds like him.”
“You’re a writer then?”
“Yes, how do you know?”
He pushed a chair out with his foot. “Take a load off…”
* * *
The man in the flannel took a sip of whiskey and lit a cigarette before reaching across the table.
“Name’s Paul.”
Warren shook his hand and told him his name.
“So,” Paul said. “You’re Cristano’s new writer?”
Warren nodded. “I take it you’re Cristano’s old writer?”
“I’ve not put anything in my belly today but whiskey—so, yep! Lemme guess, you’ve not seen him for days. When you do, he always has an excuse about why he can’t help out. And you’re left sitting there—not writing a word—wondering what you did to deserve him?”
“Yes.”
“Trade him.”
“Huh?”
“Trade him for another muse.”
Warren said, “I already did a trade. He was the replacement.”
“Oh. What were you writing before?”
“Detective and adventure stories for magazines. I wanted to write something more serious.”
Paul laughed and said, “I suppose it could be worse. I was writing plays, but wanted to become a novelist because I imagined more fame. Now, look at me. You have two choices as I see it: deal with Cristano and all his baggage…or fire him.”
“You can do that?”
“The whole thing’s weird, man. You can trade them once. After that, you’re stuck with them or have to quit.”
Warren looked around the room, wondering how many others in the space had suffered the same fate. After considering Paul’s words, he said, “Have you heard about anyone rehiring their old muse?”
“Nope. I mentioned that to Cristano before I canned him. He said once a muse is reassigned, that’s that. Your old muse is probably sitting with another writer right now, working away. You’re better off getting a regular job than suffering with Cristano the rest of your life.”
* * *
Warren grew determined to make his collaborative alliance with Cristano prosper. He ignored all slights in the month that followed, giving the muse’s never-ending parade of excuses the benefit of the doubt.
Each time, Cristano got worse.
A month later, during a particularly flippant visit from Cristano, Warren finally lost his temper.
“Do you even know how to write?! You’ve given me nothing the whole time I’ve known you.”
“How dare you!” Cristano said. “Of course I know how to write.”
“Good. Then help me!”
“Not if you’re going to be like this!”
Cristano disappeared in a sudden POOF!
Warren brought a fist down on the top of his desk, causing his pen to roll off his old journal. He picked it up and looked at the nib.
When he finally calmed down, he devised a plan…
* * *
Warren spent the following three afternoons at his desk, pen in hand over his journal, waiting. When Cristano finally appeared at his side, Warren scribbled in the book.
“What are you writing?” Cristano said.
“A story. Without you.”
“You’re not supposed to do that,” the muse said.
“I wouldn’t if you did your job.”
Cristano tried peeking at the page, but Warren blocked the view with his shoulder.
“Is it a detective story? Like you used to write?”
“No, it’s a serious story,” Warren said. “The kind you’re supposed to help me write.”
“Let me see.”
“No.”
“I’m your muse. I demand to see.”
Warren sighed and said, “Okay…”
He moved his shoulder, giving Cristano a view of the page. When the muse bent over for a closer look, Warren drove his Waterman pen into Cristano’s neck.
Cristano took a step back and raised to his full height. His mouth formed a surprised O. Half the pen was lodged deep in his throat. It rocked up and down as he swallowed.
He met Warren’s eyes and tilted his head. Then, he reached up, calmly extracted the pen, and handed it back to Warren.
“What the hell was that?” Cristano said.
“Uhm…”
“Uhm, what? Did you think that would work?”
“I figured it was worth a shot.”
“And if it did work,” Cristano said. “What then?”
“I’ve written piles of detective stories. I had a few plans to get rid of you based on what happened.”
“What?!”
“I wasn’t sure if you’d disappear or die like a human. Or something else.”
“You actually believed you could kill me? Why would you do such a thing?”
“You’re never around. We’re getting nothing done.”
Cristano shook his head. “It may look like I’m doing nothing, but I’m meeting people. That’s how it’s done. You hole up in this room all day and night thinking what you write matters? If you want to be a known writer, you have to be known for more than just your writing.”
“That’s what writers who don’t know how to write do,” Warren said. “I asked you before: do you even know how to write? And don’t disappear this time!”
“Of course I know how to write. I’m a muse, aren’t I?”
“Tell me something you’ve written.”
“You wouldn’t know it.”
“Try me!”
“This is ridiculous. I don’t have to stand for this.”
“Neither do I,” Warren said. “You’re fired.”
“What?!”
“I don’t know if there’s any special thing we have to do, but I’m done with you.”
“You can’t do this.”
“Why not?” Warren said.
“If you get rid of me, you’ll never write again.”
“That’s preferable to dealing with you.”
Cristano’s temperament changed. “Please reconsider. Please?”
“No! Why would I?”
“To help me. They said this was my last assignment.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” Warren said.
“Gods? I don’t know, I’ve never seen them.”
“What will they do to you?”
“I don’t know—make me work?”
Warren considered stabbing Cristano in the throat again, knowing it would do no harm, but feel so good. Instead, he said, “What a horrible thing to do to you—make you work.”
“You agree?”
“No! Of course I don’t agree.” He thought about what Butch would do, and said, “The effort you put into not working is greater than most people put into work. Get out of here.”
“Please!”
“I said leave.” Warren poked Cristano in the forehead, and he disappeared for the final time.
* * *
Warren thought about work often in the month that followed the firing of Cristano. After the War, he’d moved on from factory work by working harder than ever at writing. Now, he’d returned to where he started: back in Hell’s Kitchen, toiling through his days for a loud boss on a factory floor. He consoled himself by thinking how the time for writers like him was nearing an end. Publishing was changing, and he was destined to be left behind, despite his best efforts. He’d at least done more than most who set out to make a living with words, and had a shelf in his tiny apartment to always remember those days.
Another month of trying to convince himself he was okay with how things turned out wasn’t working. He thought about ways to get close to publishing again, even if it was working for a print house instead of writing the words to be printed. Maybe a maintenance job in a publishing house, where he could talk with an editor and let them know he was more than just a person to call on when light bulbs needed changing. He even considered becoming a merchant marine, just to get away from it all and later write about his travels.
One payday, too tired to go home and cook, Warren treated himself to dinner at his favorite neighborhood diner. As he waited for his pork chops, he smelled cigar smoke and heard a familiar voice.
“Well, who do we have, here?”
The squat man set his hard hat on the table and slid into the booth across from Warren.
“Butch!”
“The one and only. Howya doin’, kid?”
“Not so good.”
“What’s up?”
“I should have listened to you,” Warren said.
“Things didn’t work out, huh?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For trading you.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Butch said. “You did what you thought you had to do, and I’m proud of your moxie.”
“That does me no good, now. They assigned me a new muse who did nothing. I fired him.”
“You did?”
“Yes. He was never around. I don’t know if he even knew how to write.”
“Maybe. We have some charmers among our lot.”
“I tried killing him, Butch.”
“You what?!”
“I stabbed him in the neck with my pen—”
Butch howled with laughter. When he finally dried his eyes, he said, “Oh, kid…you’re the best!”
“Thanks,” Warren looked around the diner.
Butch said, “If you’re wondering if they’re looking at me for laughing, they aren’t. You look like a crazy guy in a booth talking to himself as far as they’re concerned.”
Warren lowered his head and voice. “It’s good seeing you again.”
“Good seeing you.”
“So, what’s your new writer like?” Warren said.
“Huh?”
“Your new writer.”
“Oh! I didn’t take a new assignment.”
“You quit?”
“No! Why would I do that? I finally took a vacation. Been ages. Literally.”
“Where’d you go?”
“We have an island in Greece all to ourselves. Gave me plenty of time to think.”
“About what?” Warren said.
“You.”
“What about me?”
“I figured things might not work out for you and my replacement, so I didn’t take on a new writer. Guys like me aren’t in great demand these days, so it’s not like nobody was beating down my door.”
“What does that mean for me?”
“It means I’m gonna ride your ass harder than ever for thinking you could trade me away, but I’m not gonna hold a grudge.”
“You’re my muse again?”
“Kid, I never left—you did. You needed to figure some things out. We both needed time to think. But yeah, we’re a team again. And you’re right: things are changing. I should have listened to you more instead of being so stubborn. I’m sorry I didn’t see that.”
“It’s okay,” Warren said. “I think we were both too set in our ways.”
Butch knocked on his head and said, “So hardheaded, I really don’t need that hat!”
People at nearby tables watched Warren laugh to himself. When he stopped, he said, “I’ve been thinking about where things might go. I’ve been thinking about writing spy novels.”
“That’s a good idea,” Butch said. “But is it what you really want?”
“No,” Warren said, “but there are worse ways to spend a day.”
“True. But I think I figured out a way for us to both be happy,” Butch said. “I think there’s a damn good market coming for your ‘serious’ stories…but not stories like all the others everyone’s writing, now. Serious stories about people like us. Everyman stories.
“Instead of stories that let people escape into lives they can only dream about, or writing about rich people and their problems, why not show people they aren’t forgotten? I think the future’s gonna become busier than we can imagine, and stories are gonna become more important than ever. I think that’s our new place. Sound good?”
“Sounds great!” Warren said.
“Good…good. All right, I’m gonna let ya eat your dinner in peace and enjoy the weekend. ‘Cause Monday morning when the sun comes up, I want to see your keister in that chair ready to work harder than ever. We got a whole new world ahead of us, kid…”
* * *
[Quirky music fades in…]
Christopher Gronlund:
Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.
Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music was by Jackie Martin, licensed through Epidemic Sound.
Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music. Also, for as little as a dollar a month, you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund.
Next time, the residents of a trailer park battle a developer and city to save their homes from being bulldozed to make way for a golf course.
[Quirky music fades out…]
[The sound of an axe chopping.]
Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!
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