Wanted: male muse

Intrepid girl writer seeks hot male who is inspirational and handy with a dust mop. Duties include: making me tea, bolstering my confidence and fluffing pillows. Dark, scruffy types preferred.

So what kind of response do you think I could get?

I’m hopeful, but something tells me that there won’t be a rush of phone calls. I briefly considered the possibility of pitching a reality t.v. show based on my search: me and 25 scantily clad himbos racing around the world in masks, stopping in lush, gorgeous beach resorts to sing songs and have house-cleaning contests. Simon Cowell would host – in flip-flops and Hawaiian shirts  – and the original Survivor winner, Richard Hatch, would serve us drinks in coconut half shells. A celebrity panel comprised of Mr. Clean, Marge the Palmolive Lady and the Tetley Tea elves would choose the winner.

But then I thought: where’s my gimmick? And that’s when I decided that the newspaper ad might have more of a hook. How does one go about the business of finding a male muse? The great male writers of the world have always managed to reel in babes – no matter how crusty they got around the edges – willing to take care of their every need while they concentrated on their art. These women sacrificed everything of themselves so that their men could make some contribution to the world of art.

Those who cannot pick up the pen, pick up after those who can.

But how many men are willing to take that same position? To be tucked away in the shadow of a woman’s fame?
Where are the Leonard Woolfs of the world hiding?

To a certain extent, intrepid girl writers are asking for the same tenderness and consideration that all girls seek. The difference is, most intrepid girl writers possess a highly attuned level of creative madness that create difficulty for others. For example, the perfect male muse, when confronted (for the one-millionth time) with a frustrated me staring at the bed I started making 12 hours before (having been lured away by a sentence needing to be written), will not scold me. No, the good male muse will nod his head slowly, smile to himself and toss the pillows over so that I can cram them into the too-little pillow covers while he does the sheet stuff. Then the good male muse will want to discuss said sentence and whisper a key grammatical change in my ear as we fall asleep.

This, I realise, is asking too much.

And yet, most of the great dead white guys all had their Mrs. to write out manuscripts by candlelight and produce children to carry on the name – basically  ground them by creating connections between the unearthly writer and the solid, tangible earth

Intrepid girl writers also need someone to help them create a familiar, cosy environment that keeps us feeling stable. When we break out of whatever writerly coma we slipped into, we want to know that there’s a cup of tea waiting for us. And made just the way we like it.

Oh, and did I mention “needs to own country estate” somewhere?