“I’m bored,” my Muse whines. “When will you be finished?”
“Taxes take time. I have to get this right,” I say.
“But you’re not doing your taxes yet. You’re just totaling receipts.”
“These receipts tell me how much money Medusa’s Muse has earned.”
“And lost.” She slumps into a chair.
I scowl at her. “Thanks for fixating on the losses.”
“This year hasn’t exactly been booming for your press.”
“That will change.”
“You say that every year.”
Ignoring her, I focus on the pile of receipts again. Does the receipt for photocopies go in the supplies pile or the promotion pile?
My muse kicks my chair. “This press of yours is sucking more than money. It’s sucking your creative energy.”
I sigh. “Why do you do this every year?”
“Do what?”
“Bitch and moan about the press every time I have to do bookkeeping?”
“Because there is nothing creative about bookkeeping.”
“True, there isn’t. But to be creative I need to also be pragmatic. Bookkeeping keeps the lights on.”
“But it takes too long. Why not hire someone?”
“Because that would take money, which you so kindly pointed out I don’t have.”
She crosses her arms and sulks. “I hate this part of publishing.”
“Everyone does.”
“During the Renaissance, you would have had a patron to take care of all those incidentals. He would have paid your taxes and provided you food and shelter, clothing and entertainment. All of your needs would have been taken care of, simply so you could create brilliant works of art.”
“Talk to Rick. Maybe he can get a fourth job and rescue me from all this toil.” I clip a stack of receipts together and then label them postage.
“Don’t you want to take a break and work on your play?”
“Yes, I do, but I have to get this done first.”
“But…”
Swiveling in my chair to face her, I snap, “If you don’t stop interrupting me I’ll never get this done, which means I’ll never get to work on my play.”
She regally stands, looks at me, and in a calm voice says, “Don’t forget you have a deadline on your play. You told UPT you’d finish the rewrites this week.”
“I know.”
“I’ll leave you to it then.” With a toss of her snake tresses, she softly walks from the room.
Muses!
Where was I? Crap, I know I have more receipts for travel. Where’s the one from the dinner in October