Little White Muse
It began one bright and uneventful morning in the Month
of Sleeping. The sun had just climbed above the edge of the horizon, and glowed
palely, like a fresh egg yolk. Dew still clung to the grass; the pavement outside
was soaked. The pond behind my house had yet to awaken-the life that thrived around
it was still asleep. It was still relatively early in the morning, but I was already
having a bad day.
I'd just finished my favorite breakfast-BBQ omelette-and
had changed out of my pajamas into some jeans and a white t-shirt. Afterwards,
I went for a brisk run, took a hot bath, changed back into my clothes, cracked
my knuckles, grabbed my favorite pen… and got down to work.
I've been a writer all my life. While other Lupes
my age romped around and practiced their athletic skills, I stayed inside and
wrote stories. Even so I was urged to keep in shape, which I did faithfully,
and excelled academically. I was a bright young pup-anyone can tell you that.
But there is one obstacle even the best and most
talented of writers cannot avoid. A terrible state of the mind that dulls dreams
and clouds thought. A disease of the brain all writers detest and have dubbed,
with great disdain, "writer's block".
And I was having writer's block worse than I'd
ever had it in my entire life.
Only recently had I been accepted into the Neopian
Times with a series about a detective who explores the unexplained. I called
it The Alabaster Chronicles. Surprisingly, it was a smash hit. I received
gifts from adoring fans and was flooded with neomails of support and encouragement.
Needless to say, I certainly had the motivation to write more for the Neopian
I stared down at the almost completely blank
sheet of paper on the desk before me. My fingers, clutching my basic pen, twitched
as I read what I had written.
By Phinnaeus Lupine
I looked at the words, sighing deeply. I'd toiled
for three days, and had two words to show for it. My story was going nowhere,
and I had no idea how to continue it.
The sun… What did the sun do? Was it shining?
Was it a cloudy day? What colors did it shine with? Was it a good day?
I slowly descended into a spiral of confusion.
What was I even getting at? When I tried to think of description, my thought
well went dry. I stared at the piece of paper, fumbling for the right way to
show what I was feeling… but the tip of my pen didn't touch the paper.
I decided to get my mind off of writing, and
to wake myself further I went to the bathroom to splash some cold water in my
face. Perhaps if I was livelier, I could think more clearly?
Sunlight shone in through the windows, and I
realized that sweat was dripping down the sides of my face. With a breathy sigh
I took a step towards the window, grabbed its bottom edge, and pulled it open.
A breeze fluttered in, blowing the curtains and bringing me instant relief.
The piece of paper flapped idly in the wind; my favorite pen lay still.
I continued to the bathroom, twisting the faucet
on and filling the sink with water. After what seemed like an eternity, I reached
down with cupped hands and brought some to my face, wiping my cheeks and brow.
With a sigh I brought another handful of water to my face, savoring the relief
it gave me.
Rubbing my eyes again, and drying my hands on
a towel, I sighed and entered the study. The piece of paper still lay on the
desk; the pen still lay atop it. Its blankness beckoned me, but I did not feel
inspired in the slightest. Trying to get my mind off of writing I turned to
a bookshelf, selected one of my favorites, and sat down on the white armchair
Only moments after I'd begun reading, I realized
that the room was too cold-the breezes from the open window were no longer that
relieving. With a sigh I set down my book and stood up, ready to head over to
the window to shut it. As I glanced over at it, however, I saw something I would
have never expected.
It was a white Weewoo.
The peculiar petpet stared at me blankly for
a moment, sitting quite comfortably on the open windowsill. Without much thought
it wandered onto the top of my desk, looked down at my nearly blank sheet of
paper, and then stared at my favorite pen. It glanced up at me with beady, expectant
eyes, as if contemplating a choice-then, before I knew it, the pen was in its
"Hey!" I snapped, running forward to snatch my
pen back. After all, it was my lucky pen! It was the pen I'd used all through
the writing of The Alabaster Chronicles and the thought that it would
not be there would, undoubtedly, drive me further into writer's block.
Running to the window was a bad mistake. The
Weewoo, now alarmed, took my advance as a threat and leapt nimbly out the window.
With a grunt I poked my head out into the open air, and stared around for the
Weewoo. Where had it gone? As if to answer me, a soft cooing call sounded out
beneath me. I stared down.
The Weewoo stared up at me, securely perched
on the branch of a tree just below the window. The pen was now clutched in its
beak. Its eyes flashed at me, almost as if it were trying to tell me something.
"Stupid Weewoo," I muttered, slamming the window
shut and dashing downstairs as quickly as my feet could carry me. I burst through
the kitchen and into the front hall towards the front door, which I threw open.
It heard it snap back and slam shut-I didn't care at all-and I flew across the
front yard, only turning to charge down to the side of my house which my study's
I stared up at the tree branch that the Weewoo
still sat on. It stared at me again, the pen clutched firmly in its beak, a
sort of satisfied grin on its face.
"Stupid Weewoo!" I shouted again. The Weewoo
hooted, still quite content. I stared up at it angrily. What did it want from
"Just give me back my pen!"
"Woo." The Weewoo shrugged, turning away.
I walked briskly over to the tree trunk, wrapped
my paws around it, and began to shake it furiously. Leaves rustled overhead-the
white Weewoo let out an unhappy hoot and leapt from its branch. It landed on
the ground, and with speed unlike anything I'd ever seen it dashed across to
"This is really getting old," I murmured to myself,
pursuing it. I had to get my pen back. It was the only thing that kept me going!
"Dear Fyora, do I really neglect my backyard
I stared out disgustedly at the mess of tangled
thorns and shrubs that sparsely blanketed my backyard. The Weewoo, as nimble
as an acrobat, seemed to almost dance as it flipped and dodged the obstacles.
A feeling of dread swept over me as I realized where it was headed-the "tranquil"
pond in my backyard.
"Give it here!" I shouted at the Weewoo futilely,
trying as best I could to follow it through the thorns and vines that coated
the ground. A thorny vine caught and tore at my leg-I winced-and it was then
that I swore that I'd chop down every bush in the stupid place when this fiasco
It wasn't two seconds after that promise to myself
that my foot caught on a tree root, and I toppled head first into a briar patch.
I flew up like a coiled spring, landing down
with a thump directly on my tail. I winced, rising to my feet sorely.
The Weewoo had stopped its merry little dance
to the pond and was now staring at me with those beady black eyes and that stupid
little smirk. I wanted to chuck a rock at it. Why wouldn't it just give me the
pen for Fyora's sake?!
"You stupid Weewoo!" I shouted. "Just give me
back the pen!"
I charged after it, limping, the wounds caused
by the thorns stinging in my face, the palms of my paws, and my leg.
The Weewoo only stepped forward to reach the
edge of the pond. "Woooooo," it murmured in a mere melodic whisper.
I couldn't believe it-I was only two feet away
from my beloved pen! The Weewoo was transfixed by the pond. Looking over at
it, I realized how unkempt the pond was, too. The water was brown and murky;
leaves were scattered across its surface and a thin layer of scum had formed.
The little white Weewoo didn't move. I didn't
dare breathe. I slowly readied myself to pounce.
One… Two… Three!
I lunged for the Weewoo, paws outstretched, a
determined gleam in my eyes. It was mine…!
"Wooooo!" it hooted, flipping gracefully like
a white ninja through the air. It splashed down in the center of the pond, disappearing
beneath the surface.
"My pen!" I cried, and without thinking I dove
It wasn't long before I was completely soaked.
I vaguely realized how crazy I really was-I was going mental over a pen. But
it was the only thing I had left, apart from a worthless sheet of paper with
two words that meant nothing.
I had to have it. And no little white menace
was going to stop me from getting it.
As I approached the center of the pond, brown
water dripping from my hair, I noticed a white head bob above the surface.
"I got you!" I cried, thrusting a paw forward,
but my hands clutched nothing.
My favorite pen floated haphazardly on the surface,
looking as if it would sink at any moment. I seized my chance and snatched it,
but my eyes wandered elsewhere. The white Weewoo, the pesky little thief, had
Well, at least I had my pen.
I swam to the bank of the pond, pulling myself
out and staring at the small pool of water before me. A flash of white caught
my eye; I glanced over at where I had seen it.
But there was nothing.
To this day I'm not sure if that was the white
Weewoo, the source of all my trouble, but I believe it was. What else could
it have been?
In any case I made my slow and weary way back
to my house, ready to take a nice, long bath for the second time that day.
I stared at myself in the mirror. I looked alright,
now-I didn't look angry, or frustrated, or even tired. My face had a nip here
and there from when I fell into the briar patch, but otherwise I looked okay.
With a sigh of relief I headed back out to my desk.
I'd learned two important lessons that day. The
first was never to mess with a white Weewoo. The second was to always keep my
backyard in good condition.
As I entered the study, I stopped by my desk
and opened the window-just a crack this time, though. I stared down at my pen,
still dripping with pond water. I wiped it off with the edge of my t-shirt,
my eyes still cast down at the desktop.
And suddenly, I knew exactly what to write. And
it certainly wasn't "the sun".
My eyes flashed victoriously; I sat down in the
chair, crumbling the paper into a ball and tossing it behind me. I immediately
drew another piece of paper, a blank sheet. I readied my pen.
My writer's block was gone.
And my story began like this:
"It began one bright and uneventful morning
in the Month of Sleeping…"