The sky is a desaturated blue, a faded summer day filtering forward from my childhood. I'm sitting on my porch steps clutching a tumbler of ice water, wishing a breeze would stir. A rivulet of condensation runs across my knuckles, the glass sweating like I am.

"You gotta publish something soon, you know. Most people have probably already forgotten you. If you don't do something you might as well shut the site down. It's just a blog, fer chrissakes."

I don't bother turning around. I know who it is.

When I first started telling stories and writing them down as I child I didn't give the sources of my inspiration much thought. Stories just poured out of my head constantly, an unstoppable torrent of improbable events and characters. I hadn't yet become aware of the limitations the world tries to impose on creativity, and that we impose on ourselves.

As we get older, though, those limits lose their elasticity, and we often turn to muses for help. I've had many of them over the years, providing varying amounts of help and motivation. We tend to get the muse we need.

My most recent muse stopped showing up for work a few months ago, and after endless fumbling around, I got a new one. But he isn't working out too well.

"Look, like I said, it's just a damned blog. Blogs are for uninformed political debate, pictures of naked broads packed fulla silicone, and epic stories about what you had for lunch. No, wait, that's Twitter now, isn't it? Blogs are for epic stories about how your friend is a lying bitch and you hate her and all her friends and all that high school drama."

My muses have always helped by giving me inspiration. This guy won't even give me his name. More than likely he knows how fast I'll find out his name is Ancient Greek for "flaming asshole."

"Eh, whatever. No way are you writing for posterity here. Just type 'The End' and push the button. Quit playing around."

Still, he has a point. There aren't many people who really try to craft words for their personal sites. The Internet, for most people, is ephemeral, transient, a source of momentary distraction or a way to make a fast buck. Few people look to the web for permanence or quality. If no one cares, why am I wasting my time thinking about what I write?

"Hey, you know, I saw this great video on YouTube, this guy was reading stupid personal ads in all these funny voices. You've got a funny voice. I bet you could do that, and maybe make some money, too. You've got a webcam and a sense of h—"

"Look, knock it off, okay? I'm a writer, I write, it's what I do. If you aren't going to help me write, then just go fuck off somewhere."

There is no response. When I turn toward him he's leaning against the front door, slack-jawed, staring at me with one raised incredulous eyebrow.

"Whoa whoa, look who's suddenly growing a pair! It's about time!"

He's wearing one of my t-shirts. I hate that.

"Oh yes, another thing. Quit looking like me. It doesn't help, it's really creepy, and it's a little depressing, too. I'm not that fat."

He gives me a smart-ass little smirk. God, I hope I don't look like that. Please don't let me look like that.

"Ready to give up, then? Throw in the towel? Take that 'paper or plastic' job?"

My temples start to throb and my hands start to shake so that I'm afraid I'm going to drop the glass. I turn away from him and look up into the blue. Was the summer sky that same color when I was sitting on the patio in Carbondale, reading The Mystery of the Green Ghost and deciding I was going to be a writer?

I turn back to my muse, who is taking a deep chug from what was originally a full bottle of my good rum. I know what I need to do.

"Hey, listen to me for a second."

He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and looks at me, still smirking. "Sure, boss. What's up?"

"Thanks for your so-called inspiration, but your services are no longer required here."

He tilts his head and looks at me with curiosity.

"Are you sure about this? You don't need any help?"

"I'm... Yeah, I'm quite sure."

For the first time I notice that he's actually several years younger than me, hasn't lost as much of his hair, and doesn't resemble me much at all. He looks oddly familiar, though. A thought occurs to me.

"Hey, is your name Malcolm, by any chance? You remind me of—"

He puts down the (now empty) bottle, picks up his backpack, and laughs. The sound is surprisingly open and cheerful.

"It is if you say it is. You're the writer."

With that he heads down the street and toward the college.

I go inside and sit down at the computer to start writing. As I do, I remember something.

The bastard's still wearing my t-shirt.