She looked down at him and cocked her right hip. “You just nervous, Baby. Everybody nervous they first time.”

He stalled, “I, um, have to phone my agent. I, ah, need to check my contract. You come some other time.”

She planted her right foot on the threshold and pushed her knee against his door. “You wanta be a writer or not? ‘Cause you might talk like a writer, but you ain’t one yet, else I wouldn’t a got sent over here.” Suddenly she ran her left hand up under her skirt. “I got what you need, Baby. I’m reeeeal good at makin’ somethin’ big outta somethin’ little. Like the white bitch say, ‘if you cain’t do that, you ain’t gonna amount to much as a writer.’” She looked pointedly at his crotch. It didn’t seem promising.

“White bitch? What white bitch? You mean the Angel of the Lord?

“Naw, course not! You ain’t never heard a Flannery O’Connor, Baby? You ain’t read Mystery and Manners? If you gonna be a writer, you gots to read more.”

“I know, I know. Just come back later. I’m need to, you know, get ready.” And with that he swept her aside and shut the door.

The man turned around and fell to his knees. The floor was white oak. It hurt like the devil. Suddenly he knew how it felt to be James Brown. He began to pray. “Please, God, I want to renegotiate. I want to be famous, not notorious. I can’t consort with a muse right off the streets. It’s too much too soon. She’s not my type. She’s too colorful.”

And God spoke to the man, “Consort, huh? That’s a new word you learned already! Now listen up. You want to be a writer, you need to think outside the box. I’m asking you straight out: You got something against Black folks?

And the man felt silent for what seemed like centuries. Finally he said “It’s hard to be sure, but I really don’t think so.”

And God said, “That sounds like an honest answer. You know, when I read The Turner Diaries, it made me ashamed to have invented language and to have given human beings the power of speech. So, you can take this to the bank: I am not getting into the business of underwriting a racist novel! And if that’s where you’re headed with this, I’m breaking our contract under section three, paragraph five, bullet one!”

The man raised his head a little higher. “Okay. Okay, then. Point well taken and understood. But what about vocabulary? What about style? Don’t you think she’s too much Muse for me! I’m a beginner here. Think about my…ah…comfort level.” He scratched his butt.