“You may not know it, but I have a very important function here at this guesthouse.” He croaked in a rumbling voice.
It was my first day at the Krisda Ubud Guesthouse, and I was a little startled. I looked around my terrace, but I didn’t see anyone… so I just attributed this momentary lapse to jet lag. I had just finished traveling for 24 hours and 12-time-zones so both my body and mind were a bit confused.
I had come to Bali to write. I needed a place where my preconceived ideas would be challenged. Here, everything is different: the smells, the flowers, the food, the culture… I was in a rut at home and couldn’t add any dimension to my novel. My characters were cardboard, my plot was convoluted, and there was no mystery in my murder.
Here on my terrace, however, would be the perfect place to write.
I fired up my laptop and sat there looking at the empty Word document; fingers poised on the keyboard, when I heard him again.
“I may look like a broken lamp but looks are very deceiving.” He croaked.
Ok, I thought, I’ll play along, “Is that so; who are you?’
“I’m not sure you are ready.” He replied.
“Fine,” I said under my breath and went back to my keyboard; fingers hovering, waiting for the inspiration to flow from my brain into their joints. Unfortunately, there was a blockage somewhere along the line. After a minute or two, my hands decided hovering was useless and picked up the cup of tea and brought it to my lips… At least this was productive.
“It doesn’t look like you’re making any progress on your story?” he croaked.
“Yeah, that’s pretty obvious” I replied.
“I’d help, but you need to be ready.” He croaked.
“It’s OK,” I replied. “I can do this, I don’t need your help.” Then hovered my fingers over the keyboard willing inspiration to magically dance into my fingers.
“Watching you is painful,” he croaked. “but against my better judgment I’ll help; if you ask nicely.”
I looked over at him thinking; “I must be crazy talking to a broken frog lamp.” But somehow, I was also intrigued.
“OK, I’ll bite. Who are you and how can you help me?” I asked.
“I am your servant, your sentinel, your guide; I carry the torch of the rainbow flame to light the dark corners of possibilities, the alleys of coincidence, the thoroughfares of ideas…”
I looked at him and replied; “Are you kidding me? You’re just a wooden frog with delusions of grandeur, even the lamp your holding is broken.”
“And that’s why you’re not ready…” he croaked, “Till you can stretch your imagination, till you can see me as I say I am; your fingers will forever just hover over your keyboard. But once you let go of what things are, and grasp what they can be… then you will find that I am your muse.”
Author’s Note: I spent a lovely three weeks on that terrace, and have a richer novel to show for it.
The frog was like Alexa to talk to, but more story.like.