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But as soon as he started to word a reply, he remembered what he had titled his first published paper, and the remembering set off fireworks in his head: “Invoking the Muse of Technical Writing.”
Goines saved his email draft and started another email, this one to the lead editor of the upcoming anthology of odes that would include “An Ode to My Muse.” He would ask her to add, to the biographical statement he had already approved, the sentence: “His first published paper (1973) was titled ‘Invoking the Muse of Technical Writing’.” He would even give her its citation, in case she had a moment:
Goines had just made his own day…Or had the daughter of his math teacher made it – by asking that question? Or had Goines’ willingness to answer it made his day? He decided to believe that his made day was a gift from his muse – she who had reminded him of that 1973 paper’s title, of his collaboration with her already, all those years ago.
For the first time in Goines couldn’t remember when, he had that soaring feeling that he could die at that moment and have no regrets. He felt a floating sensation, as though he were ascending “heavenward” to be reunited with his muse – no, not reunited, because he seemed always to have been united with her.
Goines saved his email draft and started another email, this one to the lead editor of the upcoming anthology of odes that would include “An Ode to My Muse.” He would ask her to add, to the biographical statement he had already approved, the sentence: “His first published paper (1973) was titled ‘Invoking the Muse of Technical Writing’.” He would even give her its citation, in case she had a moment:
Fourth Quarter 1973 issue of Technical Communication, the Journal of the Society for Technical CommunicationWhile Goines may have been a “technical writer” in the ’70s, the title of that paper suggested there was a poet inside him. Traditionally, muses sang poetry, not prose or something so mundane as technical manuals. So, for Goines to have “invoked” the muse of technical writing would have been an act of poetic metaphor.
Goines had just made his own day…Or had the daughter of his math teacher made it – by asking that question? Or had Goines’ willingness to answer it made his day? He decided to believe that his made day was a gift from his muse – she who had reminded him of that 1973 paper’s title, of his collaboration with her already, all those years ago.
For the first time in Goines couldn’t remember when, he had that soaring feeling that he could die at that moment and have no regrets. He felt a floating sensation, as though he were ascending “heavenward” to be reunited with his muse – no, not reunited, because he seemed always to have been united with her.
Maybe he needed to die to be united with her forevermore? Wasn’t that one of those “questions of the ages”? Such questions tease men’s and women’s souls. Such questings keep them guessing, keep them wondering: should they believe this, or that, or some other thing?
In the end, did it matter what they believed?
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Goines continues to feel renewed this morning. And he enjoyed the comfort of his muse overnight.
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