The Reason I Can’t Be Asked Big Questions Anymore

Muse and I get together around once a month, usually at her house, for a writing weekend. We work on our respective projects and discuss our progress, our problems and plot holes, and work together to sew these delicate webs known as fiction.

The structure of said weekends tend to go like this:

Friday Evening – Arrive at Muse’s house. Get drunk. Argue about which DVD we’ve only seen so many times and not too many times (Example: My plea to watch the Count of Monte Cristo has been denied for about three years). No writing is done on the Friday. Ever.

Saturday Morning – Watch some TV show over coffee.

Saturday – Write like demons.

Saturday Evening – Get drunk. Write like drunk demons.

Sunday Morning – Watch some TV show over coffee.

Sunday – Write like demons.

Sunday Evening – Go home. Usually write like a demon for the rest of the night.

This weekend just gone, we were working as usual on the Saturday night, getting steadily more drunk and less coherent. Muse turns to me and asks a very serious and imperative question about something in the back story of the BoA universe. This question, still technically unanswered, kind of builds the foundation for the entire series, a small detail somehow overlooked up to this point. Now I, being a smidgey bit intoxicated by this point, threw my arms in the air and shouted “That is the big question!”, a la Lee Evans:

And now our dynamic is ruined. Never again can she ask me a question I do not know the answer to, because “that is the big question!” is the only response I will ever be capable of giving.