In ancient Greek mythology, the Muses were the nine patron goddesses of various forms of Art. It was (and still is) common for artists to call on their particular Muse to help them in their creations.

As a writer in the twenty-first century, I rely on all nine to help me in my work. But for me the Muses are not nine goddesses, they are nine students (I left out Marius, the lovesick puppy).

This wonderfully diverse group of men has proved stubborn and persistent, but ultimately helpful in my work. Their advice is not limited to my Les Mis work (though they're having a great time helping me write this piece) but extends to my attempts in many genres of fan fiction. I have more than once been called loony for purporting my ideas of people in my head, and while not entirely real to me, they have certainly relieved many hours of would-be boredom. These guys are a great, wonderfully helpful group, capable of causing me no end of consternation. Here they are, in all of their magnificent and tenacious glory.

Enjolras keeps me straight, no pun intended, and true to my subject. He refuses to let me write crossovers. Enjolras also will not let anyone I write swear, which, I suppose, is a good thing. It keeps my mother happy. Also, he and Grantaire have formed a tentative alliance against slash. This latest prohibition was formed after I wrote a story containing a semi-scandalous pun, which I may or may not let Abby post. They'll have a fit over that.

Combeferre is my voice of reason. He makes me do my research and gets apoplectic over any stray anachronisms that sneak in. Because of him, I've read The Social Contract more times than I want to think about. Enjolras is very proud of me.

Prouvaire is not as much help with my poetry as you might think. He is terribly picky about my rhyme schemes. I enjoy writing abcb, but he insists on abab, so I have written more of those. Before I acquired him I thought an anapestic pentameter was a type of cheese. I know better now. It has helped me get an A+ in Literature.

Feuilly makes me keep my characters plausible. He is often up in arms with Courfeyrac, who adores the fantastic in my stories. Feuilly has steered me away more than once from an Enjolras or Javert Romance. He is very nice about it, though.

Since I've already said some stuff about Courfeyrac, I think I'll skip him. No, he won't let me do that. Well, let me think. Courfeyrac keeps me funny. He's always thinking up new things for Grantaire to do to Enjolras. Only a few make it into print. The rest, Grantaire actually tries. Poor Enjolras.

Bahorel likes the fantastic in my stories, as well. I listened to him entirely too much when I first began to write fan fiction. Between him and Courfeyrac, Les Amis were enacting daring rescues and starting prison riots. They actually had Enjolras as General Lamarque's illegitimate son. Thank goodness that one was never posted. Enjolras would have had my head.

What the devil shall I say about Bossuet? I can never figure out what to call him. "Hey, you" works wonderfully. Lesgle is very fond of dropping people into dire situations and then leaving when it's time to get them out. We have fun. Enjolras suffers.

Dear, dear Joly. He has taken a marked interest in my poetry since I botched that verse about him in Les Amis, A Synopsis. Joly has never quite forgiven me for that one. I have also, quite suddenly, acquired a rash of old medical textbooks because of him. Joly is such fun to write.

And now we have come to Grantaire. A cynic, but he's nice to me. While perhaps not as edifying as my talks with Enjolras, I've learned a lot from my conversations with Grantaire. These conversations (monologues?) are good for fluffing a short story out by a couple of pages. I now consume large quantities of fresh, unsweetened cranberry juice and Altoids while writing because Grantaire said that they were the nearest thing to absinthe that an under-age person could buy in America. The taste grows on you. He's also better at slang than Gavroche. I think Grantaire had something to do with the sudden disappearance of my dad's half-empty bottle of Christmas brandy. Most mysterious, that. He says he knows nothing about it.

Well, there they are, in all of their radiant, and, shall we say, revolutionary glory. Feel free to borrow my Muses at any time. Just e-mail me and I'll see if I can induce them to come stay with you. It will take some doing, though. They say the food here is better than Mother Hucheloup's and the rent is free. Yeah, we have fun.

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