So here we go again.
That aethereal spirit that comes to you and whispers in your ear what to write, as you bleed on the paper, fighting your demons, possibly in an all-nite bar, with jazz music in the background.
You need a muse to be a writer, they tell you.
No muse, you’re just a hack.
But mine’s not like that, not my muse she’s not.
And I don’t know where she is or what’s she’s doing, right now, but it’s probably something silly, and it involves dressing up in weird costumes and riding some kind of animal that’s not the sort serious girls do ride.
She’s like that.
And it’s fine with me.
I’m not too keen on bleeding (tried once, did not like it one bit), I don’t care for demons and I don’t write in bars.
So I think I’ll just brew me a cup of tea, start my writing software, and then sit down and write.
That’s the little I learned, and maybe it was my muse that taught me: sit down and write. Talk about it later.1