With me the Muses show up at 3 in the morning: drunk, mean and abusive.
They slap me around for a while, tease me and leave me with just enough of a taste to really want it. Then, like like the whores that they are, they take off to torment other starving authors.
Damn you Greek byaches! Why do you toy with me so? Why do you give me shreds of lots of stories but never a complete one? Why are you so hot and always leave before we finish? Grrr!
I would roll over, go back to sleep and say forget about it but, like the codependent putz that I am, here I am again, at my keyboard. Wishing, hoping, longing for the gifts of the muses and cursing their cruel and fickel jests and infidelities.
Some day I am going to fool them! I will figure out how to capture one and imprison it on the page.
I desire to conspire to imprison that which inspires and out of this madness, and uninspired sadness bring about some linguistic gladness.
Beware muses, I am hunting you. Your flirtations will be your undoing.