The Errant Muse
If only my muse would sit still, but she is always flitting here, flitting
there. "Look," she will say, "see that sunset, doesn't it look like an
angel's halo -- you could use that," or "see that man, the one with unruly
mutton chops and cracked feet? What do you think his story is?"
But work? No, you can not tie her down. "I am the spark," she will say,
"the spark, the flint that lights the lighter, it is up to you to hold down
the button, keep the flame burning." And boy, does my finger get sore.
And revising, forget it. She is out of the window faster than a summer
storm. She is entirely ignorant of, disregards entirely, has no advise on
commas, grammar, or plot.
Just where does she go when she is gone? I like to imagine she is stalking
some bookstore, pottering in a garden, or making jam. But if I find out
she's moonlighting for someone else...