For the longest time, I’d hear other writers talk about their muses and I’d stay silent, because I didn’t have one. Some of my friends who were in a creative drought even had their muses running off together, but they eventually returned. Another friend (edenglenn.wordpress.com) has a male muse, but just had a female one introduce herself, too. I never had any of this.
Sometimes I hear a piece of music and get inspired, or I dance with a man in a kilt (yes, I’ve danced with men in kilts) and want to go home and write a highland novel. But I never had a personification of a muse.
Mary Oldham, a GH finalist, blogged about muses at elisabethnaughton.com. She told me that I *do* have a muse, even though I’ve never seen her. Or him. But one day, he’ll introduce himself to me. Maybe I’m not ready yet. Maybe my muse isn’t ready yet. I’d like to know what the hell he’s waiting for, though.
And what does it say about me that I have a vivid picture of my evil internal editor, but not of my muse?