Earlier this week Patti Stafford, of The Stafford Scribe, wrote, “The muse is like a child. It needs love and affection, but sometimes it needs to be scolded too.”

Most writers will accept this as truth, me included. The child-like muse roams about charged with fiery excitement and fueled by adrenalized curiosity. It pokes its sticky fingers into a topic, then moves on before boredom attacks. If left unsupervised, without parentel guidance, it will make no progress. Child – indeed.

For some, the muse is more reckless twenty-something than adorable toddler. The muse that haunts me, for example, prefers to stay up all night, drive fast and toy with dangerous friends. Its half wannabe rock star and half outlaw, rebelling against the confines of story structure and character arc. It prefers to do most things – well, everything – its own way. It has a volatile temper and is prone to angry outburst on journal pages. If ignored, he shuts down completely, a sullen little creature sulking in the darkest corners of imagination-land. He is troublesome, yes, but I wouldn’t have him any other way.