The muse is a marvelous and terrible thing. It is like a devil on your shoulder, whispering in your ear and gnashing its teeth, while on the other shoulder a beautiful angel sits telling you of the joy and wonder of life that must fall away and be ignored if you choose to sit and string words together. It is always a trade-off.
All my life I’ve played chase with this thing — running from it and then turning around and chasing it while it runs from me across hills and plains, and through forests. I have finally stopped fearing the creative process. I needed to shake off the old stigma. The mystique. Now I believe it is like anything else that you must practice, and that it hurts less each time you do it.
But the truth is, I do not know why I must do this. I only know that I must.
Stories come to me like wayward cats. They need a place to curl up and be for a little while. Some are just playful kittens that need care and feeding as they become what they were meant to be. Others arrive fully grown. They are not mine. I am merely their steward and companion, ensuring they come out of hiding into the light of day.