My muse is emotional.

It comes and goes on hormone tides. It reacts to events, braided in my hippocampus, giving words to my plights and flights of fancy.

Like some long involved game of telephone it twists images, sounds, glimpses of details around other stories, memories, and events into something unique and new that might make sense.

My muse is fickle.

I may be in the middle of a story when it decides to latch onto something else and weave a tapestry of it, leaving the first story behind.

Anything can tease it, tickle it, once, but maybe never again.

It is stubborn.

I can try to coax it, pen and paper in hand, or blank window open, but if it refuses to come out, then there will be no story.

Likewise when it is stuck on a story, it will not let go until I finish it, nagging the whole time.

My muse is an essence.

Would that I could bottle it! If I could take it when I need it most like a pill or an energy drink, I’d be superhuman.