Your muse, my muse

I have read various writer’s descriptions of their muse (muses?). Some of them are interesting, to say the least.

“Elegant, like a woman of impeccable breeding and decorum.”

Uh huh. Impeccable breeding and decorum don’t produce the drivel that shows up on my screen when I write.

How about this one. “My muse is like the ocean washing in, forcing me to write, and then washing out, but like the tide, inevitably returning soon.”

Oceans and tides? Really? Mine would wash up the contents of someone’s chum bucket.

“My muse is the silence of night, pulling my thoughts from my mind and onto paper.”

Okay, but I sleep at night, and I would pay to have someone pull coherent thoughts onto paper.

I wish I had one of these muses. I don’t, though. Mine is…different. Mine is a fickle and capricious toddler, running from one shiny thing to another with the attention span of a gnat with ADHD and a $500.00 a day crack habit.*

What’s yours like?

*about 1500 words written today and each one of them has been exquisitely painful.