A few days ago I talked of finding my muse. But perhaps my muse should find me. Muses are capricious, cruel creatures (do they like alliteration, I wonder:-)
I've also discovered there is no muse for fiction writers. Where is my muse among these?
Calliope | Muse of Epic Poetry
Clio | Muse of History
Euterpe | Muse of Lyric Poetry
Melpomene | Muse of Tragedy
Terpsichore | Muse of Choral Dance and Song
Erato | Muse of Love Poetry
Polyhymnia | Muse of Sacred Poetry
Urania | Muse of Astronomy
Thalia | Muse of Comedy
My muse is a mystery, hidden, secretive. She likes the shadows, revels in the dark and loves torture. She is a sadomasochistic psychopath but I love her. A deep abiding love.
My muse is nameless and I like it that way.
My muse is the world. She is me and everyone I know and everyone I meet and every place I visit.
My muse is an evil mistress and I lick the soles of her feet, washing between the crevices of her toes while she smiles and urges me on, with cruel love. I devise ways to kill her everyday so I can trap her in my subconscious and resurrect her at will.
But a muse is Immortal and none can kill her, especially not her slave.
I call my muse by no name and yet I know she will come to me unbidden.
Till then I put her away from the center of my mind and immerse myself in life.