Crimson Autograph

I have a rather up and down relationship with my muse. Not any blazing rows or fights, but sometimes we can't get enough of each other and I can write for hours on end, sometimes we just don't speak for days. At the moment she seems to have gone on a road trip.

I say she because I'm sure my muse is female. I have to assume that because when she finds something for me she tends to wrap it up with pretty paper and ribbons and leave it somewhere I'll find it later. A male muse would probably insist I stop what I;m doing and come and look at the new shiny thing. One of the problems I have is that when it's all wrapped up I can't tell if it's the germ of a short story, a one liner, or the answer to the logjam in the verylongthingthatwillpossiblyendupbeinganovel. Which is OK most of the time, but a bit of a pain when my mind is littered with the things and I don't know which to open first. They go off you see. They tarnish after a few hours in the open.

She's not the most reliable muse. I suppose I'll have to accept that. Though there's one thing that will generally get her attention no matter what. That's music. She can't get enough of that. She'll even skimp on the wrapping and hand me the boxes just as I need them. If I could get her to find writing that exciting I'd be well away, or if I was actually a good enough musician to make use of the inspiration then I could go that route. As it is I suppose I'm going to have to settle for living with a muse that doesn't really suit me.