Some people claim there's no such thing as a muse, others swear by them. I don't so much have a muse, as what seems to be another consciousness in my head.
He crashed there, all guns blazing, ten years ago now. Slammed an idea down on the Writing Cortex of my brain and yelled, "Write this now!" Bemused, I did as I was ordered and, once it was done, rather timidly asked, "Now what?"
My muse pointed at the forums I was a member of. "Post it there," he said. I balked. "Post it there." - "But!" - "Post. It. There." - "Okay, okay, keep your hair on."
I posted. Then refreshed the page every five seconds, waiting for a response. Dreading one. What if they thought it was crap? What if they laughed at me?
"Hush," soothed the muse. "It's fine."
And it was. Every response was positive. Some gave gentle crits and pointers, which I took on board. I basked in the glow of having something 'published' and having people enjoy my work. And so began my long road into the Realm of Authorship.
There are times when I feel like I'm writing crap, that I'll never see anything in print. In those times, my muse sidles up and murmurs softly "Hush. It's fine." He taps on the screen and says "Change that" and "It would be better if..." and "Yes. Exactly". He also yells at me. Usually "Write this now!"
I do. I have learnt to trust the loud, pedantic and rather obnoxious voice in my head. He has never, ever steered me wrong. Even when I think he's crazy, once I start I realise yes, that works and he just gives me that smug, know-it-all smirk.
"Bastard," I say.
"Yeah, but you love me anyway."
Oh my boy, how I do.