If my muse was a person, my muse would be the unreliable husband who spends his days at sleazy allies gambling and smoking and his nights in hotel rooms with other women.
My muse has given me thousands of children, ideas. He helped me create them, but he doesn’t stick around long enough to nurture them.
I am the mother of thousands of thoughts that are awaiting their full potential. I lack the money and time to raise them. My passion projects last for a month then dissipate. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, I’ll remember them and force my stupid husband’s – i mean muse’s – hand to help me.
Creating requires care and time to refine art to its best.