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People talk about the Muse as if it’s always beautiful Greek ladies dressed in flowing togas, or nude, dancing in a sunlit meadow, with flower garlands in their hands. If my Muse is there she’s sitting under a tree watching the other’s with a jaded eye and a cup of very strong, hot, caffeine in her delicate, but calloused hand.

My visual lately for my Muse has a knight on horseback. The horse has wings like Pegasus, and both it, and the knight are in shining silver armor that flashes in the sun, as they ride/fly charging across the sky/ground. The knight is armed with sword and shield, and other instruments of destruction, and he rides through the sunlit meadow, scattering the dancing women. They run screaming the flowers trampled underfoot, and he scoops up one of the fleeing women, puts her in front of his saddle and rides off with her. She’s crying, screaming for help. But the muse under the tree walks out into his path, one hand out, cup of coffee still in her hand, bored look on her face. The horse rears, knight fighting to keep it from trampling her, she never flinches, sips her coffee, doesn’t spill a drop. Knight sits there looking down at her; she looks up at him, a tiny wry smile quirks one side of her mouth. He raises the visor on his helmet so you can see his face. He’s smiling.  She shakes her head, and taps one finger in the air towards the ground, and takes another sip of coffee. Knight slides the crying woman down to the ground.  She stumbles away to join the other women cowering in the trees.

The knight and the woman look at each other. He holds his hand out to her. She gives him a narrow look, finishes her coffee, sits it on the ground to one side, and takes his hand. He swings her up behind him on the horse, the wings flaring between them, around them, as she wraps her arms around his armored waist, and he lays a gauntleted hand over her arms, as if assuring himself she’s really there. Because sometimes the muse is out dancing in the meadow and the writing just dances out of your fingers and onto the page, and sometimes you have ride your muse/mind/imagination down with a sword and force the issue. But the best moments are when your muse/mind/imagination and your will join forces. When inspiration and will are one, nothing and no one can stop you, so let the other writers dance in the meadow, and take whatever muse comes easy to their hand, but for me, I want the one in the corner who fights back because she has something to say. Art is always a battle; it’s just a question of whose side you’re on, and how hard you’re willing to fight for it.