Sometimes I feel like I am the master of my own writing. Other times I feel I am its humble servant. I must suffer from indifference until the muse wakes up and wraps its beating hands around my throat and reminds me what pain really feels like.
I’d like to believe that nothing is too boring to enjoy writing about. That writing anything can be fun and inspired if I simply honor the things I feel.
But that’s the hard part: accessing what I feel.
I have yet to find a reliable key. It’s as if the muse changes the locks each night before bed.