I know there are some who are regularly visited by a muse, which I've always pictured as an ethereal being who plants kernels of truth in the subconscious and sprinkles them with the waters of inspiration. I envy them.
My muse has long incisors and chews the wooden studs between the drywall behind my bed. It disturbs my sleep and my concentration and I've taken to pounding with my fist to silence it in moments of frustration. At these moments I'm extraordinarily grateful no other human being occupies space on the other side of the wall and tremendously relieved the neighbors' dogs bark so frequently and loudly, there's little chance they'll hear the occasional thump, even in the wee hours of the morning or at the break of day.
This is not the mother my daughter remembers from her youth or from any other time in her life. The mother she remembers carefully trapped tiny rodents between the cats' water bowl and a sheet of cardboard after said felines tired of playing mouse hockey, and released them gently into the wild. The mother who now lives in a bat and squirrel-infested place has developed a constellation of newly acquired feelings towards animals and some people. She doesn't find joy in teeth-jarring explosions of fireworks, disoriented bats, screaming children, barking dogs, icycles that break free from the eaves, punching holes in the ceiling and creating rather large puddles inside, or mountains of snow in the drive.
I don't like thinking of myself this way, so I am counteracting these evil thoughts by creating fictional characters who have integrity and nobility and occasional nice meals accompanied by a glass of very good wine at tables decorated with lovely china and fresh flowers. These characters live in quiet houses with porches overlooking calm lakes and peaceful orchards. They are kind, generous and laugh easily.
They don't know what twerking is and they listen to Debussy while they work crossword puzzles and play Scrabble. They don't own firearms, but they grow flowers and vegetables in their sunlit garden that produces so much more than they can use, they give away enormous bouquets and boxes and crates and buckets of squash and tomatoes and peppers and peas to neighbors and friends. They're not as boring as I'd initially imagined them to be and when they're together, they're particularly delightful. Each of them has an interesting past and their individual futures seem uncertain, but that will change very soon.
This makes me rather sad.