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Wrestling the Muse

The Muse. Now there's a character. If you could picture him, what would he be like? I imagine him with an eye mask and a sly grin. A long dark coat that has a lining of more colours than Joseph's Technicolor garment of choice. His hair is just so except when you catch him out of the corner of your eye. Then it's wild and unkempt, a nest of Medusa-like proportions.

Then the mask drops and you see him juggling words, deliberately dropping them into a pile at his feet that he dances upon. As each falls, he plucks another out of the air, smoother than David's Copperfield or Blaine.

The Muse. He stands before you, but you're tied to the chair. You want to reach out to him, but he stands just beyond your grasp, his eyes watching you and his sly grin taunting you.

"You want a piece of me?" he asks.

But then, you manage to slip free of your bindings and launch yourself forward. He skips out of the way, giggling, but you catch him with your foot and he falls with you. A scuffle ensues and you succeed in pulling the mask from his face.

Of course, he looks like you. Who else would taunt you with words and ideas tossed into the air and piled at your feet?

But you have the mask in your hand and the coat is torn open to reveal its multi-coloured interior. Woven into the fabric are the words that his sleight of hand made appear from nothing.

Your smile matches his own as you don the Coat of Many Characters and take up your pen.

The Muse pours you a coffee and pulls up a chair beside you. After all, he was only messing. He can't just GIVE you the words.

You have to want them!

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