Unfortunately, there are times when your muse deserts you, destroying your desire for him and, eventually, the soul of your beautiful creation. It’s during these times that you find yourself sitting at your computer at 5:30 a.m., consuming unhealthy amounts of caffeine and struggling to coerce your exhausted brain into producing a piece of halfway decent writing.
I’ve often wondered why I put myself through this torture. I lost my passion for writing a long time ago. I write about the spoiled, selfish goddess who learns the meaning of love and friendship when she’s exiled to the mortal realm, but her discovery brings me no joy. I write about the naive, optimistic peasant girl who’s seduced by evil and becomes a cold, ruthless murderer, but I don’t mourn the loss of her former self. I feel nothing for either of them. This is hardly surprising, considering that they’re not the products of passion, but of rape.
Although the act disgusts me, I rape my muse again and again. All writers must become rapists at some point. When our muses run out on us, we have to hunt them down and beat them into submission. The children of such violent unions are tragically deformed, but with the proper amount of affection, they can grow to be just as beautiful as their brothers and sisters.
