TheSarahDoughty posted a most interesting question today. Her answer was equally stimulating, and I thought I’d give it a whirl for myself.


How does it feel when your muse runs fingers through your hair, resting bare palms on your crown?


It is my happy place. Not a sunny beach somewhere or a stunning mountain view: it is writing which cools a fever in my head… or is it my heart? I write to right wrongs, to explore the unexplored, to take delight in humor, to craft a masterpiece. It is patience and hard work – even Leonardo DaVinci had to clean his brushes when he was between sessions of brilliance, but each ounce of work leads to a spark of pure joy… and those are the moments with my muse that I have come to think of as touching eternity even as I type. I write to stay sane in a world where eternity appears all too finite.


How about you? Do you have an answer for this question?