The muse. Writers depend on her for inspiration. They wait for her, seek her, even honor her, all in the hopes she'll give them that spark they need to write something really great. But you know what?
I'm tired of waiting.
I put my butt in that chair everyday. Where is she? Not at work, I'll tell you that. The muse comes and goes as she pleases, striking me whenever the heck she feels like it.
I'm the one plotting and planning, drafting and revising. I'm the one getting critiques and rejections. Yeah, I get cool ideas out of nowhere sometimes, but they're just as likely to be contemporary YA or a freaking board game as they are to be something I can actually use. Something I can get paid for.
So here's the deal, muse: you work for me, not the other way around. I'll be at work Monday through Thursday starting at 8:30. If you want credit for this job, you'll be there too.
And if you're not, screw you. I'll do it myself.