I woke up this morning with the image of a middle-aged woman lounging naked in a large vat of blood.

The muse at work again.

Within fifteen minutes, I jotted down a micro-fiction piece (about 200 words) about her vampire husband coming home and wishing, just for once, that they could make love on a bed between crisp white sheets.

My muse is male, and has a twisted sense of humor. He is darkly comical and given to twirling the ends of his mustache in the way of evil villains from black and white movies. It’s not a natural affectation… it’s a parody. I’m scared of him a little.

For the writer, the idea is often the master. You can get an idea anywhere. Watch people – its educational! I get my own ideas a lot, but those are the ones I have to mold and force into submission on an 8.5 x 11 piece of white paper that my printer vomits out.

When my muse gives me the idea, I become his slave – the mostly willing physical body that must do the job right, or suffer. I’m glad to be his slave. I’m glad to suffer when my fingers don’t do justice to the idea. I’m a muse whore, I guess, with a natural predilection for the job.