My muse is already interesting enough by herself. I picture her sassy, vibrant, and often as a flapper girl in a black-and-white world where her dress is the only color. But, with all of this, she is not the type of muse to sit politely by my computer and whisper words. I see her as a fickle, playful thing who flits around like a spoiled fairy, helping or being silent at will. She often laughs silently at me when I am stuck but takes pity on me eventually. She’s a good egg, really. She’s just too independent to want to be stuck around some boring writer every moment. Or so I tell myself when I find her sashaying out the door to a party when I am trying to finish a project.
Perhaps I can’t identify my critic because it is such a part of me. Inspiration seems to come from somewhere “other” so it is easier to conjure the image of an outside source. Or, maybe, I just don’t have a good enough imagination.
What does your critic/muse look like?