My muse hides in the basement, sitting in the dark, smoking cigars and swearing a lot. He’s an unruly chap who doesn’t like to be disturbed unless he deems it essential, which he often doesn’t. Sometimes, to hear his musings, I have to hide in the shadows, pen and paper in hand, silently writing down his ideas as he grumbles them in his sleep.
But his words are gold, so I listen carefully, plucking every nugget I can swipe from him.
See what I did there?
The secret was threaded into those words,...