I often wonder about the muse, and her secretive nature. Is she lazy? Is she chaste? What causes her to come and go without warning? At times bashful, a tease, hiding just on the edge of observation, skirting away when confronted like a skittish kitten. Other times brazen, slapping one awake in the middle of the night with a fully formed idea or meticulous piece of prose, demanding one to take action or suffer insomnia.

I consider the muse to be the keeper of ones most intrinsic talent. Be it a form of creative expression, intellectual acuity, or athletic ability. Regardless of its outlet, the muse graces its host only on occasion. Athletes call it The Zone, Intellectuals: Insight, Artists: Inspiration.

Whatever appearance she assumes, the muse makes her presence known in a moment of complete, transformative epiphany, then takes flight, demanding one to chase her down the rest of one’s life and figure out what she requires to visit more frequently.

And you know what she wants? All she wants is attention. She may be the most attention greedy entity in existence. I once thought that the more prolific the artist or more accomplished the athlete, the more promiscuous the muse, a little nymphomaniac, offering it up all hours of the day. Now I realize that this is not the case. The most prolific performers are almost always the most dedicated people in their field, giving more time to their craft than anyone else.

Did I say attention? No, that is wrong. In order for the muse to overcome her timidity, and interlace her fingers with yours like a lover, the muse requires sacrifice.

So, the question becomes: is she worth it?

I speak as though I’m an expert here. I am not. I am just now coming to this realization, beginning to see the first glimpse of a slightly more trusting, reliable muse learning to count on a more consistent level of affection.

Nor can I speak for everyone.

But, for me, there is nothing more thrilling than when she appears unexpectedly, transporting me to a place of such splendid fantasy that I cease to exist in the physical world. Awakening later (how much, who knows?), dazed, surprised not to find a string of drool dripping from my lower lip. Times when she arrives and cinches a saddle to unbridled ideas, driving them forward at a relentless gallop, long hair waving in the wind, contrails of road dust swirling in her wake.

And nothing is more dispiriting than when she abandons me, leaving me to contemplate trite ideas. Leaving me to slug heavy, cumbersome words through pools of sludge.

I cherish spending quality time with my muse. So, is a relationship with her worth less time spent surfing the web, checking the channels, bellied up to the bar?

What a silly question.

Yet, still.

Why, then, is it so hard to give her the attention she deserves?