There is, within each of us, another being; she is often unseen by most but is just as real as we. Her name is Madame Muse and she is the who that writes every what.
Reclining in the nether regions of our thoughts, she is never far from keyboard, pad, pen, ink, or a proper Dixon Ticonderoga HB #2. She wakes us up at night with her murmurs of character names, interesting locations, horrifying plot twists, and unusual titles. She trips us up as we walk to the trolley, blinds us to the traffic sign indicating our exit, and deafens us to the blatherings of spouses and children over tea; she is a fickle thing, one never to be ignored.
And so, we write to get her out of our heads. But she always comes back, standing at the door of our imaginations, waiting to come in. Or is she the one who is already inside, beckoning us?