Most artists, I believe, begin their careers at the whim of the Muse. Inspiration strikes, they feel compelled to create, and something beautiful and wondrous enters the world. My earliest stories were all born this way. They were written in breathless, rushing burst of inspiration. I loved them like children.

But creating art and trying to make a career out of artwork are two different things. Somewhere during the past four years, I stopped waiting for the Muse to whisper in my ear and started stealing her diary instead.

And it's funny; I may not feel as passionate about my stories as I used to, but when I go back and read them, I can't tell the difference between the ones I wrote when I was 'on fire' and the ones I hammered out when my well of creativity felt dry. The end products were indistinguishable.

You know what else? I bet Michelangelo didn't always feel like going in to work on the Sistine Chapel.

I bet there were mornings when his back was sore, and his arms were sore, and he had this idea for a totally cool sculpture that would have been more fun to work on. But I bet he went to work anyway, because he'd learned to let the Muse provide the first, breathtaking vision of what that Chapel was going to be about and then muck his way through the rest of it on his own.

Now, everyone, repeat after me. "I am not dependent on my Muse. I am a qualified, brilliant, artistic person. I can write without one."