I’ve never enjoyed the company of a muse, nor not enjoyed for that matter. Some artists pray to them, cajole, beg. I’ve listened with interest, sometimes envy, over their solicitous muse.
Unfortunately, or fortunately, I have a narrator who accompanies me, although said narrator abandoned me for several years, perhaps out of annoyance or self-preservation or contempt when I faced dark times and no longer allowed it to speak.
Even when I was desperately seeking my narrator, wanting to hear that lyrical voice, it did not join me. I realized that I had to prove myself worthy. So I began writing again, without my narrator.
One afternoon in Spring I walked through the woods, listening to a chickadee when I heard the voice of my narrator creating a passage about the light dappled new leaves, and realized it was back. Perhaps I should have danced and thanked it, but I smiled and promised to listen.
Some people have a muse; I just hear voices.