Let me start by saying read this one. It is so true and so beautifully written. I'll get back to mine a little later on...
Now I've got it.
The muse is slippery. Ideas float and flutter through my mind, sometimes as concepts, sometimes as completed pieces. I see a sky, a stone, a tree and I get a flash of inspiration. I flip through a magazine or book or walk around a gallery and I think "oooh, I could do something like that, only I would try it this way."
I sit down to create something. I would happily create anything really. But nothing speaks to me. My ideas feel pedestrian. My materials seem 'not very me'. Anything I manage seems dull and derivative. My hands refuse to speak for my mind. Frustration reigns and life gets harder without a chance for expression.
The crayons fly over the paper, knowing when to stop and shade and smudge. The lines flow out from my pen like ribbons of steam. Colours push themselves forward to speak their part and words scatter across the page. Time ceases its existence and art creates itself. The muse is slippery.