Attack of the Muse

Often, she leaves us adrift. We are in the doldrums with no wind in our sails. Writing prompts don't work. The canvas before us is white and glowering. The clay is but a lump on the wheel. We pluck at the strings, but no melody is born of our efforts. The muse is not with us. 

Then, without warning, she strikes. Like a plague or a stealthy creature, she thrashes out of darkness and attacks. All at once, we are overtaken with ideas, creativity abounds. She throws gems at us as we drive, while we're in the shower, when we absolutely cannot be late for an appointment or work. She calls to us like an imagined person to a schizophrenic. We jot notes on sticky pads at the office. We pull over the car and write on a scrap of receipt or napkin. She keeps us up late at night. She is an old friend visiting for the weekend, and we lose sleep and feel awful on Monday morning because we didn't do the laundry, our voice is hoarse and we're so tired we forget our coffee in the to-go mug on the counter at home. 

The muse is all or nothing. She is the new lover or the old lover. We are either in her throws or reeling from her disdain. How might we have a marriage with her instead? Is it possible to have that comfortable, long-term exchange? Can we tame her wild, demanding ways or will she forever ask too much of us, only to withhold what we need when we find time and she has turned her attention away?

How do you deal with the attack of the muse? Have you found a way to balance creative inspiration with the responsibilities of life? Might the muse be domesticated?