Reverting to form

So, I was sitting around the other day and I realized that I hadn't written anything worth reading for quite awhile, and I felt faintly disgusted with myself. And then I wondered why.

As it turns out, sometimes we write for others, sometimes for ourselves, and sometimes for the sheer bloody pleasure of it. I have not been writing for my own pleasure for quite a long time, and that is sad.

The thing is, life is short enough without doing stuff that other people think we ought to do and have fun with. If we give into the Siren Song of Shuddah, we end up writing crap that no one wants to read anyway, and end up where I was...wondering where the Muse trotted off to.

Well. My Muse is an imp, a trickster, and he has a really warped sense of humor. He is not kind to people who do not deserve it, and he has a tendency to drop banana peels in the most entertaining places. He is full-tilt bozo, an inveterate moonbat, and, as it turns out, I have the most fun writing when I channel him and let him bang on my keyboard.

The Snark is back. Send the kids out of the room.