"Do it." The woman leaned over the drafting table, looking down at the field of unspoiled white on it and the artist staring at it. She was tall, blonde, and looked endlessly cheerful. "Not. Helping," said the artist, a slender woman hunched over the pad, ink on her hands, hair in disarray from hours of worrying it with her hands.

"The only thing stopping you is that you aren't starting."

"I can't start when I don't have any ideas."

"If you start, the ideas will come." The blonde leaned in close and whispered. "That's the great secret to inspiration. It's that easy."

The artist slammed her pen down. "If it's that easy, why don't you do it?"

"You silly!" She waved the idea away. "I'm the muse. You're the artistic genius! Go ahead, start." Her smile was brilliant and clueless.

The artist stared daggers at her. She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. A long moment later, she picked up her pen and put it to paper.

"That's it," cried the muse. "That's how you do it!" The artist worked furiously, and the muse looked closer. "What a fascinating, hideous monster!" She paused.

"Is that me?"