Most of my longer, more intense pieces are the direct result of someone opening up to me; sometimes in extended, probing conversations, sometimes in spontaneous confessions of deeply hidden, shameful desires. Whether we’re talking scary realities, secretive fantasies, or a multitude of minor, human details, there’s always something new for me to learn.
Writing this shit so that it appeals to otherwise rational women means listening to otherwise rational women talk about themselves and the fucked up thoughts they’re supposed to deny, then translating everything I’ve absorbed into something that’s simultaneously intimate and externalized. I can’t be me without all of you, in other words.
It should also go without saying that I enjoy fangirly adoration and gratuitous, inexplicable hero-worship. That flow of energy fuels my creativity and keeps me giving a shit about what I have to say; I’m not nearly as convinced of my overwhelming awesomeness as some of you seem to be.
So for me, I guess a muse is someone who wants her stories to live outside her, and passionately believes that mine are the words that will sustain them.