Remember the cartoons with a little angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other? Writing is a lot like that.
The angel is easy. I call her Mel, after one of the 9 original muses, and she will sporadically plonk herself down on my shoulder and ram a tale into my ear. Sometimes she whispers, sometimes she screams loud enough to wake the dead. Sometimes it is a short burst of inspiration, sometimes she won’t shut up for weeks. Sometimes she’ll give a snort of disgust and disappear again since the last tale has not been finished. Her visits are nearly always welcome though.
The devil though, he’s a fucker. He never appears straight away. He waits for a couple of days then settles on my shoulder in a comfortable glow of brimstone and says “This is fucking terrible. You should scrap it.” I dread his visits. Sometimes he is right. It is fucking terrible.