Any writer who touts the whole "muse" thing doesn't impress me. "I can't write! My muses have gone on vacation," whines the FanFiction.net author. "My muses find inspiration in the outdoors," explains the DeviantArt poet. "I can only compose verse in such an environment under the right conditions."

You know what that tells me? These people aren't writing with their brains; they are only pulling random thoughts out of thin air, jotting them down, and hoping that the end result is legible enough to generate some feedback. (From anybody.) These people are not writing for the art - they are writing for themselves. Or for attention. Or to gratify a specific fantasy or vision that they have in their heads. They are writers with the minds of children, and the only way they can hope to grow is to abandon their childish ways.

These "authors" possess abilities so fragile that the slightest disturbance of their immediate surroundings renders them the floundering, unimaginative persons that they are; or they're looking for someone or something to blame for their lack of brainpower. They have not yet fortified and strengthened themselves against the trials of tedium and outside influences, nor have they trained their minds to the almost-zen state of consciousness through which the words can flow. More importantly, they have not matured to the point of being able to accept the responsibility that comes with being a true writer.

I know this is because no true, hard-working writer wants to go halvsies on intellectual property with some whimsical nonsense like "muses". Until a writer has been infected by the greed for their own personal glory and the vicious lust of their creativity, they will continue to fail in their endeavors. They will continue to thoughtlessly peck on the keyboard, hoping to become better writers while not actively pursuing their own self-education in the matter. And even when they do manage to write something good, what happens next? They turn around and attribute that rare glimmer of artistic creativity to some imaginary "mojo faeries" whose mercurial mercies render them into helpless victims. They are effectively cheating themselves by admitting that they are nothing without their muses. But perhaps that is all they are capable of being in the first place: nothing.

I joke around a lot when others talk to me about my writing. I'm sure I've said once or twice, "Yeah, I must've been channeling some 19th century psychopath when I wrote that!" or various other incarnations of sarcasm. But the truth, my friends, in its totality and absolute clarity, is that when I write, it's all me. No muses. No talismans. No rabbit feet or dreamcatchers or crystals or gods or ghosts dictate to me the things that are swimming in the black ocean between my ears. They belong to me and always will, and my jealousy will not permit me to share them with another.

If I'm not writing, it's either because I don't feel like it, or I've lost interest in the material that I'm producing. It's not that my muses took a vacation, nor is it because I can't find the right patch of sunshine to sit in while I listen to Jonas Brothers on my iPod and daydream about Twilight plotlines. It's my fault if I'm not writing. I will accept the blame because it means I can accept the glory. I am in control. I am all who was ever in control.

P.S. And just for the record, I don't even pretend to believe I'm a great author. I've written almost no original material and most of that material is quite terrible. I've got a lot to learn still, but I'm beginning to see how things work in the world of writing. Hence the preceding observation.