My Muse

In my poetry workshop, our instructors asked us to describe our muses and our critics.  I have a fairly good picture of my muse (and the name) but not my critic. 

My muse is already interesting enough by herself.  I picture her sassy, vibrant, and often as a flapper girl in a black-and-white world where her dress is the only color.  But, with all of this, she is not the type of muse to sit politely by my computer and whisper words.  I see her as a fickle, playful thing who flits around like a spoiled fairy, helping or being silent at will.  She often laughs silently at me when I am stuck but takes pity on me eventually.  She’s a good egg, really.  She’s just too independent to want to be stuck around some boring writer every moment.  Or so I tell myself when I find her sashaying out the door to a party when I am trying to finish a project.

Perhaps I can’t identify my critic because it is such a part of me.  Inspiration seems to come from somewhere “other” so it is easier to conjure the image of an outside source.  Or, maybe, I just don’t have a good enough imagination.

What does your critic/muse look like?