I know some writers' muses never stop yammering away but I have to resurrect mine every single time, and if I look away for a moment, he dies another death. Sometimes I start the raising ritual and he comes leaping out of the ground with something to say, but most times he's changed the rules and the process becomes longer and more esoteric, and when he does finally show he doesn't say much at all.
But the fact is he needs me as much as I need him, so we work it out.
And I'm not complaining. Even though I know you can earn more on the dole than the average writer makes in a year, even though I understand you'd struggle to make up the numbers for a small dinner-party with authors who make a living from their work.
So why do I do it?
Well, it's to do with something Lazarus knows well. Our time here is finite, and there's nothing like a whiff of your own mortality to put a fire in your belly. Only put off until tomorrow what you are willing to die having left undone. I didn't say that, but I wish I had. It was Pablo Picasso, and I'm not going to argue with him.