The classical muses may have numbered nine, but I have only two. Coffee is one of them. Several cups of coffee early on a Saturday morning fill me with words. Coffee convinces me that I am eloquent—that my writing is vigorous, witty, and full of verve. Coffee even convinces me that I can pull off the periodic sentence.

My other muse is Abby. For a muse, she is quite hard-nosed. She thinks that my beautiful periodic sentences are gibberish, that my wit is tacky, and that my vigor is brashness. Nor is criticizing my words enough for her; she all too often questions (and refutes) my arguments as well.

Which muse, then, do I invoke before I set pen to paper? The muse who tells the truth, yet who still asks me to write.