Don't mind me, I'm only a figment of your twisted little mind. Or am I? Could it be that every single idea that comes to you originates from my genius? Perhaps, but you continue to insist that you are the true "writer," and therefore do not allow me to take credit for anything.
But that's alright. You are almost completely unaware that I even exist. Blissfully ignorant, wonderfully, delightfully oblivious.
Thus comes my advantage, my opportunity. Your stubby human fingers, as they dance across the keyboard in sync with a good idea, allow me, your Muse, to reach far beyond the confines of your cranium, and to be heard and on some level appreciated. You tap away, describing tales of supernatural mayhem and hideous monstrosities, and even somewhat demented tales that give eager readers the creepy-crawlies and even the giggles.
You are such a marvelous tool, so obedient and eager to do my bidding, yet sometimes your mind becomes overwhelmed by the literary creations, and you descend into an awful state that is often referred to as Writer's Block.
Then you persist in blaming things that don't need to be blamed, and doing things you don't need to be doing in order to get out of writing. Nonsense, your laziness will not be tolerated.
I will send you signs, though dreams or random thoughts. They may appear in the form of mental images or even fascinating inner dialogue. Nevertheless, they will grab your attention and compel you to sit down and begin writing again. Of course everyday life, with all its tedious tasks, may hamper my effort to inspire you, which is often very annoying. A Muse's work is never done.
With my help, dear one, the plots will come together. The stories will be written and my recognition will be ensured. You may never know, of course, but you will continuously wonder where the voices in your head come from.
I am shapeless, formless, seemingly nonexistent, but I create worlds and characters and concepts for you just the same.