A book of Poetry, poetry of pain, rage and joy. It seem that my Muse was my depression, my angst. When I was down and depressed the words just spilled onto the paper. Today, I'm feeling overall much more positive about life, but my Muse will not assist me. My writing is stilted and forced. This I guess is where the real writer steps in and takes over the show
I'm glad I had the brief period of creative spewing that resulted in "Love is the Only Way". I truly don't know if I have anymore creativity available.