I’m not actually writing with apes, but now the image is planted, I wouldn’t mind it so much. I’ll consider it as a future editing process. They will sit around me with their twigs and rocks and minds, with a copy of the draft in their pudgy, pink fingers, and point out the glaring errors in the narrative and style, such as: “Why are you using an adverb?” and “I don’t agree with your view on the human condition”. I think apes know the meaning to everything – they just communicate it by copious love-making sessions.
Though, on that note, I’ve never been comfortable with the concept of an internal muse. Don’t you think it’s a little sinister? Imagine a grotesque hobgoblin perching on your shoulders with a laser pointer. That is a muse, and I don’t want it. I’ll do my own damn writing, you hideous devil-thing.
If I struggle with my writing, then it’s my own fault and I’d like to take responsibility for my lack of imagination. Just wait right here while I bash my head in with a blank wall until the words fall out. Or a cup of coffee, a night out, or a good sleep will do.