It would be romantic to say that my muses are my daughters and wife. But that’s just not true. My muses swirl around me all day as spirits only I can see, hear, and feel. And mostly, my muses don’t like me. They think I’m a coward for not letting them inspire me more often. Because I find excuses to not let them use me as a conduit to God. I tell myself that my muses are hideous beasts. Sirens singing for me to join them in the water where no doubt I’ll die on the rocks hidden just below the placid surface. The worst part of all this is that what I really want to do – is dive in anyway.