When artists and writers refer to a flesh-and-blood woman as their muse, I always see that sort of femininity as essentially submissive. The young girl becomes a blank canvas the artist can bounce ideas off, her lack of sophistication matching his superiority in years and culture. Think an Eliza Doolittle who, instead of blossoming into a cultured lady, is held back like a performing chimp.

My own relationship with my own muse is radically different to this. And no, I’m not about to start laying into any of my exes here!

My muse is definitely a Domme, I think. For the last month, the bitch been kicking me out of bed at five, even four, in the a.m, forcing me to switch my computer on and write for two, three hours – and you know what? I fucking love her.

Norman Mailer called this the ‘night with the bitch’, a frenzy of lust and abandon, at the end of which, one has squeezed out a great book.

It’s the scene that hits your edges, carries you through them and hurls you, tear-streaked and shuddering, on the other side.

You look up and she’s standing over you. She’s laughing at your pain, your humiliation and, most of all, the fact you’re still utterly devoted to her.

And that, boys and girls, is where, great records, great films and great books spring from.

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