The Little People Who Live In My Brain Have Gone On Strike...

My brain is a jerk.
Or, more accurately, portions of my brain are jerky.
The part that regulates my organs seems to be doing a bang-up job, we get along fine.
It's my... imagination?
Not the bit that makes you imagine deeper shadows within the shadows or spiders in your hair, that's running at full capacity though I do think she's a bit enthusiastic about her job.
It's the bit that allows me to write, my... inspiration? My muse? She's an asshole.

I only ever get my material sentence by sentence, rarely allowed to glance even half a page ahead.
It's like reading a teleprompter! I keep expecting to be tricked into saying 'rubber ducky nipple pinchy lover'... dammit!

It's like working with a paranoid who thinks that if she gives you all the info at once you'll dump her, go it alone and then won't mention her in your acceptance speeches. She is also an egomaniac with an absurdly inflated opinion of these 'nuggets of gold' she's doling out piecemeal.

I get to be surprised at the same pace as my theoretical readers, the only difference being that they're surprised at how poorly structured it is seeing as I wasn't given the opportunity to plot the piece.
The paranoid muse also doesn't take kindly to editing. Takes it kind of personally if you know what I mean.

I've tried bribery, cajoling, wheeling, dealing and bluffing.
It's time for the threats...