caprice and the word

how is it i have no control over my muse? how is it that one morning, in a matter of scant hours i can turn out five pages and the next i fail to string together a sentence? why can't i control the thing that so hauntingly dictates the steps of my own life? though i press on in spite of her abscene (and have done so occasionally, not entirely without benefit) i find myself struggling to understand the caprice that governs my ability to conceive language, to generate it as it drops fresh from the mouth of the oracle. mysticism seems to be so apt, but is, i suspect, the wrong approach entirely; the muse is perhaps better ignored, so as to prick her curiousity and entice her to return. and should she fail to return as she has not yet done (for more than several weeks at a time, that is)? then i will be utterly destroyed.