It seems like inspiration would come like a glorious flowing stream, bequeathed by the gods and sung by muses; the heavenly light shineth upon it.
Instead, ideas spew out spray after spray from hard wrung guts, weak from heaving, over days, weeks, months. Festering beneath the surface, a seething boil of infected thought, uncomfortable in the tissue that bore it until it finally bursts forth, oozing inappropriately from its wound. I'm left panting and gasping from the effort of bearing the thought into the world. I look upon it, expecting to see greatness and find a squalling babe upon the hearth, pink, vulnerable and glistening with muck.
The truth is that truth is rarely pretty, nor is it easily won.