Or manic, maybe?

Some days she comes to me, all electric-giddy and lovey-dovey with a basketful of fresh - if half-baked - ideas.  She offers them to me freely and even provides the warming instructions.

Other times she's cold, stingy, melancholy, and I might not hear from her at all for days.

I try to draw her out of her bunker by reading to her.  Sometimes she jumps out smiling and yells, "We can write like that!  Yeah!"  Sometimes it only takes a few paragraphs of someone else's powerful prose to cause her to hunker into a corner and whisper, "Why did I get stuck with you?"

I never know what to expect when we wake in the morning.