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.