My muse is not ethereal

I have realized my muse is not the Grecian gowned demi-goddess who frequently stands me up. No, my more constant muse takes a seat on my shoulder as I begin typing. He is a rather solidly built old man with a mustache and bifocals. Once comfortable, he pulls out a golden pen and starts his crossword puzzle. He occasionally looks at what I'm doing and says in a kindly rumble, "er, might want to reword that" or "have you looked that up? No use making up the facts." When I am having a particularly bad day he can't resist saying "I could have written three chapters in the time it took you to do that one paragraph." And then, when I want to flick him off my shoulder he says "you can do it, I believe in you! Keep writing."