The skald overturned his bench with a shout, scattering his work. Upon his throne, Odin raised one eyebrow.
“I have shared with you the mead of poetry, which makes all people poetical. Why are you struggling?”
Odin gestured, and the scattered sheaves of paper assembled themselves in his hand.
“I see your problem,” he said after a time. “Kvasir’s mead enflames the passions and unlocks the soul. You require a different tonic now.” A valkyrie entered bearing a steaming cup of dark liquid and presented it to the bard.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Write drunk, edit sober,” the old god said.