On Muses

Every writer or artist, no matter how prolific comes to the same point. Drained, empty, tapped out back to the drawing board. Looking for answers, questions to ask, ideas, something fresh. Originality would be a godsend. We all know that no idea’s original, there’s nothing new under the sun, it’s never what you do but how it’s done. I quote Nas (the rapper), but he probably got that from someone else (cue ironic laughter). I digress. So at our proverbial rock bottom (comes to me faster than it should) what do we do? I read somewhere that all of the good stories are waiting to be told, somewhere in a newspaper, or in the anecdote of a stranger. It seems we writers are leeches, piecemeal sculptors, petty thieves, beavers gathering wood for our dam. But back to the title. I’ve been burnt out frequently, questioning my own skills and I read a story on the muse Calliope, an immortal woman whom humans use to inspire epic poetry. I later found out about her sisters, who could also be used to inspire different artistic styles and traditions. The Greeks loved this deus ex machina, rabbit from the hat shtick. The prize that falls from heaven into your lap. It got me thinking, what if I had my own muse for writing? A living, breathing, impetus for my pen. I hear photographers get them all the time. If I should be so lucky to find an angel like that to adore and renew my mind, motivate and arouse me, one to actually talk and latch onto, I’d be the happiest man on the planet. What if these muses were out there somewhere, waiting to be used? I doubt they’d be waiting on Facebook, Craigslist or Google (search), or in some bar or coffee house. So I’ll suggest something: instead of a flesh and blood muse or a more impersonal one in book film or audio form, how about simple immersion? Immerse yourself in a feeling, an emotion, an atmosphere. My best writings have always been inspired by an organic source, something real in my life. If you want to write about your past, surround yourself with nostalgia. If its love you seek to manufacture, be around lovers, find a flame, rekindle your romance and so on. This idea is painfully obvious, but maybe the environment to produce the idea is difficult to come by. I’m going to go finish something about death and werewolves by sitting in my dilapidated attic and talking walks to stare at the moon, waiting for something to pop up, at least until my muse shows up, in whatever flesh blood container it chooses (human or otherwise). Remember, atmosphere!