You've heard of muses, haven't you? That inexplicable source of insight and wonder that all artists have. That beauty whose red hair floats atop the still pond of their thoughts and inspires them to write or paint or compose such beauty that hearts tremble in witness. For some it is a maiden elf with silver hair who sits elegantly at the side of their keyboard. For others a bronze skinned man with lean muscles whose hands ease the ache in their neck with their tender touch. Others still have a shy muse, a gentle fairy who flits out of sight when the writer tries to reach for it but softly whispers secrets in the ear when they least expect it. A muse who coaxes and supports the artist, who loves them and supports them and shows them the better road to travel.
My muse isn't like that.
My muse is cruel. A squat and ugly troll who stomps before me. His pace is slow. He has short and stumpy legs and can see no reason to hurry and every reason to stop if he feels put upon. More than once I've been striding along in creative bliss only to have my muse stop in his tracks and trip me over. I pick myself up and turn quizzically to look at him but he only glares back, a "why did I walk into him" expression on his squashed face. I don't know if he just wanted to stop to smell the flowers or if he's seen that we're on the wrong track because he doesn't tell me.
I've tried reasoning with him but he's a stubborn creature who will do what he wants in his own time. I've tried bargaining, "here, my lovely muse", I've cajoled, "take this food or gift or whatever I think you want, just show me the way," but he takes what I offer and carries on at his own pace. Sometimes that pace is a dead stop and sometimes he wanders everywhere before even finding the path he should take.
Threats don't work either. Have you ever tried to threaten a troll? Trolls invented the glare, I'm sure of it. What can you threaten them with anyway? I'll not write if you don't show me the way? I'll not feed my imagination with new books or old or look upon beauty again. I'll not experience this wonderful, wicked, laughing, tearful, joyous world for one more moment until you light the lamp of inspiration for me. As if I could carry out my threat for a moment. My muse is like an obstinate old grandfather who knows that the child cannot hold their breath until they die. He permits me to rail against him and does what he likes. At his own pace and in his own time.
Then there is the other side to my muse, the cruel part in my mind but kindness itself in many ways. When I am running through the trails of the heath near my home, five miles from the nearest pen, damp with sweat and aching of limb he'll lean over and whisper words of such dignity and power into my ear that I stumble. I am compelled to write them down immediately. The muse has shared his words with me. Yet I am miles from home so I try to lodge them in the cubby hole of my memory for later. I could do it too if it were only a few words, a choice phrase, a paragraph or two but my muse shares whole chapters with me, entire libraries sometimes.
Histories of characters that I'll never get to meet are laid out so clearly before me that they are as fleetingly familiar to me as my own brother. I hear their voices in sibilant whispers and blaring shouts. I know the tinkling sound of their laughter and bubbling choke of their tears. Their lives, loves, even their deaths are painted so exquisitely in rich and vibrant colour that I cannot help but yearn for more. More is what my muse delivers on these long and lonely runs but when I reach my home, brow dripping and heart pounding, he flees. "I've done my job," he'll say, "get it down on paper before you forget." But there's too much and I'm filthy and thirsty and I have to catch by breath.
So it slips away. Like a dream it slips away leaving tattered and tawdry fragments behind that are unworthy of ink. Sometimes when all those ideas are shredded like mist I fancy that I hear my muse laughing.
As much as he serves me I know that he is my master more than I am his. Yet there are rare times when we are together, when our schedules meet. There are times when I'm ready to receive that my muse has to give. When my thoughts bounce off him and his light is shining out through my eyes instead of blinding me. In those times we are like old friends who pick up a conversation after years of not speaking. We'll break for food and rest together without the nagging of bitter lovers that habit has hooked together. We both want to tell our story. My story. My painting needs to be seen, my music wants to be played.
If I could would I change him? My muse and I? Those moments when my fingers dance over the keys are worth the odd stumble. Even if my muse can be cruel or sulky I would not know how to treat a shy elf maid or a willowy redhead with a love of water and bronze hands would not fit my shoulders. I need nobbles and bumps and rough edges. I need untimely prompts in the middle of the night when I can't sleep but have to get up early. I need to know that I have greatness if only I could remember it all because one day I might.
1001 words
I hadn't expected to write anything when I came to Writer's Beat an hour ago but the words just fell from my fingers into the keyboard. It's unpolished but after one read through I quite like it. I'd appreciate constructive criticism and praise. Don't forget praise.
Thanks.