We've all heard of the muse. In ancient Greece, the muses were the nine goddesses who inspired creation of works of art, and each art form had its own muse.
The muses are still alive and well today, though I'm convinced they've hired on a support staff of thousands, and due to governmental regulations, hired beings of every conceivable shape and form to fill these jobs. No longer just pretty girls in flowing white robes with golden laurels set about their heads, the muses now come in every shape, size, gender, species, and physical state possible.
My muse, for example, is invisible. I also like to think my muse is female, though she's never given me any indication to that effect ("No, change that note to an E-flat, and by the way, I'm a woman"). I also hope deep down that she's human. Even though I can't see her, I know she's there because I hear her calling.
Most of the time she doesn't use words. It starts out with that sense that someone is close by, even though I'm alone in a room. Then the tugging starts. It feels like someone has stuck a high-powered suction cup on part of my internal organs (my heart and stomach being the usual locations, though sometimes she misses and hits the spine or intestines) and is pulling me, gently yet firmly, in one direction. Occasionally she'll speak, but it's usually to grunt out, "Come on! This way!" followed by an expletive.
My muse is nothing if not confident and overbearing.
I can put her off for a short while -- an hour, a day, perhaps even a week -- if I promise I'll get to the project when time allows. She doesn't like that very much, but she accepts it, though until I get to whatever project she wants me working on, she's not a lot of help in much of anything else creative that I do.
Heaven help me if I try to ignore her completely.
On the days when I follow her, I find myself working on projects I never intended to, songs I haven't heard of before, writing for ensembles or instruments I haven't shown the slightest inclination to do anything with before. I can stare at what my muse is wanting me to do and wonder, "Why in the world would I start on this project?"
And yet when I do start on whatever project my muse has set before me, I feel her behind me. She sits back in her equally-invisible golden throne, crosses her arms, and gives a contented sigh, a sound that says all is as it's supposed to be. Once I'm there, she usually leaves me alone, though here or there she'll speak up, or move my fingers to a different note on the keyboard. But that's not her main purpose. Getting me to start on the project in the first place -- that's her main purpose.
The problem with this is that I often end up getting "called away" to new projects before an old one is finished. In fact right now, my muse has called me away to so many new projects that I have about four I'm in the middle of working on right now. Add to that the handful of pieces I've promised to write for some of my publishers, and my muse has led me down a narrow canyon right before the rock slide starts.
I think many of us have felt the call of the muse before -- starting projects when we don't know why, feeling that tug (for some it's a push, and for others it's just a far-off whisper: If you build it, he will come), experiencing that feeling that we don't know how we're doing what we're doing so we must have help from the spirit world -- but I also know a large number of people who follow the muse's song don't then know how to follow through and finish what the muse had us start. The muse is great on beginnings, not so much on endings.
In part 2 of "Following the Muse", I'll explore how I listen to my muse, and how I still manage to get projects done. Comments, as always, are most welcome.
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