On Muses
Which Is Not So Much a Rebuttal of Jackson Pearce, as a Contrary but Complementary Reply
So, the world starts with animistic gods. Concept gods. The sea IS a god. The storm IS a god. Time IS a god. But there’s not much you can do with an animistic god. It’s ineffable, the god does what the god does without reason or understanding. It simply is.
Which is pretty unsatisfying when you’re being buffeted by the tide and the storm and the endless march of hours. There’s no point in asking the sea to hold back its waves, time to hold its seconds, the sky to keep its lightning.
But if the sea is NOT a god, but the domain of one, perhaps that guy will intervene. If you name him Poseidon, and give sacrifices and pray- perhaps you can reason with him, and he will intervene and save your house from the tidal wave. If he is a god in your own image, maybe he is like you- you can win him to your side. He can be your ally.
So I could say, a muse is just an anthropomorphic god that describes an animistic concept- inspiration. I could, each time I talk about writing, explain that there are moments when everything is functioning well beyond established parameters, the words come more easily due to a longtime pattern of hard work, practice, concentration and discipline, and I feel quite content with these moments as they are the fruits of a carefully cultivated career.
But you know what? That’s not what it feels like.
I don’t usually have times where, lo, the muse comes down and visits on me an idea. Ideas are workmanlike things. I cobble them together from all kinds of sources, until I have something that resembles a plot. Even my characters- though they tend to spring into my head fully-formed- don’t arrive with fanfare. They’re just there, waiting for the idea-cobbling to get started.
This is all work, and it’s why I write 1000 words a day, no matter what. No god- animistic or anthropomorphic- shows up at my elbow during the exposition. It’s hard work; it’s laying foundation, and putting up a frame and there’s nothing special in that. It’s sweat and blood and self-doubt and sheer force of will.
But with every book I write, there comes a possession. When the exposition is planted, and the story blooms, and it all becomes real. My hands burn to write; my characters wake me up at night. I go from suffering 1000 words a day to spilling out 5000 in a morning. There’s madness to it, and obsession in it.
I live in that world of my own making, and I resent being pulled from it. I don’t finish for the day, I surface. It’s a fundamental, essential magic that aches in my marrow and commands my blood. It’s the hit that makes me cry when the book is over. That makes me jitter if I go too long between one story and the next.
And I don’t care if other people believe in them, or hate them, or commune with them or what- I’m calling that a muse. Whatever animistic force that is- whether it originates in my branemeats or from harmonic resonance with the universe or from gamma radiation from the earth’s yellow sun- it’s not just my daily discipline and structure.
It’s not the 1000 words I put in every single day, whether I want to write or not. It’s not the careful, logical construction of a world and the people in it, though it never, ever comes until I’ve done those things.
If by scheduling words, reading to learn more, revising, editing and all, I’ve sent up sacrifices and prayers to create an anthropomorphic god, then so be it. Use whatever words you like to describe it, but for me- it’s ineffable. It does what it does without reason or understanding. It simply is. And that’s my muse.