Ancient Romans often began their
poems with the famous invocation of a lyric muse, most commonly Venus. It was a grateful tipping of hats to
whichever celestial entity inspired them, rendering them capable of producing
such classic masterpieces. Greeks too believed creativity was not something you
were born with or learned, but something graciously lent to you by one of the
gods, who as your muse, inspired you with the means for artistic invention. In
Rome, said being would have been called your “genius.” These beings always
conjure images for me of a fairy-like Yoda floating slightly above you, zapping
the right words into your head and out through your fingertips before you have
time to realize they were never yours in the first place. A verse to fair Juno,
a few finger snaps, and you’re en route to the Iliad.
Unfortunately for me, my thought
process while writing is a lot sloppier. I think my muse is probably less of a
goddess and more of a goutly drunkard suffering from seasickness and one too
many bar fights. He waddles through my mental hallways, knocking things over
and sloshing excess hooch all over my words. Or perhaps my muse is a she, a
prickly trollop whose altogether scrappiness is too evident in wrinkles and
improper language. She’s truculent and bossy and makes more demands than
allowances, godloveher. Sometimes I want to throw the laptop right through her
rouge-ridden face, but then I realize she’d probably leave and I’d be back to
the drunkard for my creative musings. Homer had it so easy.
I’ve always
wondered, what is the correct creative process for the rest of us wannabe Prometheans
without the musical Venuses and the fairy Yodas? Is there a correct process? I
can only assume most people start with a general topic or a point they want to
make. Why else would they say, “when inspiration strikes.” Like what,
lightning? If only creativity were so quick, clear, and precise as all that. Creativity
is not a whole human experience wrapped up and reasoned with in a single moment
of clarity. It’s an idea that starts in the most infinite of places until it
unwinds and widens into something fully formed and vaguely finished. It takes a beating again and again, but
somewhere between them the moments of tender, loving attention paid to it pay
off and it will, at last, unveil itself. It’s the weeks when you’ve not a fingernail
to your name and you probably lost as much sleep as you got. That’s the Venus. Those
are the ugly fairy Yodas. Hold on to those moments; use them. Tread them into
something that makes the rest of that season a little bit easier to bear, then
turn around and give your own trollopy muse a high five for being such a
kickass creative guru. You’ll be left with a lot more than baggy eyelids and
bloodied cuticles and the conviction that sometimes you have to scratch
everything out and start again on the same story.
