The Muse
by Paula Lovgren
I was complaining to my husband the other day about missing my muse. He looked at me oddly and said “Muse? What the heck is that?” To which I looked at him oddly and realized, huh, not everyone has a muse. Weird. Because having a muse to me is as natural as having legs or arms or a head. It’s just there. But he’s an accounting/business type of guy and apparently there’s no need of a balance sheet muse or an international sales muse. Which I think is lucky really, or unfortunate, depending on the kind of day I’m having and the status of my relationship with my muse.
It’s my lot in life to be a creative person. And creative people seem to have muses, even when they try to pretend they don’t. Because believe me, I’ve tried hiding from mine. I’ve tried running away. I’ve tried simply ignoring it. I’ve been downright brutal and abused it, hoping eventually it would just GO AWAY! I don’t have time to write, I’m not good enough, I don’t need to write, it’s silly, it’s a waste of time, it’s too scary. But somehow, it was always there, tapping me on the shoulder, buzzing in my ear, nagging, not allowing me to let my dream, my talents, my happiness die.
So fine. Fine! I turn to face it and my muse is a skittish deer. Literally. A doe. A deer. A skittish female deer.
No, no, no! This is all wrong. This isn’t what I want. I want a hot, Latin, salsa dancing muse with washboard abs and a sexy accent. A male muse. Now that’s something I can work with. If I had the right muse, well, then I could write. I wouldn’t have done all that hiding and running. So I try to conjure him up. I close my eyes and envision him, smiling and sexy, swiveling his hips with those glistening abs and whispering great lines, paragraphs, whole novels to me in that incredible accent. Ah, yes, that I can work with. I open my eyes and there’s my muse, blinking her doe eyes at me, waiting patiently for me to get a clue.
I sigh and imagine some guy in Connecticut trying to work with his hot salsa dancing muse who taunts him with his perfect body and impossible dance moves wondering why in the world his muse can’t just be a skittish deer. A female deer. And I realize we all just have to work with what we have. We can rage against it and use it as still another reason to not do what we want to do, need to do but are too scared to do. We must let go.
So finally, after all the years of running and hiding from her, abusing her and insulting her by trying to make her something else, I turn to her and say (and not so kindly, I might add), “Fine, fine! What do you want?”
But my muse is a funny thing. While she doesn’t like to be ignored or abused neither does she like too much pressure. She doesn’t like to be confronted face to face. She will not be bullied into submission. She doesn’t like to be talked about like something I own or brought out into public for show and tell. In short, she’s high-maintenance. She likes to be approached gently, quietly with outstretched hand she can sniff for signs of deceit. If I move slowly, focus on her, respect her needs she gives me everything I need. Words flow like a torrent, metaphors drop from the sky, every answer is within reach. But, if I jump ahead, try to get to the end without really working, focus on my selfish material desires she scampers off into the dark leaving me alone with a jumble of words I can’t make fit no matter what I do.
Some days, she’s a royal pain in my butt. Other days she’s my greatest ally. It all depends on how I approach her. As much as I would like to blame all my writing failings on her, I can’t. It’s me. Do I show up? Do I let go? Do I listen? If the answer is yes, work flows. If the answer is no, well, that isn’t so pretty and I pay the price in frustration and feelings of worthlessness and failure. Who wants to feel like that? If I want to be happy, I just follow her lead. She hasn’t steered me wrong yet.
After I explained all this to my husband, he cocked his head to one side, blinked a couple of times and said, “So the muse is a deer, huh?” Oh sweet, sweet, literal boy. I love him so. I can only imagine what he’d think if I had gotten the hot salsa dancing muse!
© Paula Lovgren, 2005, all rights reserved
Paula Lovgren lives in Minnesota with her husband and two children. She is a former blackjack dealer, retail manager and marketing minion who is now realizing her genuine life as a mother, a writer, an avid gardener and a rabid basketball fan.
Visit her on the web at http://logicisoptional.blogspot.com/.
http://www.queenpower.com
disclaimer
I was complaining to my husband the other day about missing my muse. He looked at me oddly and said “Muse? What the heck is that?” To which I looked at him oddly and realized, huh, not everyone has a muse. Weird. Because having a muse to me is as natural as having legs or arms or a head. It’s just there. But he’s an accounting/business type of guy and apparently there’s no need of a balance sheet muse or an international sales muse. Which I think is lucky really, or unfortunate, depending on the kind of day I’m having and the status of my relationship with my muse.
It’s my lot in life to be a creative person. And creative people seem to have muses, even when they try to pretend they don’t. Because believe me, I’ve tried hiding from mine. I’ve tried running away. I’ve tried simply ignoring it. I’ve been downright brutal and abused it, hoping eventually it would just GO AWAY! I don’t have time to write, I’m not good enough, I don’t need to write, it’s silly, it’s a waste of time, it’s too scary. But somehow, it was always there, tapping me on the shoulder, buzzing in my ear, nagging, not allowing me to let my dream, my talents, my happiness die.
So fine. Fine! I turn to face it and my muse is a skittish deer. Literally. A doe. A deer. A skittish female deer.
No, no, no! This is all wrong. This isn’t what I want. I want a hot, Latin, salsa dancing muse with washboard abs and a sexy accent. A male muse. Now that’s something I can work with. If I had the right muse, well, then I could write. I wouldn’t have done all that hiding and running. So I try to conjure him up. I close my eyes and envision him, smiling and sexy, swiveling his hips with those glistening abs and whispering great lines, paragraphs, whole novels to me in that incredible accent. Ah, yes, that I can work with. I open my eyes and there’s my muse, blinking her doe eyes at me, waiting patiently for me to get a clue.
I sigh and imagine some guy in Connecticut trying to work with his hot salsa dancing muse who taunts him with his perfect body and impossible dance moves wondering why in the world his muse can’t just be a skittish deer. A female deer. And I realize we all just have to work with what we have. We can rage against it and use it as still another reason to not do what we want to do, need to do but are too scared to do. We must let go.
So finally, after all the years of running and hiding from her, abusing her and insulting her by trying to make her something else, I turn to her and say (and not so kindly, I might add), “Fine, fine! What do you want?”
But my muse is a funny thing. While she doesn’t like to be ignored or abused neither does she like too much pressure. She doesn’t like to be confronted face to face. She will not be bullied into submission. She doesn’t like to be talked about like something I own or brought out into public for show and tell. In short, she’s high-maintenance. She likes to be approached gently, quietly with outstretched hand she can sniff for signs of deceit. If I move slowly, focus on her, respect her needs she gives me everything I need. Words flow like a torrent, metaphors drop from the sky, every answer is within reach. But, if I jump ahead, try to get to the end without really working, focus on my selfish material desires she scampers off into the dark leaving me alone with a jumble of words I can’t make fit no matter what I do.
Some days, she’s a royal pain in my butt. Other days she’s my greatest ally. It all depends on how I approach her. As much as I would like to blame all my writing failings on her, I can’t. It’s me. Do I show up? Do I let go? Do I listen? If the answer is yes, work flows. If the answer is no, well, that isn’t so pretty and I pay the price in frustration and feelings of worthlessness and failure. Who wants to feel like that? If I want to be happy, I just follow her lead. She hasn’t steered me wrong yet.
After I explained all this to my husband, he cocked his head to one side, blinked a couple of times and said, “So the muse is a deer, huh?” Oh sweet, sweet, literal boy. I love him so. I can only imagine what he’d think if I had gotten the hot salsa dancing muse!
© Paula Lovgren, 2005, all rights reserved
Paula Lovgren lives in Minnesota with her husband and two children. She is a former blackjack dealer, retail manager and marketing minion who is now realizing her genuine life as a mother, a writer, an avid gardener and a rabid basketball fan.
Visit her on the web at http://logicisoptional.blogspot.com/.
http://www.queenpower.com
disclaimer
posted by Allyn Evans at 7:55 AM
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