My Fickle Muse

A muse is a mythological entity who helps makes things happen. Traditionally, a muse helps to inspire writers of all sorts - authors, poets, song and music writers. The muse comes and goes, darting around the mind and environment of the creative spirit. My muse seems to come and go more frequently lately - a fickle muse, one who perhaps travels to other venus.

I have a dear old friend, Jack Cook. Jack is a wonderful writer of stories, experiences, history and poetry. He has written books and columns and knows his craft well. Jack and I sometimes ponder and bemoan the disappearance of our inspiration to write, our muse, or muses (perhaps mice) as it were. We complain and sympathise with each other. We become depressed sometimes and even curse the disappearance of the muse.

Now it should be noted that my problem is much bigger than Jack's. He may pause every once in awhile, taking a rest, but his prose and poetry are certainly still there, along with his wealth of experiences. He has been a teacher, a carpenter, a prisoner, an organizer, a father, a barkeep, a keeper of the revolutionary spirit and so much more. Every once in awhile he just needs a break or has to dig a little deeper, or get a jump start of sorts. That's what I tell him anyway.

But the fickle muse does elude us every so often. She/he/it leaves us or just flits around in our heads. There are topics galore. Some are part of stories or beliefs that need to be told. Their telling is, in many ways, imperative. But the muse dances away, sometimes at the most crucial moment. Other stories are bigger, longer term projects that require time and research and thinking. Then there's the music, song, and art, all waiting to be strummed, sung, put to paper or clay and shared with others. Perhaps its all too confusing for my particular muse. Maybe they specialize and mine is just overwhelmed.

Most creative people experience this flight of inspiration. Some shrug it off. Others suffer through it impatiently. Many times there's a bottle of good bourbon or scotch sitting nearby. Something that allows us to wait and ponder as the muse wanders somewhere.

Recently some friends have encouraged me to write more or perhaps write in a more focused way (read book here). I resist. Partly because I think I understand the work involved and the enormity of such a project. But there is a temptation. My fear is the fickle muse and the bottles of bourbon needed to ponder and wait. Having said that, there are stories that should be told. Histories to be recorded and lessons learned. If only I had a more regular muse. We could get some things done.