“But the fact is, she [the muse] won’t be summoned. She alights when it damn well pleases her. She falls in love with one artist, then deserts him for another. She’s a real bitch!”
― Erica Jong
As a writer you eventually stop lying to yourself that you are looking for the woman of your dreams. You begin to look for your next muse as if looking for a dropped quarter in a laundry-mat. Once quotations and reflections of sunny days no longer fill the page, the hunt begins for the magical muse to keep the pages flowing. To the woman I find my muse in, I become the yes man and shall never refuse her whims.
They are the women that help us realize we still exist, that help us realize our potential, and break us of the horror we display when writers block curses us. A muse can come and go in and out of our lives like a summer breeze and leave us with a heated passion or a dwindled bank account. They are and shall always be embedded in our psyche and our writing. The muse makes us smile with a wink, a soft embrace, and a first kiss that lives on beyond our years. The immortality of a muse and the mysterious nature of inspiration is worth more than all the gold in the ground.
Flirting for a writer becomes a science that cannot be taught or learned. It is out of complete desperation to keep writing that we finesse the fairer sex. Long hours of people watching to catch a glimpse of what we hope to find. Waiting for that scent of a woman that for the day, week, month, or maybe for years she has cultivated a magic air about herself. The muse is beyond responsible and respectful…she expresses herself naturally and the aroma is perfection.
The muse often invokes what she herself does not aspire to be. She is a bartender, a waitress, a college student, or a school teacher. I am not sure if the muses I have met are aware of their intriguing nature or are more like a Cassandra from the Greek mythology. She may see the future and no one believes her words, except for the poets and lyrical magicians like me.
For those who do not write, or paint, and may not even think for themselves, the muse is the girl you have known for years. She walks by everyday, teaches in the next classroom, dresses funny, or that quirky girl who makes her own soaps. She eventually may become your girlfriend or your wife. But, for a brief moment in time, while no one else was paying attention but me, she becomes a muse for me.
While drinking my vodka wings in a local joint just up the block I met her as she was frustrated and confused for being stood up on that random Wednesday night. We discussed film and literature, and I must admit she seemed quite savvy on the arts for a paralegal in training. I figured her for a Twilight or Justin Bieber fan. She played instruments, painted, and had a Grateful Dead bear tattooed below the waist. She said she read David Sedaris and his novels made her laugh and blush. She took weekend rafting trips and volunteered at the nearby soup kitchen. She looked in my eyes as I spoke of my stronger days. She seemed honest and also cunning of sorts, but I knew she felt pain somewhere behind her sunny eyes. I did not brag or boast, and with her I became the simpler version of me.
As I write tonight and ponder the muse, I wonder where she is, and what she is transcribing. She was mine for an evening and the magic and immortality of the muse rang true for me once more.