(Veleven @ DeviantArt)
As promised, here is the second instalment of Meet the Muse. If you haven’t seen the first instalment yet and have no idea what I’m on about, you should go here.
Samantha came to me a little over a year ago. At the end of my bed sat a beautiful woman – flaming red hair, full of curls that hung down to her waste and eyes the color of sapphires. She was dressed in a tight black top, designer jeans and Prada heels (thank god she had good taste). The one accessory I failed to notice that night was her whip. I thought it was merely for show at first, but man was I wrong. She beat me into submission until I finally agreed to start writing again. For that, I will always be thankful.
She can usually be found at local bars during the day, and sometimes cowering under my desk at work, glaring at me. At night, she follows me around (margarita in hand) taunting me until I sit down and write her stories. You'll see her name in several pieces of my work. It wasn't by choice, she made me do it.
She's sexy, mean and one helluva storyteller. So, as much as it pains me to compliment the bitch, “Thank you, Samantha. I owe it all to you.” She's so not going to let me forget this. EVER.
--L.M. Stull (@LMStull) is the single most productive writer I know. She’s also featuring on my blog very soon. Yay!
My muse actually consists of three external muses and one internal. My external muses are my children, Chris, Sarah and Emily. They are constantly voicing their ideas of what the undead and werewolves should be doing.
My internal muse, let’s call her Charlotte, tells me what the undead and werewolves are really doing. Charlotte usually fills in the blanks of what the kids are telling me. Between the four of them, it gets pretty gruesome, but it is a fun kind of gruesome and that’s how we all treat it.
Having my children as muses makes life more interesting than it would normally be. They inform everyone they come across that “our dad writes horror books and we help”. The looks we get are quite priceless.
Charlotte makes life and writing even more exciting. She tells me all the dirty little details and insists, at scythe point, that I write them down. Dear Charlotte gets me into some delicious trouble. Sometimes, my wife reads what I’ve written, her eyes widen, she closes the laptop and says, “There’s something very wrong with you.” What can I say? I only do as I’m told.
--Jason McKinney (@jason_mckinney) has a very curious mind. I almost want to open up his head and take a peek, but I don’t do it out of fear of landing into a Stephen King novel.
My Muse - the Hope Chef
There's me the person in real time - who laments her weight, who longs for more. Then, there's the woman who knows she is living a miracle of a fantastic life - a life where she can mostly call the shots. Even, the holes in which I find myself - neatly dug; a hole entirely dug by my own shovel.
The ability to self-determine - to choose one's destiny, this is my Muse. In order for this Muse to have any chance at motivating me, I have to believe it. So, hope and optimism find me, and together we all take a step together.
My desire to be financially free of all forms of income except writing, acts as the Map on this primitive road of creating. And, the voices of those whose mouths are taped shut - the victims of indifference in this world. They sit and share their views as I write.
Reading me and watching my screenplays on film, will be like stepping into a kitchen of the Hope Chef. She won't disappoint you and she certainly inspires me.
--Katherine Bennett (@VerbaVitae) is my hero. She inspires with her positivity, good heart, and magical life. Not to mention her writing.
Ode to a Nameless Muse
When I try to write, he sleeps, tranquil as my mind frets over the how-to’s, the kisses, the angst, the constant struggle to get my characters from here to there. When I try to sleep, he calls me: always collect, angry, filled with passion; begging me to pay attention to him as my dreams call me. He is a tangle; I am a pawn. But our music that is manuscript is beautiful when we work together. We fight. His time is his; my time is his. When I want to write, he can’t fathom it. But he wins because he’s smarter, more talented, and more driven than me, especially at four in the morning.
--K.D. Lum (@Writtled) writes and blogs delightful writing prompts daily.
Muse as Anthropomorphism of the Mind
In Classical Mythology, a Muse was one of nine Goddesses presiding over the creative arts. Many contemporary artists refer to having a muse they depend on for their creative work. There is nothing wrong with this term. However, I prefer to think of the birth of an idea in a more neurological manner.
The word “muse” has come to mean: to think or meditate in silence, as on some subject. (Dictionary.com) This is a bit closer to my truth for the process—but not quite.
As I believe, everything we encounter, read, hear, see, think, sense, becomes a part of our conscious and unconscious mind. These things will mesh in the unconscious forming new connections that seemingly spring forth to the conscious mind as “an idea.”
From there, the creative type uses divergent thinking to flesh it out and give the seed depth and breadth. This can take form in many different ways (examples for the writer): through stream of consciousness writing (pantsing), journaling, researching, plotting, or simply just allowing the thought to bloom fully in the conscious mind before bringing it to word.
Call it a muse, call it neurological; it is all the same thing in the end—creativity.
--Rinn Ziegler’s (@RinnZiegler) mind works in mysterious ways. She should be experimented on, surely. *rushes back to secret lab*
I’m not sure I’ve got much to say about my muse, but Lyn asked so nicely that I couldn’t refuse. I almost don’t consider my muse to be a separate being, distinct to myself. I say ‘almost’ because I do know that he’s a man, quite tall with black hair. He might have green eyes.
I don’t have conversations with him, as such, but I suspect he’s the one that talks me down, via my inspiration journal, when I reach a point of “Who am I kidding? I’m never going to make a living at this.” And when I get stressed because I can’t see where my characters are going next, it’s probably my muse that says, ask the character. And when that doesn’t work, he inspires me to rant about it on my blog (which happened just earlier on today) and I work it out that way. He’s quite restrained, working from behind the scenes, and he’s never yet let me down.
If he were a real man, I think he would be the perfect other half. Never impatient, never angry, sometimes jealous. Whatever he is, I couldn’t write without him.
--A.M. Simpson (@AMhairi_Simpson) writes fantasy and is soon to be a self-published author. Go give her a pat on the back and wish her good luck!
Waiting on the Muse
My Muse has no name. "Pain in the Ass" or "Fickle Wench" work.
She's a chick, though. She's stubborn, picky and easily distracted. Anytime I have time to write, she has other plans. She'd rather play on Facebook and Twitter. She makes it clear that she's in charge. And there will be no writing unless she says so.
That's a horrible way to write. Sometimes, I manage to write without her. And, believe me, it's obvious when she decides to grace me with her presence. The writing is smooth and flowing. No Revisons Needed. Sadly, my first drafts have very few of those. Oh, no. Clumsy phrasing, redundant dialog and flat characters dominate. When my muse is present, my prose sparkles and shines (as you've probably gathered, she's not here right now...hence the cringe-worthy cliches).
I haven't found a way to coax her out yet. I've tried music (she likes to sing along) and silence (she gets restless). I've tried typing (she finds her way to the Internet) and handwriting (she tends to doodle). Mostly, it's a waiting game. A long, frustrating game. There's a reason why my blog is called Waiting on the Muse.
--Meika Usher (@meikausher) is an aspiring romance novelist and has one of the sweetest blogs out there.
He paces back and forth on the blank page in front of me. His wings flutter with impatience. He throws me looks of disgust and snorts puffs of smoke. A little trickle of fire dribbles down his chin. It's Gareth, my 900 year old fire dragon muse. How do I know he's my muse? He wears a sash, like the ones beauty pageant contestants wear with the word MUSE written in black letters across the front. As if I didn't see that jewel of an idea in his withholding claw. He tosses it up into the air, and it falls back into his paw with a soft thud. He teases me. He studies me. Am I worthy?
Suddenly, he launches the jewel into the air and, as it catches in the sunlight, the beautiful idea is illuminated within. It is mine. I am worthy.
--Danielle Zeissig (@execredhead) is a lovely writer who blogs on various topics. In her own words, she’s finding herself. Aren’t we all. :)
When Violeta asked about my muse's name, she caught me flat-footed. I have no named muse. I sit. I write. Not right, I thought. A writer without a muse is a madman minus his obligatory humped help. The remedy? Let Violeta be the mother of my muse's invention.
Here, I shall ponder and create her/him. To right the wrong. To find my Igor.
Inspiration, like water, can be thought of as retrieved from a slowly recovering well. But that conjures cold and stone. Sunlight onto trees is warmer. But we lose that inspiration is finite. *snaps fingers* Unless it filters through the leaves to speckle the shade. Yes. And more perfect as it's fickle, abandoning us on our rainy days and allowing us on rare others to walk in its light to write hour upon hour.
So a name.
I start with Igor. I owe him that much. But that's a masculine name and my inspiration is certainly no hooligan, but a delicate female. Perhaps Igora or Iagra. Yes, Iagra -- It sounds mystical. Finally, let us tip our hats to Violeta for her most important influence.
Stir. Simmer. Salt to taste and Voila! My muse is named: Viagra!
--Thomas McAuley (@ThomasMcAuley) is a dark fantasy writer and blogs about all things naughty. Thus I frequent his blog.
*ONE MORE TO GO! Expect the last instalment on Saturday. Thank you for reading!*