The Muse is a Fickle Vixen
Become hers only when she’s ready
Like luck for a card sharp, creativity for an artist comes in streaks. The best a gambler or a writer can do is relentlessly persist, work hard, pay attention, and be patient. Fortune might come early in the night or late, but when it does you have to go all-in, because you never know when it’ll strike again, if ever. Mature players trust their intuition, know it can’t be forced.
Chance favors the prepared mind, as does creativity, yet even with the best intentions and most effort success or failure remain up for grabs. Mere mortals must accept that most factors precipitating either outcome come from an external source. “Lady Luck” is a feminine, anthropomorphised embodiment of good fortune, and the Muse is her creative complement.
Originating from Greek mythology, the nine Muses were daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne, each goddess ruling their respective domains of poetry, hymns, songs, drama, history, and other arts. Dynamic bridges between mortal creativity and divine inspiration, Calliope to Urania symbolized the memory, meaning, and mystery that unconsciously produce great art.
Finding that balance between active and passive energy separates winners from losers, at the poker table and in front of the keyboard. Aleister Crowley put it best: encourage your ego to navigate your life, and you’ll be beset by feverish resistance every step of the way — but if you let go, the momentum of the Universe will ultimately express your True Will.
I’ve been courting the Muse for decades, and she’s been a fickle vixen. No amount of dedication could win her over. Even then, I knew I was trying too hard — but the stakes were transcendent, and like a gambler holding a hand too strong to fold yet still vulnerable, I kept going all-in, losing it on bad beats. I got my ass kicked over and over, but she was worth it.
About eighteen months ago, she started putting out. My blog writing had evolved into a continuous diary, and a burgeoning novel reached critical mass. Shunned and scorned for so long, I discovered a late-life renaissance after raising three kids and doing the American corporate dance — my grown up dues paid, I gave myself permission to regress.
I had similar phases of artistic obsession in my 20s, 30s, and 40s, but the Muse was coy, never going beyond taunting and tantalizing hanky-panky. I wrote and wrote, but didn’t feel I had permission. Sounds silly, but that’s the best way to describe the feeling, one of illegitimacy. Joyce referred to himself as a “usurper,” and I knew how that Artist as a Young Man felt.
Writing, like all the arts, demands mastery of a tough craft — but is mostly about letting go, not taking on. With that spontaneity comes the effervescent energy of connecting with an audience, impossible or at best muted when the creator is suffused with self-doubt and lack of confidence. Nobody wants to see you struggle, especially if they don’t care about you.
Entertainment comes from telling a good story, full stop. Tell the tale of the Hero, where the protagonist and their struggle is a projection and catharsis of one’s own struggle as a storyteller. Figuring that out the long and hard way, I at long last got her attention. Earning the Muse’ affections, negative feedback loop turning positive, since then I haven’t stopped typing.
Aware that our romance can continue for decades or end in five minutes, I’m frantically and joyfully creating. Her ambrosia is even sweeter, given how I fought to fuck her. I’ve been making social media videos, too, long overdue and riding on their own momentum. I’ll blog about that soon, but today I have another date with Thalia, the hottest of the heavenly sisters…
