Let's all thank the Greeks for someone to blame when the words won't come.
I make frequent reference in my social media updates about the progress of my new writing projects to The Muse. It's an idea that I find to be a useful way of thinking about inspiration as well as reminding me to stop trying to micromanage the story. The Muse becomes my gateway into experiencing the story as an observer instead of controlling every action like a meddlesome god. More about that difference in a bit, but first...
The Muses, in Greek mythology, were the nine goddesses of artistic inspiration, the daughters of Zeus and his Titan aunt Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory. Each Muse was given a different artistic endeavor with which to bestow inspiration upon its mortal practitioners. Epic poets such as Homer and Hesiod would begin their works with an appeal to the Muse to guide their words into the ears of their audience.
The Nine Muses were: Clio, Euterpe, Thalia, Melpomene, Terpsichore, Erato, Polyhymnia, Urania, and Calliope. Click here to read more about their individual areas of influence. Calliope is the Muse invoked by Homer in his two famous epic poems, The Iliad and The Odyssey, so she is the one most commonly associated with novels and writing.
I don't think of my Muse as Calliope in the strictest sense, however. I imagine her as a kind of fairy creature from the magical part of the world that I created. She guides me from the familiar tedium of this world into the Kingdom of Llanfyllin, where I encounter a number of familiar faces. I also meet new characters along the way, people who I didn't expect to encounter but who take on a life of their own, as if they were there all along.
When my mind is attuned to the Muse, she shows me the most amazing things. There's a scene in my upcoming novel, The Spring of Llanfyllin, where almost everything hangs in the balance for a large group of characters (I'm being vague so as not to spoil anything!). I wanted this chapter to be one of those edge-of-your-seat page-turners, but in writing it, it wasn't like I had to even think about what to write; I only had to describe what I saw as if I were witnessing it in real life.
When the scene was complete, and I went back and read what had happened, I was overcome with the strangest sense that someone else had written it. I could hardly even remember the experience of composition. Stephen King referred to this experience as "falling into the story," and many of you who write will relate to that experience. It's one of the most thrilling aspects of writing, and it can get addictive; it drives you to return to the story for another draught of that magical elixir.
The Muse isn't always present, however, and then the risk is of becoming that meddlesome god again. That kind of writing is almost painful, as each word becomes weighed down by its wrongness, while plots become stale and contrived, and characters behave in boring and predictable ways. I've learned to forego the writing and focus on research and planning when the Muse refuses to answer my call.
As I said before, I've started a new book, the third tale from Llanfyllin, and so far, the Muse has been most eager to show me a new series of events. I've already met three new characters, and because I am both god and reporter, I know what awaits me today as I complete the prologue. But I also have faith that this one small event is the catalyst into a new world of adventure and discovery. I can't wait to get back to it.
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