Crossing the Muse

I finished my friend, Jen Hritz's, second novel, The Crossing, last night. It was amazing. I lost four days and touch with reality.  By the time I finished I had learned more about gay male sex than I ever dreamed possible or prudent, and if it had been possible, the book would surely have given me the boner of the century.  That's not what I want to blog about though. 

Joel, the main character of Jen's book has strikingly similar methods of self-sabotage to me. Falling love with the wrong person, sending away anyone who genuinely cares for him. I think if I didn't have to support myself and my child, I would slide down the same slippery slope he takes to self destruction. But that's not what I want to blog about either.

What I want to blog about is the creative impulse. Joel goes through vicious cycles of inspiration, elation, self-loathing, and crushing dry spells. When he picks up the brush to paint, it comes or it doesn't (like love). I was thinking about his dry spells on my way to work and kept thinking I'm glad I don't rely on those capricious gods to keep me writing. I have to admit I was feeling outrageously superior (Yes, I know he is only a character in a book, but after you read it you will understand why I view him as a real person, a friend, a brother). Anyway I was doing the na-na-na-boo-boo thing in my head. Then I sat down to write. Needless to say, I wrote a pile of crap that ended up on the cutting room floor in cyberspace.

I realized sadly that all artists are slaves to the muse. That sucks no end. But I also realized that, like Joel, stopping and waiting for the muse to text or call is a worthless and demeaning way to be enslaved. I choose instead to work without him (my muse comes equipped - if you know what I mean). If he shows up, I'm game to let him in, and I'll even hand him the remote most nights. I like to think I won't beg him to stay, but I am in no way above begging. 

So the long winded point is that unless painters just paint, writers just write, inspiration doesn't stand a chance. Long ago I would get all loaded and sit down for 10 hours in a stretch and come out with utter brilliance, but no one can sustain that method of reaching artistic nirvana for long, and, like Joel, the minute I came down I was forced to realize how completely icky the product really was. Quality work may come in spurts, but the tap has to be running all the time.

I've been away from Elena, Ethan, Sage, Finn, Jo and all the new characters for a whole week now (thanks to Jen). I'm not sure if reading her book made me a better writer (though I think that immanently possible), but it made me more aware of my own muse and how to summon him. I'm off to séance now. Cheers.

Word of warning: this is not the last you will hear about Joel, so go read The Crossing [http://www.amazon.com/Crossing-Jennifer-Hritz/dp/0615904270/].