Musing on Muses.

I wrote to Andrew Carroll the other day, and as he is patient enough to put up with me, he wrote me back. The conversation is less important, for the purpose of this post, than a comment he made about the muses.

I think that all artists in some way shape or form acknowledge The Muse (use capital letters!) when working. On occasion, divine inspiration slaps you across the face and you sit down and it's almost as much fun as having sex on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland. Most of the time fun isn't a word that many people would use. Rewarding? Sure. But it's not always easy to sit down and grapple with that blank page - or blank screen if you'd prefer.

I've heard of writers who go so far as to perform elaborate rituals in order to capture the attention of The Muse. This reminds me a bit of those athletes who will do something weird before going out and performing their best. It's always the same kind of thing, usually only a second or two before the required action is performed. The swimmer who runs his left hand (fingers tight, thumb along the forefinger!) over his swim cap from his eyebrow to the crown of his head - or the sprinter who jumps up and down three times like a Masai Warrior.

But is that the truth of it? Are we, as artists, vulnerable to this kind of crazy superstition? Yeah, artist. I said it. Wanna fight about it? All seriousness aside - I think this might be a recurring theme.