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I had so many responses about yesterday’s blog from artists who were having issues with their muses, inspiration, etc . . . I’ve devoted today’s blog to speaking to some of those comments. I’ll explore the more mundane Invaders from Porlock in the next blog.

Artists do seem to fall into three categories on what feeds their muse: that first rush of love/lust, the anger and depression of a breakup, or the steadiness of more long term love. I believe that is why some artists are addicted to falling in love. Once they feel that first rush changing to something different, deeper, they panic. (A lot of people mistake that first rush of lust for “real” love. It’s the first rush of chemicals, once it changes, then you can really find out if it’s love or just sex.) But the artist whose muse feeds on that rush and tumult of love, sometimes convinces themselves that without a new love they won’t be able to write, or sing, paint, or sculpt. So, they continually fall in love, fall out of love, and sometimes fall into the habit of setting up the next relationship before they’ve made a clean break with the last. (If you are polyamorous this last doesn’t apply, but I’m trying to stick with mainstream idea of relationships which is usually one on one.) Many of these artists seem convinced that the next one is their true love. The next one will last and inspire them forever, but it’s never enough, because they feed on the first rush of chemicals and craziness, so like any addict they need a bigger and bigger fix to be happy. No, you don’t have to be an artist to get stuck in this cycle. I’m pretty convinced the above is why 80% of marriages in this country end in divorce, and why most people are serial monogamists.

Does the artist need that first rush of love to continue to be inspired? Does their muse truly feed on that first rush? I don’t know. I am so not that type of artist that I don’t feel qualified to answer the question. I find that first rush of delirious, delicious, madness to stop me almost dead in my tracks as an artist. I have to watch myself that I don’t become as obsessed with a new love as I do with writing a new book. I actually have to work through the delirium of lust, love, euphoria and near depression, before I can truly work again. There’s a phrase for it, New Relationship Energy. I find NRE very distracting for my muse and me. We do gain energy from it, but if only I could fall in love when I wasn’t on deadline, that would work perfectly, but you can’t choose what time you fall in love anymore than you can choose who you fall in love with, or at least I’ve never managed it. Having said all that, I wouldn’t trade the rush of it for anything, I just understand that I have to work hard not to get distracted from the work at hand. But what a great reason to be distracted. *grin*

The next type of artist/muse combination feeds on depression, or anger, or pick your negative emotion. I’ve actually had writers tell me that they are in a major depression, and their doctors were urging them to go to therapy, but they’d refused. Why? Because they believed that if they cured their depression that they’d cease to be able to write. They believed that their angst and torment was necessary for their muse to work. I’ve known artists in this category that will actually break up with a person who they love, because they are too happy. They make themselves miserable, because love and happiness makes it harder to do their art. They will throw away love with a real flesh and blood person, to stay wedded to their mystical muse.

Do they have to be miserable to be inspired? This one I can answer, because for years this was me. I didn’t make myself miserable, I just was for a lot of reasons. Good therapy helped me to regain my life, hell, to find I had a life to regain. I wrote some of the early Anita Blake novels weeping at my keyboard, not because it was a sad scene, but because I was just that unhappy in real life. My first marriage did not feed my muse, or much of my heart in the end. But I wasn’t weeping for the marriage, my mother died when I was six, my father abandoned us before I was a year-old. My childhood was never a happy place. Without going into details I’ll just say that through good therapy, my spiritual path, and finding people who actually love me, and learning to love myself, I’ve made certain my own daughter had a much better childhood than I did. I had a lot of issues to work through, and, If you do not work your issues; your issues will work you. There was a time in my life where my issues from childhood made me their bitch. *laughs* I feel much better now.

As I got healthier, I did think back to the writers who had told me they feared getting better, because they felt they would lose their muse. I did think about it, but in the end what drove me to serious therapy was that I became so mired in the depression that I couldn’t write. It was almost the last thing to go. I see it as my muse saying, “Dude, get some help. I can’t work under these conditions.” So I got help, and I healed, and I didn’t know if I would ever write again. But my muse came walking back through the door, sat her luggage on the floor and moved back in to a brighter, happier world. Now, were all my inner demons conquered? No, you never conquer them all, but you learn to embrace them, understand them, even value the lessons they teach you. My muse and I have found peace, and a sure knowledge that simply surviving my childhood will keep my demons busy for at least this lifetime.

My pain got so deep that I had to get help, and I discovered that my muse and I enjoyed being happy. That we had plenty of anger, sorrow, from the past to feed a thousand muses, and that we didn’t need to make fresh misery in order to write. So, all you artists making yourself miserable because you think you can’t write happy, it doesn’t have to be that way. Though the learning curve is odd when changing gears from rage and pain to old rage and pain, and present joy. But it’s a learning curve well worth doing. *smile*

Now to the last kind of artist, the one whose muse thrives best in a long term relationship. This last is definitely me. I like a certain amount of dependability to my life, and a long term relationship is all about that. But I learned in my first marriage that dependability without passion and shared interests doesn’t work for me. I actually thrive best in the comfort of familiarity with the passion of fresh lust. How do I accomplish both? I have no idea. I know that if the passion begins to flag, that my husband, Jon, and I sit down and have a talk. I will never be in a passionless relationship again, so bring your A-game and I’ll do the same. We both pride ourselves on increasing our skill set in this area, and so far, as we close in on ten years, so good. I certainly wasn’t this happy ten years into my first marriage. So, I’ve learned and grown and gotten better at figuring out what makes me happy. One thing I always need to be happy from a man is they have to help lighten me up. They can be gloomy bastards, but not more gloomy than I am, because otherwise we get caught in a cycle of doom and darkness with no relief. I am a moody bastard and always will be to some extent, but I need my partner to help light a candle in the dark occasionally. With Jon I have to return the favor sometimes, because he is definitely another gloomy bastard just like me, it’s just different flavors of gloom.

My muse and I pick people who are complicated enough that years of friendship and love doesn’t make them boring. In fact, after I left my first marriage I seem completely incapable of being attracted to anyone that could ever be called boring. I still need a certain amount of steadiness, but I’ve grown to be my own pole star. I guess, all three types of artist actually share one trait, we can’t stand to be bored. Whether our life is dramatic on it’s own, or we create drama, most muses detest boredom. When I worked in corporate America years ago, by the end of the day my muse was drained and so was I. I had to get up before work to write pages on my first novel, before the routine of work had eaten every bit of inspiration I had in me. Let me just say that getting up at 5AM was hard, and I was so not a morning person, but it was either write then, or not write. It’s how I wrote most of my first novel.

Being an artist is a weird and wonderful way to live, but not all The Invaders from Porlock are outside, some of the hardest to fight are actually the People from Porlock inside our own minds and psyches. Some of us make our lives a misery because we are convinced that’s the only way our muse will help us. Some of us are just miserable human beings and I don’t envy anyone in love with us. Others of us are some of the brightest, most exhilarating beings on the planet. Being in love with us can be breath-stealing, joyous, damn near addictive. The infamous writers block is really our own minds being invaded and then occupied by Porlock. Rally your troops kick their asses out. It’s your country, damn it! It’s your mind, your creativity, your muse. It’s all still in there, you just have to open yourself up and call to your muse. She is still in there. An artist’s muse never leaves them, but it’s like the voice of God, sometimes you have be listening, before either one can talk to you. If your head is full of your own tormented thoughts, or you’ve let other people invade until their voices crowd out everything else, you can’t hear that still, small voice. We’re supposed to be made in the image of God. I don’t think that means two arms, two legs. I think that means that we have the spark of creation in us, a little piece of Deity inside us. Is there any calling more sacred than honoring that divine spark? Honor that fire inside you, sit quietly by it’s light and feel the warmth of it. Be still and listen, and your muse will come out of the darkness, and sit beside you. Don’t panic, don’t startle her. Sit quietly by the fire and let the muse come to you, because if she’s been hiding for a long time, she needs to believe that you see the divine fire in yourself. If you sit quietly and feel the heat of your own inner glow, she will come closer. The muse will take your hand, and the moment that happens, it’s like a piece of your soul comes back to you. The muse, for me, is like true love, the kind that lasts for years, I am made more simply by being with her. Together we are more than we are apart. More fun, more sorrow, more joy, more darkness, more light, more . . . everything.