My muse is a man

In Greek mythology, the nine Muses were Greek goddesses who ruled over the arts and sciences and offered inspiration in those subjects. They were considered the source of knowledge, related orally for centuries in ancient culture, which was contained in poetic lyrics and myths. They were the daughters of Zeus, lord of all Greek gods, and Mnemosyne, a goddess who represented memory. They were: Calliope, muse of epic song; Clio, muse of history; Euterpe, muse of lyric song; Melpomene, muse of tragedy; Terpsichore, muse of dance; Erato, muse of erotic poetry; Polymymnia, muse of sacred song; Urania, muse of astronomy; and Thalia, muse of comedy and bucolic poetry. They were all female, the better to charm and coax the artist with, Zeus may have thought. 

In the postmodern age, the Muses are explicitly used to refer to an inspiration, as when one cites one’s own artistic muse. One’s muse may be a person — real or imagined — a concept, an idea, a spirit, a movie, a song, a memory, a thing of nature, anything that inspires the artist to create.

But my muse is male and he is every bit as inspiring as all those nine maidens who had kept the creative juices flowing about in ancient Olympia.

I write about men and have no recourse but to look to a man for guidance, enlightenment, explanation, and counter argument for, indeed, what would I know about the workings of the male psyche and the tuggings of the male impulse? Just how much can one write about something as alien as the opposite sex? And to parrot what some readers have said in response to a few of my articles, which have negated their personal persuasions, “Really, just what do I know?”

So I look to my go-to guy — my muse — who has as many faces as a woman has moods. He is at once my father, my brother, the businessman, the daily wage earner, the CEO, the intellectual, the philanderer, the policeman, the carpenter, the hairdresser, the boor, the gentleman, the corrupt politician, the conman, the clown, and most of the time, he is the love of my life — the heartbeat of my universe.

Often, I am lucky because when the muse takes the form of my one true love, he hovers about me affectionately, sowing my days with a million seeds of ideas to write about, amid laughter and jest, and goodwill and romance, and an abundance of tenderness. He engages me in conversations that flow endlessly and seamlessly onto other streams and wellsprings of even more interesting, more complicated concepts. Here, he takes my hand, leading me onto unfamiliar territories of the male realm, helping me navigate through a labyrinth of male attitudes and biases, careful in never to leading me to the Minotaur. At the end of the adventure, it would have been one of the best times of my life — it always is; he makes certain. And the resulting written piece would have been satisfactory work — thorough, full of heart, soul, and insight.

Other times, when that one true love deserts me momentarily, in my beckoning, some other muse comes in his stead. This is where a bit of danger lies — when one doesn’t know what character he will end up facing.

I rest easy when he comes as my father to fuel my work. His wisdom, his deliberateness of speech and action, his temperance — all brought about by years of maneuvering through a life I am only coming to know — provide my craft with a discernment that would have taken a lifetime to figure out on my own. He warns me of the guiles of men in a way only a father could to a daughter.  He teaches me how to read through men’s words and actions; how to second-guess their intentions; how to gauge their sincerity. He teaches me in which manner to write so as not offend male sensibilities. He presents to me both sides — male and female — so that I may consider the relevance of each as I buckle down to work.  Most of all, he teaches me to be true to myself, trust my judgment, and commit to what I decide to lend a voice to without fear.

When the muse shows up as my brothers from deep in the recesses of my mind, I am inspired to no end by the common map of childhood memories that bind us — something no other three individuals unbound by blood will have at their disposal. The familiarity and fondness synonymous with fraternity instantly throws out questionable motivations or intentions I might otherwise have when working with lesser-known personages. The sibling camaraderie provides a safe arena for a free for all, no holds barred exchange, where the comfort level allows for a discussion of even the most sensitive of subjects one would not dare discuss even with husbands or lovers. Here, the trust issue is nonexistent; one is always safe.

When the muse that pulls up a chair and joins me is the intellectual, I can be certain that my facts are straight and my line of reasoning, logical and progressive. But there is always a need to invite the realist to this party — the muse that is grounded in the everyday because he tempers he who lives solely in the realm of the mind. A piece of writing that is fueled only by the intellectual muse becomes clinical and therefore falls flat. It becomes inaccessible and a chore to read.

If the muse assumes the face of the CEO, the daily wage earner has to be afforded his day in court. The CEO sets the pace of the meeting; listening is a challenge to him. He calls the shots; it is his nature. His ego demands it, which is not necessarily a bad thing because it is this very quality that makes him a good leader.  But then it is the benevolence and humility of the daily wage earner that humanizes him. If these two muses — different sides of the same coin — were put in the same arena, the result is most often a fair representation of both worlds.

I find that in writing, the muses need their polar opposites for temperance. The gentleman always needs the boor; the policeman, the conman; the chauvinist, the hairdresser; the philanderer, the priest; the corrupt politician, the masses who may or may not give him their mandate. Each holds some degree of accountability to the other to create a vigorous laundering process to agitate, spin, and tumble dry ideas and opinions so that the final draft of any piece approximates a convergent whole.

But as in everything, a sense of humor is key, so the clown becomes the star of every show. I have noticed over time that whichever muse may be attending to the writing process at any moment, the clown keeps close watch, playful and happy, interjecting a whole different vibe, admonishing all to keep things light and to not take life too seriously.

It is only when the muse is the love of my life that the clown takes a day off because he is all the muses at once. He embodies elements of the clown, the intellectual, the CEO, the daily wage Joe, the boor, the chauvinist, the hairdresser, the politician, the priest, the father, the brothers, the philanderer, and whoever else may elect to make an appearance on my writing desk that day. That is why he has appropriated the title of “One True Love” because he is all that and much, much more. 

But like all the Olympians of ancient Greek mythology, he is fluid and flighty. He has the wings of Hermes on his feet, the hunting prowess of Apollo, the warrior impulses of Ares, the ties of Hades to the underworld, the affinity of Poseidon to the ocean, and ultimately, the genius of Zeus even if it comes with an incorrigible, philandering nature. All these things carry him up and about the different realms of the universe, never really staying long enough in any one place at any one time, playing muse and god in the same breath, never really belonging to anything or anyone. He remains elusive; he is his own master. 

So the quality of the writing may be uneven at times, depending on the muse in attendance. I eagerly anticipate the day when I am no longer dependent on the muse, when inspiration comes with or without him, when ideas float freely without his brain storming, when words flow without his prodding, and when the insight is gleaned without his magic weaving. I am working on it.

* * *

Thank you for your letters.  You may reach me at cecilelilles@yahoo.com or visit my blog at www.fourtyfied.blogspot.com