“There is a muse, but he’s not going to come fluttering down into your writing room and scatter creative fairy-dust all over your typewriter or computer. He lives in the ground. He’s a basement kind of guy. You have to descend to his level, and once you get down there you have to furnish an apartment for him to live in. You have to do all the grunt labor, in other words, while the muse sits and smokes cigars and admires
his bowling trophies and pretends to ignore you. Do you think it’s fair?”
—Stephen King
The Muses aren’t sweet singing spirits. They’re a pain in the ass. They toss us and turn us—and yet, somehow, leave us better than they found us.
The Irresistible Pull of Passion
“Being a fan, like being in love, is giddying, it’s as personal as skin, it connects you with others in a particular way, and it sets you up for a fall…. ‘Fan’ as a label is a slur on your critical objectivity and even your maturity, but if you weren’t a fan of something or someone, wouldn’t life be a little bland?”
—David Mitchell1
Think about the people with whom you’ve fallen in love. And maybe it’s a romantic love, but it doesn’t have to be. Think about the people to whom you’ve developed a powerful attachment. You care about them in a deep and personal way. Maybe they’re friends you see all the time, maybe they’re superstars you only see on TV. But, in some way, you love them. You root for them. You’re on their side.
Now see if you can isolate the moment when it happened, when your heart first stirred. Of course, we fall in love for a variety of reasons—hormones, geography, shared experiences, childhood preferences, and a host of mysteries that would take a lifetime of therapy to identify—and maybe it was a Cupid’s-arrow moment across a crowded room. But most likely it was during a moment in which she or he was expressing their passion for something in particular. They were telling you about something or somebody they loved: a book, a movie, a parent, a food, a memory from childhood, or a fantastic vacation. Maybe they were sharing a desire or a dream. Or maybe you saw them expressing their passion: the way they sing on stage, the way they cook, the way they dance or laugh or tell stories, the way they play. Listen to a kid describing what he wants for a birthday or a friend telling you about his new boyfriend. They’re besotted. Their words come more quickly. Their gestures are more animated. If you could measure their pulse, you’d see their heart rate is literally elevated.
Passion definitely has many looks—but all of them are intense. Steely resolve, quiet determination, manic enthusiasm, and sometimes a state that seems like a spiritual possession. It can be hoots and cheers and painted faces at a football game. Or sometimes passion is deeper, a quiet intensity, like a sprinter crouched in the starting blocks or somebody praying, really praying, as if their soul literally depends upon it.
And maybe, when you see somebody express their passion, their passion “matches” your passion. You both love Les Misérables and goat cheese ravioli. It’s kismet. You’ve found your ravioli-loving soul mate and you’re off to your castle in the clouds.
But not always. Sometimes we fall for people who are expressing a passion that doesn’t so neatly match our own and, yet, somehow, we still find them irresistible. They’re gaga for sushi or heavy metal or soap operas—and that gaga-ness is infectious. They’re doing their thing—and we’re pulled along for the wild ride. Why? How does that work?
Well, passion is always emotional, for sure, but it’s an emotion about longing for something or somebody. Happy and sad are states of being, but passion is a state of wanting. It’s desiring, craving, all forward momentum. And, in its wanting, passion shows its convictions, its beliefs. Behind every passion is an implied point of view: this thing I desire is desire-worthy.
But that’s debatable, of course. Passions are, at heart, opinions—and opinions can be argued. Maybe Les Mis sucks. Maybe goat cheese is gross. Maybe Tarantino is better than Scorsese. Maybe he’s ugly. Maybe you’re an idiot.
This maybe-ness of passion might be exactly what makes it so irresistible, so captivating. The passionate person is both confident and vulnerable, so sure of their own perspective and quite possibly, foolish. It’s like they’re walking fast on a tightrope—so full of certainty and so totally exposed.
And sometimes, the passionate person is downright pained. You sometimes hear people refer to the “Passion of Christ” when they’re talking about Jesus’s torture and crucifixion. The Latin root of the word passion is pati, a verb that means “to suffer,” which passion sometimes feels like. Have you seen a teen in unrequited love? Have you been a teen in unrequited love? Have you seen a Jets fan in January? Indeed, longing and suffering are bedfellows.
So passion is a hot emotional mess. It’s desire, determination, confidence, vulnerability, and, now and then, pain. Real passion is a person splaying themselves open before you.
And how do we react in those situations, those moments in which we’re trusted with a heart’s confession of its radically pure passion?
Well, it’s awkward. At first. We’re disorientated. We’re not used to such raw expressions of feeling. But generally, that disorientation lasts for only a little time. As humans, we’ve evolved to be an empathetic species and, when somebody opens themselves up in front of us, we lean in, and mostly, with kindness. We engage. We fall forward and, sometimes, we fall in love. We follow.
Passion stokes empathy. And empathy creates connection.
When you express yourself with passion, you’re literally building a team. Passion is the primary energy the Muse must summon. And then comes the strange part.
Out On a Hillside
When you close your eyes and imagine Muses, you likely think of spirits who travel on the wind, showing up with a flourish to inspire artists, to crush writer’s block and make masterpieces. Muses, we believe, unstick creativity. For centuries, artists have prayed to these spirits, desperate for the touch of inspiration they might bring. Shakespeare himself wished “for a muse of fire that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention” and, even today, Taylor Swift credits her love song hits to the man who had been her “Muse” for one hot summer, the strapping actor Tom Hiddleston. Artists have always turned to the otherworldly, the beautiful, the better-than-human, for the inspiration they can’t seem to find within themselves.