The muse is an ethereal goddess rumored to be the source of our creativity and inspiration. These figures are so popular that everyone has their own creative source on demand and their own private way of connecting with her. Some tell tales about the muse visiting during long walks along the beach. Others have to hunt her down and wrestle the truth out of her. Yet others say that she is a myth, that the only true enlightenment is found by hacking away every day at five a.m., and that our only salvation is work, work, work. There is no definitive answer on the existence of the muse, how to find her, or how to go about translating her instructions. The most common knowledge about the muse is that she won’t find you at your desk, in an office, or on a schedule.
She presents herself to us unexpectedly, when we are unaware and in an open state, able to be influenced. She comes to us in the shower, and at the gym; exercise seems to release congealed thoughts and free the muse.
My own goddess frequents pool halls and dive bars—at least that’s where I find her most often.
The reason so many wonderful ideas and beautiful sketches are born on bar napkins is that you are in a fucking bar, not at your job, not trying, not working, not forcing your brain through a grinder. Your sense of mirth and play are in an altered state.
Only when you step outside of your routine will chaos, madness, and life-changing opportunities find you. Yes, work, work, work; but get out and wander, too. All work and no play makes Terpsichore a dull muse. Go! Seek inspiration, open yourself to her gifts. Avail yourself of the gods and set the conditions so that they may whisper in your ear.
Just remember to bring a pen.
