Non Fiction

Pursuing a Muse

Matt Kilmartin

Yea, I’m one of those writers. I’ve heard the advice and I’ve read the testimonials that all say to write everyday, even if it’s awful, because in order to write for life you need to make writing your life. But I’ve never been able to follow that advice. I’ve always waited for inspiration, for muses, to come and tell me what I need to do.

I know it’s stupid, but I’ve always thought that I would rather write one or two really inspired pieces than a hundred that are mediocre. But the problem with muses is they don’t come when you need them. They’re divas. They don’t give a shit that you have writer’s block. They don’t need you the same way you need them. So fuck you, writer, find your own goddamn inspiration, because we’re going clubbing.

I guess you can say I don’t have a very healthy relationship with my muses.

Do you want to know what my favorite muse is? Driving around town aimlessly for hours after work, smoking a chain of cigarettes, with some music in my ear. There’s something about that moment; the symphony keeping my mind occupied, the wheel holding my concentration, and the fire of burning leaf in the ember at my mouth playing the spark that combusts thoughts. It’s clarity. It’s inspiration. It’s finite.

If I took out a notebook and started to write at that moment I’d wreck my car and possibly kill myself. I always tell myself that I’ll write it all down when I get home, but by the time that happens it’s over; the spark is gone. All I get out of that is an uninspired list of things I wanted to write about. The muse has left me again.

As much as you may want to, you can’t wait around for muses. They just don’t give enough of a fuck about you to give you what you need. So I smoke and I drink and I pine for women I can’t have all the while waiting and waiting for this sudden eureka moment to spring upon me.

But I wait in vain. Ideas come and go; twists of nonexistent plots, arcs for characters that aren’t there. Finally I’ve become a writer that doesn’t write, and a writer that doesn’t write is nothing. And writer’s block is a cop-out. You can’t blame your own limitations on this imaginary ailment. I know; I’ve had writer’s block for almost a year now.

So what now? I feel like I need some outset to this journey only to find that I’m already partway through it with no idea how I got here or where I need to go. And the only one who can find my way, the only one who can take my hand and lead me is that muse. But she won’t come to my aid. She’ll let me wander forever until my journey ends with a large pile of unfinished work and years of my life underfoot.

What a bitch.