Being a writer of any stripe is a profession half artist, half entrepreneur. Whether you’re self-published or sanctioned by one of the big six–or rather, big five, now–if you are a writer, chances are you’ll spend a portion of your time managing your writing career, and a portion of your time being creative.
It can be very easy to get these two hats mixed up. The largest portion of your time might be spent whining about having to understand the business of writing. “I just don’t understand why my accountant didn’t appreciate my receipt collage!” “What do you mean a book about my dog’s journey back in time to meet the Buddha won’t sell? It’s pure art, man!”
The even greater pitfall can be the tendency to slide the other way and start writing to sell. Maybe vampire novels are selling like hotcakes, but if you don’t have a vampire story to tell, don’t try to write a vampire novel, for heaven’s sakes! Write the story you have to tell. Even if it is about your dog traveling back in time to speak with the Buddha.
(The same rule does not apply to zombie novels. I personally believe every human being has a zombie novel in them.)
There is a point somewhere in this ramble, and it is this: Every writer must tread a thin line between rational thought and the completely irrational world of creativity, a process dominated by an object that the Greeks in their infinite wisdom called The Muse. The fact that we have not updated the term in several thousand years shows just how in denial we are of our tenuous grip on creativity.
The Muse is a fickle mistress–or, if you’re a straight woman, a fickle gigalo. The Muse doesn’t care about deadlines, or market research, or promises to readers, or your general sanity.
When The Muse is present and accounted for, life is good. So, so good. The words flow forth like a gushing mountain stream. Every image is a gem, every metaphor a perfect kitten. You weave tighter plots than a Jacquard loom.
The presence of The Muse is such a rush, it’s easy to see why its absence can send a writer spiraling into a depression whose depth matches the height of their writing mania.
I have a theory that The Muse never really leaves, just hides beyond your peripheral vision, watching you suffer. Everything going great with that draft? Feeling really good about your next novel? Pleased with the success of your first one? Hmmm . . . my writer is too happy. I think I’ll randomly take away her ability to write.
Over the years, you learn not to let The Muse push you around. You write with or without her (or him). You set a daily date with The Muse, and you show up even if he leaves you sitting alone in the restaurant looking like a fool . . . day after day. You meet your deadlines, even with your inner critic (yep, it’s crowded in here) looking over your shoulder, pointing out every tiny flaw in the draft you’re turning in, and The Muse no where in sight to defend the hideous heap of words that he inspired in the first place.
You learn to think your way past the absence of creativity. When you can’t draft, you revise, and when you can do neither you proofread and when you can’t do that you write a blog post. When you can’t even write a blog post, you start drinking.
I jest, of course. I would never recommend drinking, taking drugs, or having sex with random strangers as a cure for depression. Depression is temporary, but herpes is forever.
Depression is temporary. The good news is that The Muse will always come back. Fickle or not, he knows who signs his paycheck. In the meanwhile, here’s a solution that will not result in liver failure or STD’s.
Find the worst book you can, preferably in your field, even better if it’s a bestseller, and read it all the way to the end. Even in your darkest hour, reading a best selling book and thinking “I could write this so much better!” will cheer you right up.
If even that fails, start working on that receipt collage. You certainly won’t need your muse for that, and your accountant will be thrilled.
