In your life as a muse-driven writer, there’s a great deal of help and gratification, not to mention pure pleasure, to be gained from reading the accounts of other artists who have consciously experienced their creativity to some degree as an autonomous force, entity, or process. Equally valuable are statements of general creative principles that have been abstracted from such accounts. Learning the various ways in which writers have conceived, related to, and referred to their inner collaborators can go a long way toward helping you to clarify your relationship with your own muse or genius. And of course such statements often shade into speculations about the general meaning and purpose of human life, both individually and collectively — a subject that’s always worth considering.
You’ll find quotes to this effect scattered throughout the library of articles housed here at Demon Muse. Right now, to reinforce the point, here are a few more. By way of a disclaimer, please note that not all of the individuals quoted below make explicit mention of the muse, daimon, or genius. Some of them might well quibble with the use of such terminology. But all talk about the ins and outs, both practical and philosophical, of living and working with the realization that creativity comes to us as a seemingly autonomous force that demands an attitude not of control, but of relationship and respect.
1. Robert Louis Stevenson and his “Brownies,” a.k.a. his “Familiar” or “unseen collaborator”
[The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde] originally came to its author in a dream. Robert Louis Stevenson had always trusted to “brownies” — meaning his daydreams and nightmares. He felt that stories and characters were being channelled to him from elsewhere.
….Stevenson suffered ill-health all his life, and was being dosed with an experimental drug at the time when his “brownies” assailed him with the story of the good doctor and his evil other self.
–Ian Rankin on The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, guardian.co.uk, August 16, 2010
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And for the Little People [who deliver the vivid dreams from which I write my stories], what shall I say they are but just my Brownies, God bless them! who do one-half my work for me while I am fast asleep, and in all human likelihood, do the rest for me as well, when I am awake and fondly suppose that I do it for myself. The part that is done while I am sleeping is the Brownies’ part beyond contention; but that which is done when I am up and about is by no means necessarily mine, since all goes to show the Brownies have a hand in it even then. Here is a doubt that much concerns my conscience. For myself — what I call I, my conscious ego, the denizen of the pineal gland unless he has changed his residence since Descartes, the man with the conscience and the variable bank-account, the man with the hat and the boots, and the privilege of voting and not carrying his candidate at the general elections — I am sometimes tempted to suppose he is no story-teller at all, but a creature as matter of fact as any cheesemonger or any cheese, and a realist bemired up to the ears in actuality; so that, by that account, the whole of my published fiction should be the single-handed product of some Brownie, some Familiar, some unseen collaborator, whom I keep locked in a back garret, while I get all the praise and he but a share (which I cannot prevent him getting) of the pudding. I am an excellent adviser, something like Moliere’s servant; I pull back and I cut down; and I dress the whole in the best words and sentences that I can find and make; I hold the pen, too; and I do the sitting at the table, which is about the worst of it; and when all is done, I make up the manuscript and pay for the registration; so that, on the whole, I have some claim to share, though not so largely as I do, in the profits of our common enterprise.
– Robert Louis Stevenson, “A Chapter on Dreams,” in Across the Plains (1892)
2. Don DeLillo on honoring a story’s inherent mandate and deepest meaning
So how, I wonder, getting down to it, does [DeLillo] usually go about collecting the materials for his fiction? “I’m always keeping random notes on scraps of paper,” he replies. “I always carry a pencil and a notebook. Coming on the train today I had an idea for a story I’m writing and jotted it down — on just a little scrap of paper. Then I clip these together. I’ll look at them in, say, three weeks’ time, and see what I’ve got. You know,” he adds defiantly, “I’ve never made an outline for any novel that I’ve written. Never.”
This is something of an artistic credo. DeLillo is at pains to suggest he is in no hurry with his work. The material must come to him. When it comes, he believes that “it has its own mandate”, and cannot, he says, be wrenched into a narrative at odds with its deepest meaning.
– Robert McCrum, “Don DeLillo: ‘I’m not trying to manipulate reality – this is what I see and hear,’” The Observer, August 8, 2010
3. James Lee Burke on the artist’s gift as an external power
At a certain point [you reach] what a Franciscan friend of mine, a theologian, once referred to as the fundamental option, when someone chooses good over evil in his life. That’s the key decision that people make. The same applies in one’s art. You’re just in it for the whole nine innings or you’re not.
“The truth is, and the truth that every artist comes to know, is that his talent, his gift is from some power outside of himself.” – James Lee Burke
Humility is not a virtue in an artist. The truth is, and the truth that every artist comes to know, is that his talent, his gift is from some power outside of himself. When you see an artist on television, it doesn’t matter what kind of medium he or she is in, and you hear that person speak in a grandiose way, and you begin to hear the first person pronoun — I, me, my mind and myself — that person is not at the apex of his career. He had already gone over it, and we’re not going to be seeing a whole lot more from him. The talent is always taken from him and it is given to someone else. I have never seen the exception.
Grandiosity is one vice that no artist can afford. Because every artist knows it, he knows it came from somewhere else. He did not go out and acquire it.
– Greg Langley, “James Lee Burke: Author’s home state a major character in his novels, his career, and his life,” 2theadvocate.com, April 18, 2010
4. Steven Pressfield on humility, ambition, and the muse
There’s a wonderful quote from John Gardner or somebody that, alas, I can’t find. The bad paraphrase goes something like this:
I make my living tapping a source that I cannot name or control, a force that appears and disappears based on factors that are unknown to and unknowable by me and that cannot be managed or manipulated, no matter how hard I try. I am at its mercy.
The author is talking about the Muse, the unconscious, whatever you want to call the mysterious source and wellspring of creativity.
The author’s world is a pretty scary place, if you think about it. To be dependent utterly on something that you can’t see, smell, taste, measure, summon, govern or control. No wonder artists and entrepreneurs act so crazy. What, then, is the proper attitude of mortal man and woman toward this weird and unknowable, uncontrollable source?
….Ambition is the artist’s foundation. Dynamis in Greek: the drive to seek, to discover, to become. The Muse approves of ambition. Ambition gives the artist the passion to start and the tenacity to finish. But ambition must never be allowed to rise to the level of hubris. The minute we believe that we are the source of that which comes through us…that’s when the gods start dusting off their thunderbolts.
At the same time, humility must not become passivity. You and I may only be mortals, with all the foolishness and fallibility that that state implies, but we’re mortals made in the image of heaven. The gods can’t do their work without us. So let’s be bold, in their cause and in our own. It’s our job, we humans, to make manifest that which is unmanifest–and to raise into consciousness, in this material dimension, that which had been known before only in heaven.
– Steven Pressfield, “Humility,” Steven Pressfield Online, August 4, 2010.
5. Maxie van Roye on living and working with a temperamental muse
When I first began writing, I assumed that the Muse and I would maintain a certain professional relationship. My job would be to write, and hers to provide the story behind the story. She would remain my devoted assistant, the inspiration behind my big plans, the hardworking backbone that would give my writing strength and stamina.
Unfortunately, my Muse is highly ambitious. From very early on, she made it clear who should be running the show. I was ten typing fingers doomed to anonymity; any talent was her exclusive domain.
….It gets worse. The Muse is fickle, fragile, and prone to sulks. If I neglect or insult her, she’ll give me the silent treatment, and my computer screen will remain empty while my frustration level elevates and the Muse snickers over my shoulder at my predicament. Experts call it “writer’s block,” but it’s more like “writer’s blank.” For a delicate creature, the Muse is very talented in the art of revenge.
We certainly have our problems. Despite our differences, though, I’ve secretly grown to enjoy the vigorous back-and-forth arguments that form the core of our writing sessions. And although she usually navigates my reluctant tap-tapping fingers down vague paths and along uncharted waters, the Muse’s sense of direction is keen. I might disagree with the route she’s chosen, or even the destination, but I have to hand it to her. For all her inconsistencies and mind games, the Muse seems to know what she wants and where she’s going with it.
– Maxie van Roye, “Battling Your Muse,” The Voice Magazine Vol. 18, Issue 32, August 13, 2010
6. Dr. George Blair-West on finding your life’s meaning by discovering your daimon
The first day is the one on which we fully realise that we came into this life for a reason. We realise that we have what Aristotle called our ‘Daimon’ — our unique mix of abilities and talents, however small or unvalued by the world at large — and our job is to express them. This expression is accompanied by the highest emotional state of ‘happiness’ that humans can experience — what Aristotle called ‘Eudaimonia’.
“We realise that we have what Aristotle called our ‘Daimon’ — our unique mix of abilities and talents, however small or unvalued by the world at large — and our job is to express them.” – Dr. George Blair-West
Which brings us to the second day, often months or years after the first. This is the day when you truly meet your Daimon — its birthday — and you begin to dance with your Daimon. You start to live your life around doing what has meaning for you. It might be the day you finally start to confront the anxiety of putting pen to paper (or these days finger to keyboard!) or brush to canvas. It might be the day you enroll in the first subject that will ultimately allow you to study what really turns you on. It might be the day you do something just for you and the people around you and the world be damned for a few hours! (You have given them way too much of your precious life anyway!)
Life is inherently meaningless — until we find our meaning. Only one person can give it meaning. If you look for a meaning outside you, if you look to others, you will find nothing. If you do not bring meaning to your life, if you do not go looking for your Daimon, you will be confronted by its meaninglessness.
– Dr. George Blair-West, “The two most important days in your life,” August 2010
7. Lisa A. Riley on transmuting creative “madness” into a powerful ally
Many creative individuals have experienced sudden surges, flooded with creative intensity as if an arrow laced with their muse struck them. The cycle accelerates productivity with their art lasting for days, even weeks at a time. Engrossed in the moment saturated with ideas, some will work viciously, with little sleep or food. It’s as if creative energy is what fuels them during this interlude producing a temporary state of immortality. Commonly following such a ride is a retreat back into their cave, often in seclusion, as if to recover and hibernate. However, during this down time the creative process is not completely dormant. Instead the artist is regrouping, reorganizing and ideas are incubating for the next eruption.
….When the artist is able to know him or her self well enough to accept these cycles without judgment and learn the skills to create a healthy environment that will tame what is tempestuous, it becomes an ally in the creative process. The artist transforms what was once perceived as madness and into a powerful force that can help them reach levels in their creativity they never predicted.
– Lisa A. Riley, MA, LMFT, “Creative Intensity or Madness,” The Art of Mind, July 22, 2010
OVER TO YOU:
- Which of the above excerpts best lines up with your personal experience of the creative process?
- How do you symbolize the autonomous aspect of your own creativity? As the action of a muse, daimon, genius, “Brownies,” or something else?
- Do you agree with Stevenson that those autonomous unconscious forces are responsible not only for the the ideas that show up by involuntary inspiration, but also for the work that we do “when we are awake and fondly suppose that we do it for ourselves”?
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Image credit: “L’Artiste et sa Muse” used under Creative Commons from Luzal
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