Shakespeare had The Dark Lady. Beethoven had his Immortal Beloved, Charles Dodgson (Lewis Carroll) had his Alice Liddell.  Sir Paul McCartney his Old English Sheepdog, Martha.  Raymond Chandler, his cat, Taki.  Dante had Beatrice. George Harrison and Eric Clapton shared a muse in the form of Patti Boyd.  Picasso had many muses.  John Lennon had Yoko.  Billy Joel had Christie Brinkley.  Most creative people have a muse of sorts – whether human, feline, canine, elfin, ephemeral or metaphysical – whatever it takes to inspire our passionate craft.  

Greek mythology claims there were 9 Muses (Clio, Thalia, Erato, Euterpe, Polyhymnia, Calliope, Terpsichore, Urania, and Melpomene) – goddesses who inspire the creation of literature and the arts.  They were considered the source of knowledge, related orally for centuries in the ancient culture that was contained in poetic lyrics and myths.  The compliment to a real woman who inspires creative endeavor is a later idea.  Muses are also implicit in amuse, museum (a place where muses were worshipped), music and musing.

Some artists feel the need to perform daily rituals to entice the muse to arrive.  This may include the playing of certain music – or absolute silence; the use of smoking materials (cigars, cigarettes, Tiparillos)  – or clear lungs; several shots of seductive libation – or keeping the label/cork intact; perfumed air through intoxicating flowers or pheromones  – or sober old oxygen; plush, vibrant-colored pillows or stark, Spartan space to welcome them.   Some do Yoga or meditate to open the channels and chakras, generating a clear, clean palette for our particular muses to enter and, hopefully, reside a spell.

Sometimes nothing we do to lure them works.   If our muse does not appear  we may feel ignored, abandoned, frustrated, fearful, desolate.  Then the pacing begins.  And the clenched fists.  The cords in the neck tighten.  A prominent vein in the temple/forehead area may begin to pulse and throb angrily.  The chain-smoking/drinking ensues.  Certainly no muse in her or his right mind would want to turn up to a tension-filled muddled mind and be expected to produce anything worthwhile.  They want to saunter in and give that royal/papal superior wave, flick away an imaginary piece of metaphysical lint, plop down in a comfy chair and begin the sultry whispering in your eager ear.

Some creative types are superstitious folks – worse than theatre people and their penchant for saying, The Scottish Play instead of MacBeth – and the dreaded writer’s block (painter’s block, sculptor’s block, etc.) may not be mentioned, for even a child knows once those two words are aired, the horrific problem expands exponentially.  More dire than insomnia, writer’s block can cripple the confidence of an artist for protracted periods of time, leading to melancholia and periods of various shades of color.

I do not possess, lease, or hire a muse to perform magical feats for me; neither in human form, some phantasmagorical figure, nor someone who plays a muse on TV.  Though much of my writing is humorous (allegedly) and Calliope is the Greek Muse for comedy, I do not subscribe to her existence and refuse to pander to her, casting rose petals at her feet, tempting her with chilled Snickers or copious amounts of Mike’s Hard Lemonade.  I refuse to allow my creativity to be hijacked or stonewalled by the theory of some gossamer spirit deigning to pay me a visit so I can knock out the rest of that short story or the next chapter.  I take full credit or full blame for the finished product.   Admittedly, I have experienced the occasional faint whisper of something in my ear that later found its way into my writing.  However, it could have been my subconscious pitching in.  The verdict on muses is still out as far as I’m concerned, but just in case they do exist, I want to hedge my bets and not mock the muse. 

When I was invited to write a guest blog here I wasn’t flattered or honored.  I thought, what the hell is wrong with that woman?  Who wants to read something I’ve written?  Sure, I’ve written a couple of plays in my time, but a blog?  I’ve got nothing to say, especially to a bunch of strangers.  Then I thought, hell, I’ve got plenty to say.  

My name’s Billie Jenkins.  I run a murder mystery dinner theatre in upstate New York with my boyfriend, Emmett.  You may have heard about it.   It got a lot of press when it opened and some movie types came snooping around to see if it was silver screen worthy.  The layout’s thematic of an old-fashioned drive-in movie.  The audience sits in older model cars and eats their TV dinners while watching the play unfold between the headlights and the big screen. 

I recently completed an MFA program and my thesis The Disappearance of TV Westerns and the Resultant Decline of American Society was published by a small university press.  Out of the blue I got a call from some other Hollywood type who wanted to option it to make it into a movie.  He threw around some names as though he already had them under contract.  I didn’t say much; was toying with the idea of it when he must’ve figured I’d say no and he upped the ante by raising his financial offer as well as saying I’d be on the books as a consultant.  That sweetened the pot nicely but then he mentioned Colin Firth, fresh off his Oscar win for The King’s Speech.  While a fine actor, he doesn’t have that rough and craggy look of a man who’s ridden horseback across Montana and Wyoming in bad weather. And he’s Mr. Darcy.

Emmett and I watched Arsenic and Old Lace, directed by Frank Capra, and starring Cary Grant the other night.  It was really over the top with a lot of physical comedy that Cary Grant skillfully carried out.  I wondered if guys (like women – I know it’s not just me – who sometimes think they’re looking like Jessica Rabbit, then catch a glimpse of themselves and realize they’re more Agnes Gooch), think they look like Cary Grant, then catch a glimpse of themselves and realize they’re more Michael J. Pollard.  Amazing how those silly centimeters can alter your life.

I know I said I’ve got plenty to say, but Eugene’s just arrived and wants me to help him alter his poodle skirt before tonight’s show.  The googley eyes of his felt poodle keep crossing and he feels it’s detracting from his performance.