But the fact is, she [the muse] won’t be summoned. She alights when it damn well pleases her. She falls in love with one artist, then deserts him for another. She’s a real bitch!
O’ melancholy,hectic chill for human soul,herewith dismal presence,any spirit does descent.
Deal resistance a death blow and make sweet love to your art all night long. Put on your fishnet thigh highs and your patent leather stilettos and your special occasion lingerie. Seduce the hell out of your own creative soul. It’s time for an epic lap dance. Dance for your paint and canvas, for fingers tripping across keyboard, for the open arms of motherhood, for the layers of flavor in the meals you create. Wind your hips down for the click of the shutter, for the 3 a.m. bathroom poem, for the late night lesson planning
What you seem to forget is that I’m not one of the embodiments of evil. I’m one of the embodiments of fear. That means I know what makes evil quake in the light of the sun.
the only way
Your mind is a book; God is the pen.
This is the other secret that real artists know and wannabe writers don’t. When we sit down each day and do our work, power concentrates around us. The Muse takes note of our dedication. She approves. We have earned favor in her sight. When we sit down and work, we become like a magnetized rod that attracts iron filings. Ideas come. Insights accrete.
People are dying out there, and I’m not faring much better.
Get off that damn chair and pull yourself together. You’re supposed to be an ageless creature of chaos and all I’m getting right now is sulking city boy.
William Shakespeare: My muse, as always, is Aphrodite.
Philip Henslowe: Aphrodite Baggett, who does it behind the Dog and Crumpet?