Every creative human is always searching for inspiration. They hunt and quest for that ever-elusive muse, never knowing that she could literally be right in front of them. I’m not everywhere all at once, but I’ve been right in front of writers and painters and musicians as they beg for brilliance and creative genius.
But that’s the curse of the muse – we are all but invisible.
I’m not tall, but nor am I short. I’m not underweight, nor am I overweight. I’m not pretty. I’m not ugly. I’m nothing at all. I am so insultingly average that people look right through me. No matter what I do, no one really sees me.
Oh, they may wave hello, but then they completely forget who it was they waved to. I’m not actually invisible, just very nearly.
In the last decade, I’d taken to attending writing conferences and seminars. Writers are my creators of choice. I love the way they paint pictures with nothing but words. I love how they can make people see what they see in their imaginations, with nothing but characters that have pre-decided meanings. It is, in my opinion, the most difficult of arts.
And they are the most enthusiastic of creatures.
I sit in the back corner, with open chairs all around me, listening to the presenter talk about “the next big idea” and how anyone can come up with it. I guffaw, but no one even notices. As if a mere human can just come up with the next big idea. As if they aren’t given those ideas by divine intervention.
On and on and on she goes, talking about the easy steps one can take to find their muse, and write the next best-seller. No problem-o. So I decide to do her a favor. I decide to be that muse, and let her have one of my inspirations. One of the good ones, the big ones, the ones that will change lives and reshape the world.
But I also give it to every other person in that giant auditorium.
I sit up straighter as I see each writer receive my gift. Every one of them, at the same time, twitches or jerks or turns their head. Every one of them reacts to the brilliant idea they’ve just had with enthusiasm, or guarded joy, or excitement, or wonder. Oh, the emotions are humming through the room, even the presenter pauses in her speech to marvel at her genius.
I lean back into my chair, grinning wickedly as I watch the room scribble their notes in whatever way works for their minds. Some are on laptops, and some are still writing with pen and paper, but they are all writing furiously.
The race is on.
Only one can write it first. Only one can get it into the world first. Only one can take the glory.
Maybe it isn’t quite the gladiator games of old, but I‘m eager to see how this plays out.
