It had all seemed simple enough. A muse. It was all I wanted. Just a muse, someone to inspire my work, to whisper a new idea in my ear, to push my creativity, to give me the drive to produce. The Greeks had made them goddesses, nine of them. I did not want nine, only one. A personal muse.
I should have thought it out a bit more. I admit that now.
I was not overly picky. I did not care if my muse was a man or a woman, a cat, a dustbunny. It could be a ghost, invisible, appear only in my dreams. Perhaps not the last; I knew enough to know that I did not want to be woken in the middle of the night, driven by inspiration to leave my warm bed, to vacate the cozy nest of my blankets to search out a chilly seat and put my fingers to the keys and type. Even keeping a notepad beside my bed was not really the same. But I wanted a muse and was not choosy about how it happened to manifest as long as it did and I could capture that feeling of inspiration that had become all too rare.
I often wonder now what it was that first gave me this particular idea. One would think anyone familiar with Greek mythology would be wary of anything they made into goddesses. Their deities were known for their capriciousness, their all-too-human characteristics and failings. I should have been aware of all those moments in history in which creative individuals were driven too far, too hard by their passion. Or equally those people who disappeared into obscurity, leaving limited masterpieces. Even Hollywood had found the time to produce a cautionary tale of searching for a muse.
I was foolish. I think I still am.
And so begins my tale of the seeking and finding of my muse. So begins the tale of constant battle and frustration, love, devotion, vision, inspiration, faithlessness and the journey to make, to create, to become as a god and generate something new that is mine.
As I said, I am foolish.