Demonic Affairs and Other Creative Obligations

My devils drink. My angels gossip. I don’t trust either, but they make excellent company when the muse finally shows up. Usually late, overdressed, and with an attitude.

People who claim to write when inspired are either fabulists or independently wealthy. The rest of us write when the dread coagulates just enough to form a sentence. The muse is not a fluttering sprite in a gauzy dress. She’s a diva. She’s unionized. And she doesn’t arrive until you’ve already cleaned your house, insulted yourself thoroughly, and made peace with mediocrity.

So naturally, I summon the committee.

The devils arrive first, smelling of gin and secondhand ambition. They slide in uninvited, sprawl across the furniture of my mind, and begin dismantling whatever self-esteem I hadn’t already pawned. They are brutal but imaginative. They suggest metaphors too vivid to publish and jokes so sharp they’d leave paper cuts on the reader. They remind me I peaked at seventeen and should’ve opened a bookstore in Vermont.

Then come the angels. Late, apologetic, whispering. They bring obscure literary references, unsolicited advice, and chamomile. They offer me perspective and gentle encouragement, which is how I know they’ve never written professionally. They fret about tone. They ask if a phrase is too much. Yes, I say. And then I keep it.

In the midst of this unholy brainstorming session, the muse occasionally appears. She doesn’t knock. She doesn’t explain her absences. She tosses off a single brilliant line, rolls her eyes at my entire outline, and vanishes into the ether like a Frenchman on vacation. This is the arrangement. I do the heavy lifting, and she shows up just in time to take credit. It’s like writing with Cher.

And still, I chase her.

People mistake the muse for inspiration. She’s not. She’s compulsion in heels. She shows up in the middle of the night, when you’re brushing your teeth or hating yourself in the produce aisle. She doesn’t care about your schedule or your sleep hygiene. She wants a word. She wants it now. And if you don’t write it down, she’ll give it to someone else, probably less talented and more disciplined.

It is a myth that the muse is a gift. Let me disabuse you of that fantasy. The muse is a contract. And you’d better honor it. Writing isn’t romantic. It’s an affliction you decorate. It’s insomnia in a clever hat. And the muse is your enabler, laughing as you lose yet another afternoon to a semicolon.

I’ve never believed anyone who says they enjoy the process. Writing is not enjoyable. It is necessary. Like oxygen, or petty revenge. It is the only acceptable way to talk to yourself in public and get paid for it.

Barely.

Still, I do it. With my devils and my angels, my caffeine and my contempt, my sarcasm and my surprisingly soft heart, which we do not speak of, ever. I write because the alternative is unacceptable. Being misunderstood. Being silent. Being someone who only consumes and never creates. That is death. And unfortunately, I’m booked.

When it’s all over, when the piece is done and the sentence that nearly killed me reads as effortlessly as if it arrived by carrier pigeon, I sit back and wonder. Was it worth it? The emotional rollercoaster. The internal warfare. The highly caffeinated schizophrenia. And the answer is always the same.

No.

But the devils are laughing. The angels are adjusting their halos like hat pins. And the muse, that cruel lover, has been seduced once more.

So I light a cigarette I don’t smoke, raise a glass I didn’t pour, and toast to the only company worth keeping when the clock runs out. Those imaginary bastards who remind me I’m still alive.

And on occasion, even interesting.