This morning, I peered out the window to the thick fog that encased my little house before pushing my attention toward these photos from Monhegan. It only took a moment before I struck by the urge to lock myself in my bedroom and write.
You try it. Now take a minute. Study them. Where does your head go?
I’ve heard that stories can chase you. For me, that’s true. They not only chase me, but also slap at the back of my head, and nip at my ankles like little guppies in a pond. How can you look at these pictures and not imagine the muse rising up to tie you up with those fishing lines?
All of this suddenly made me wonder what Stephen King would say about the muse. Check it out:
“There is a muse, but he’s not going to come fluttering down into your writing room and scatter creative fairy-dust all over your typewriter or computer. He lives in the ground. He’s a basement kind of guy. You have to descend to his level, and once you get down there you have to furnish an apartment for him to live in. You have to do all the grunt labor, in other words, while the muse sits and smokes cigars and admires his bowling trophies and pretends to ignore you. Do you think it’s fair? I think it’s fair. He may not be much to look at, that muse-guy, and he may not be much of a conversationalist, but he’s got inspiration. It’s right that you should do all the work and burn all the mid-night oil, because the guy with the cigar and the little wings has got a bag of magic. There’s stuff in there that can change your life. Believe me, I know.”