This story is by Michelle Daly and was part of our 2023 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.
A long, long time ago when people were just beginning to write stories and poems about life, death and everything in between, there existed a Goddess of Inspiration. People spoke of sitting down to write and immediately being inspired to produce beautifully composed poems that would flow freely from their minds to the page. Perfect prose and scintillating stories flowed forth with ease, and people eventually came to say that The Muse was responsible for it. It continued this way for centuries as flawless literature was born into the world, enriching lives and propelling human culture forward at a rapid pace.
One afternoon, The Muse was reclining on a low stone bench, her back supported by rich blue velvet pillows, looking out over the view from between the enormous stone columns of Mount Olympus. A rare break from the constant calls for inspiration. The Muse was a creature whose beauty could not be ignored. Her emerald eyes were set in impeccable, alabaster skin and her lips shimmered like a rose petal adorned by a fine sheen of dew on a brisk, Spring morning. She was always dressed in simple white dresses that seemed to float around her.
Dionysus, the God of Wine, approached The Muse as she stared at the ivory hued, billowing clouds and rocky, snow-capped mountain peaks in the distance. Dionysus had the ruddy complexion and small paunch of someone who overindulges in all the good things in life. His face was always verging on a grin, like he only needed the slightest reason to be happy.
“Muse!” began Dionysus, “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you here at Mount Olympus. Where have you been? You’ve been missing all the fun!”
“Oh really? What’s been happening? Has a new wine grape been discovered? One that doesn’t cause a hangover?” Muse asked.
“No, not yet. I’ll rejoice when that happens. No, the fun has been Zeus practicing his thunderbolt aim. He’s getting quite good! He gave Achilles a new haircut last week!”
“Not my sort of fun, but I do miss you and the other Gods, Dion. I’ve been far too busy providing inspiration to all the mortals so they can write their epic poems and stories. I barely get time to myself to recharge! I need fuel to feed the inspiration but it’s becoming very hard to find any time to do that lately.” Muse said.
“Oh, that is just terrible, Musey. No time for yourself? If I was you, I’d rather die!”
“It’s becoming tiresome indeed and I see no end to it! The mortals have no restraint with their breeding and will soon overrun the Earth. How will I keep up with all those that need my inspiration? I can’t give from an empty cup.”
“Oh, I’ve just had a thought! Your proximity must have given me the Inspiration too, Musey. You need to find a way to discourage all these people from writing so much. Surely, they have better things to do with their time. Like drinking wine, for instance” Dionysus said.
“That’s a great idea but how will I discourage them? They’ve all grown so used to me being there for them.”
“You should speak to Dolos, the God of Trickery. Maybe he has an idea or two. He’s saved me from having to do actual work on more than one occasion so I can keep having a good time. Speaking of which, I’ve got to go now and drink more wine! I’ll send Dolos to you if I see him.”
The Muse had started to look for Dolos herself when she was interrupted by a call to help a mortal write a poem on unrequited love. She sighed as she clicked her fingers and vanished with a puff of ethereal mist.
The next morning, The Muse was home, exhausted by a full night of inspiring great works of art. She was settling down for a nap when she felt a light tap on her shoulder. She opened her eyes but no one was there. Annoyed, she closed her eyes again. The tap came again on her shoulder but this time she grabbed the hand and yanked.
“Oww! Muse! What did you do that for? I was only having fun!” Exclaimed Dolos.
Dolos was a willowy figure with sharp cheekbones and a pointed nose. His blue eyes shone brightly with mirth.
“I’m in no mood for your tricks, Dolos. I was out all night helping someone write stories about a man whom he witnessed performing miracles and so I’ve had no sleep since yesterday.” She said, whilst stifling a yawn.
“I know, Dion told me the troubles you’re having and that I should find you. How can I help?”
“I’m not sure. My problem is I’m struggling to keep up with the mortals’ requests for inspiration. It doesn’t matter if the idea is good or bad, I’m bound by my very nature to help them. I’m becoming exhausted with no time to myself and feel my well of Inspiration is going dry.” Muse explained.
“I see. What if there was a way to slow down or stop the requests? I know a spell that can conjure a demon. What if we get the demon to pay them a visit as soon as they call on you. We can tell the demon to get the person to wait or even forget about this great idea they must write.”
“Yes, that could work. Let’s try it.”
Dolos cast the spell and the next person who requested Muse’s help was visited by a demon. It was unfortunate that neither Muse nor Dolos considered how a mortal would react to seeing a demon appear in front of them when all they wanted to do was write a love letter to their paramour. The poor man died of a heart attack when he glimpsed the demon’s red visage and beady eyes.
“We didn’t think that through” said Dolos when he saw Muse again.
“Let’s keep the demon invisible this time and it can merely whisper words of discouragement into their ears instead” suggested Muse.
Muse’s next call for help came in from a mother wanting to write a poem for her dead son. The demon wasted no time in telling the mother “Your son’s better off dead” and “You’re wasting your time, you were a terrible mother”. The mother believed she had gone insane from grief and gave up writing to rest her mind.
“That wasn’t an ideal outcome. The demon was too harsh in its discouragement. That mother deserved to write a poem for her son” noted Muse to Dolos.
“Let’s think about this”, began Dolos. “We need to take a subtler approach. Let’s have the demon get into the person’s mind and give them distracting thoughts. Unpleasant sensations. Make it feel uncomfortable just to sit down to write and seeing a blank, white page in front of them will instill a sense of possible failure and self-loathing. It’ll be impossible for anyone, except those with the strongest wills, to ever get to the stage of needing your help.”
Muse agreed and the next person who asked for Muse’s help, in the middle of the night, was a man who had travelled the world and planned to write an adventure story about his experiences. The demon planted the idea in the man’s head that he was tired, and it was better to go to sleep. The man told himself that he’d try again tomorrow when he was well rested. The next night when the man sat down to write, he had the strong urge to tidy his desk so that it was more conducive to writing. This took him too long to do and then he was tired again. This continued, night after night, for a week until the man gave up on his story. He’d convinced himself that if was really supposed to write then sitting down to the task wouldn’t be so hard. He’d leave it to the “real” writers, he told himself.
Muse and Dolos, who’d been watching as the man attempted to write, felt triumphant. They had solved Muse’s problem. She was able to live her life on her terms, give herself the space to notice the beauty around her and pass it on to the mortals who were strong willed enough to defeat their own distracting thoughts.
So that’s why, when you sit down to write a story, poem or screenplay, you’re filled with doubts, questions and a general sense of unease. Muse’s demon is right next to you, daring you to fold your laundry, or watch that TV show, or give up entirely. Its purpose is procrastination and if you let it win, Muse doesn’t have to give you inspiration. You can keep your stories to yourself to be free of the demon. Or you can fight it and maybe win Muse’s favor and get your story out into the world.
Leave a Reply