Demystifying inspiration, and exploring how to more reliably summon your creative capacities to become more original, more prolific, and do the work you are meant to do
If you were to ask Paul McCartney where his songs come from, you might imagine he could break songwriting down into an unambiguous, almost scientific process. At this point in his career, Sir Paul is doubtless one of the lucky few to demystify the creative process, right?
It couldn’t be farther from the truth. McCartney recently published The Lyrics, the first and most complete chronicle of his music and songwriting approach. Throughout the book, a clear theme emerges — not even Paul McCartney knows where inspiration comes from:
“If I’m lucky with these songs, they just come out of the blue. It’s not so much that I compose them; they arrive. You’ll hear a lot of composers saying that… there’s always some sort of activity going on, and it’s very handy when you’re coming to write because you can just plug in to that activity and use it as an opener for a song… You’re writing and it’s coming in to you and you’re just grabbing the bits you like. And what are you grabbing? It’s something magical, and sometimes there’s more meaning in it than even you thought there was, but the cosmos wants you to put these words down because they will explain something to someone. Starting with yourself.”
And just like that, our bubble is burst. Even for the most prolific artists with thousands of creative hours under their belt, when you get down to it, creativity is as confusing to them as it is for any Artistic Average Joe. The source of their ideas and inspiration is enigmatic, almost magical, and they struggle to pinpoint it — worse yet, it’s been this way for centuries.
The Ancient Muses
Acclaimed Dutch painter Piet Mondrian once echoed McCartney’s sentiment, observing that “The position of the artist is humble. He is essentially a channel.”
If we’re lucky, when we sit down to create, something whispers to us, helps us along, keeps our creative flame burning. We channel a flow of divine information from a higher plane, and it creeps into our consciousness and transforms working into creating, nothing into something. But where exactly do these messages come from?
McCartney calls it the “cosmos.” Others call it “the universe,” our “personal genius,” or simply “inspiration.” But for millennia, this powerful, divine whisperer was known as The Muse.
Homer famously begins The Iliad by invoking The Muse:
“Sing, Oh Muse, of the wrath of Achilles.”
When the ways and means of the universe got confusing for the Ancient Greeks, like most premodern societies, they chalked it up to divinity. They wove artistic inspiration into the tapestry of their religion, and concocted nine muses — daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne (memory), each embodying a different artistic medium, from epic poetry to dance to music. People believed the muses were not only the source of creative inspiration, but they imbued devotees with an artistic furor or passion. In Plato’s Phaedrus, he records a dialogue by Socrates describing the power of the muses, part inspiration and part “heaven-sent madness:”
“The third type of possession and madness is possession by the Muses. When this seizes upon a gentle and virgin soul it rouses it to inspired expression in lyric and other sorts of poetry, and glorifies countless deeds of the heroes of old for the instruction of posterity. But if a man comes to the door of poetry untouched by the madness of the Muses, believing that technique alone will make him a good poet, he and his sane compositions never reach perfection, but are utterly eclipsed by the performances of the inspired madman.”
Artistic greatness, according to the Greeks, was not merely the result of technical prowess. It required something less tangible, some combination of inspiration and creative fervor drawn from a divine wellspring.
The muses were said to inhabit Mount Helicon, a high mountain in Boeotia abundant with sacred springs (created from the hoofbeats of Pegasus) and grottoes. The muses’ residence is no accident, and tells us everything we need to know about the fickle flow of inspiration. Ancient cultures revered mountains as sacred spaces, closer to the realm of the gods, and thus a place where once could transcend the mundane and reach toward the sublime.
Nor was their proximity to water simply a happy accident (the Greeks were smart, remember). Water illustrates the subtle currents of creativity and inspiration, and just as water nourishes the earth, the muses were believed to nourish and inspire the minds of artists and intellectuals. Likewise, just as currents ebb and flow, inspiration is never constant. An artist can expect to alternate between periods of apparent stagnation, when output slows as inspiration accumulates and ideas gestate, and windows of inspired productivity.
Finally, the muses depiction as divine entities recognizes that inspiration transcends the ordinary, coming from a place beyond the reach of human effort alone, and positions the fruitful creative process as an unpredictable gift or blessing. Thus there is an element of creativity that is elusive and mysterious, and relies on serendipity and the unexpected to spark inspiration.
The Tenth Muse
Over time, the personification of creative inspiration transformed from a pantheon of nine sisters to a single, overarching force. According to literary scholar Philip Edward Philips, this shift illustrated a change in the fundamental belief systems of the West. Philips observed that “Christian poets from Late Antiquity to the Renaissance repeatedly faced the difficulty of naming their Muse, especially when she was one of the classical nine Muses and not the Holy Spirit of God.” For example, in his 17th century epic Paradise Lost, John Milton begins with the familiar invocation: “Sing Heav'nly Muse.” While Milton’s plea is reminiscent of Homer, it shows the transformation of The Muse from the Ancient Greeks’ nonumvirate to a singular, universal force.
Shakespeare describes that same, ascendant Muse in his 38th sonnet, when he attributes all that is praiseworthy in his work not to himself, but to a new “tenth” Muse:
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth Than those old nine which rhymers invocate
In this sonnet, Shakespeare draws a clear distinction between the muses of old and their supplanter (by way of a sophisticated diss track aimed at the epic poets of antiquity). This centralization and heightening of the classical muses’ power - whether people cite The Muse as a metaphor, or really believe she exists - persists to the present day. But however inspiration if personified, whether it’s nine sisters or a singular entity, our beliefs about its function remain largely unchanged.
So, with apologies for the very academic detour, that’s what we’re talking about. The same creative power invoked by Homer and described by Socrates. The same Muse that speaks to the likes of Shakespeare and Milton and McCartney. An esoteric, abstract force that embodies creative inspiration and drive, and imparts ideas and direction capriciously, but often when we need them most.
To Call the Muse
So how exactly do we solicit great ideas from this illusive Muse? The mathematician Pythagoras was said to sacrifice oxen to the muses. Others offered libations of milk or honey. This all sounds very sticky and unpleasant.
That question is, in part, what this entire blog aspires to answer. In our artistic endeavors, how exactly do we “call” The Muse, or more reliably summon our creative capacities to become more original, more prolific, more inspired, and do the work we are meant to do?
The Nobel Prize-winning French author André Gide certainly knew how to call The Muse — Gide is one of those writers who was so prolific that we need a separate Wikipedia page to detail his creative corpus. The author once observed that “Art is a collaboration between God and the artist, and the less the artist does the better.”
So Gide’s answer is… to do nothing?
This brings to mind a scene from the film Forgetting Sarah Marshall, where the protagonist, Peter (Jason Segal), takes a surfing lesson from Kunu (Paul Rudd), a spaced out but deceptively wise beach bum:
In his first lesson, Kunu implores the newbie surfer to ignore his instincts out on the water. “Kunu will be your instincts,” he reassures. He instructs Peter not to try to surf, promising that “The less you do, the more you do.” Hilarity ensues. With each of Peter’s attempts to “pop up” on his beached surfboard, Kunu instructs Peter to do less. Eventually, Peter resignedly lingers belly-first on his board in the sand. But even that isn't right.
But later in the movie, after a series of frustrating failed attempts, Peter surrenders to the process and, miraculously, manages to ride a wave.
In the creative domain, when Gide advises that the less we do, the better, he is in part telling us to surrender to the process, to trust that The Muse will come when we need her most. If we try to do too much and force the process along, like Peter failing to surf, we’ll be met with only frustration.
Ok, trust the process. Got it. But wait! There’s more.
Picasso once remarked that “Inspiration does exist but it must find you working.” Perhaps counterintuitively, genius tends to strike in the ostensible mundanity of our day-to-day creative work. In The War of Art, Stephen Pressfield explains:
“When we sit down each day and do our work, power concentrates around us. The Muse takes note of our dedication. She approves. We have earned favor in her sight. When we sit down and work, we become like a magnetized rod that attracts iron filings. Ideas come. Insights accrete.”
This provides a more nuanced picture. We have to trust the process, but the process is by no means passive. It only works when we take action — when we get to work whether we feel inspired or not. This, according to Pressfield, is the difference between amateurs and professionals.
An amateur avoids Resistance. They wait for a “flash of inspiration” before setting out to create because that's the intuitive thing to do. Their work is haphazard, and they never give The Muse a fair shot at visiting. These creatives fizzle and fade and their greatest work never comes to fruition, remaining instead in whatever far-off cosmic void good ideas wander around in before they're plucked out and brought to life.
A pro, on the other hand, sits down to do their creative work consistently, even doggedly, worrying very little about whether they're "feeling it" that day. They trudge through countless crappy first drafts and failed attempts, all the while trusting that The Muse will eventually visit, but only if, as Picasso said, she finds them working.
Creative Dry Powder
In the creative realm, sometimes our instincts are our best friend. But in certain instances, they can be our worst enemy and, just as Kunu advised in Forgetting Sarah Marshall, we are wise to disregard them.
The amateur’s thought process makes a lot of sense. Why force it? Isn't art supposed to be fun? Why not wait until we’re feeling inspired to create? Anything helps — especially because we know the second we man our easel, keyboard, instrument, or tap shoes, Resistance will besiege us. We’ll be overcome with uncertainty, self-doubt, self-criticism, and every other flavor of the Inner Critic we’ve explored. Our rational mind will remind us how unlikely it is that our creative work will ever see the light of day, never mind make its way into the hands or ears or heart of a potential audience. In short, as it relates to getting the creative ball rolling, our instincts will only chase away The Muse.
Just like no investor can time the market, no artist can reliably predict when The Muse will arrive. We can only trust the process. And what is the process, exactly?
It sounds like the most uncreative thing in the world, but if there was ever a “secret” to making art, it is this: keep showing up. Give yourself as many opportunities as possible for lightning to strike. Even if nothing happens, your efforts are not in vain. Each time you show up and do the work, you accumulate a little more creative dry powder. Then, when The Muse finally comes down in a great, blessed flash, you have all that powder ready and waiting to ignite. That, to a great extent, is "the process."
For example, with all the routine and consistency of a 9-to-5 accountant, every day the prolific musician and writer Nick Cave ventures to his office (in a suit) to work on his creative projects. When questioned, Cave explained:
“Most people wait for the muse to turn up. That's terribly unreliable. I have to sit down and pursue the muse by attempting to work.”
In fact, though many forego the suit and tie, the list of creatives who echo this sentiment is impressively long:
Stephen King:
“Don’t wait for the muse… Your job is to make sure the muse knows where you’re going to be every day from nine ’til noon. Or seven ’til three.”
Damien Rice (musician and songwriter):
“The best restriction I learned was getting into the habit of doing something, even if I didn't feel like it, instead of running away from it. Sometimes good work needs to be earned, and when you can overcome yourself, the muse notices and celebrates.”
Chris Bohjalian (NYT bestselling author):
“Writing—especially novels—is as much discipline as it is desire. Set time aside each day, or select days each week, and write. Don't wait until you're inspired, because if you do, you'll never finish anything.“
Van Gogh:
“I long so much to make beautiful things. But beautiful things require effort — and disappointment and perseverance. “
Jodi Picoult:
“Writing is total grunt work. A lot of people think it's all about sitting and waiting for the muse. I don't buy that. It’s a job. There are days when I really want to write, days when I don't. Every day I sit down and write.”
Noah Hawley (award-winning screenwriter, director, and producer):
“You can't sit around waiting for the muse, especially when you run a show, and you're in production, and an outline is due, a script is due, and a reshoot is due. No. You look at the calendar, and you go, 'OK. I can write from 4 to 6.' So you write.”
Barbara Kingsolver (Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist and poet):
“You always need that spark of imagination. Sometimes I'm midway through a book before it happens. However, I don't wait for the muse to descend, I sit down every day and I work.”
I think you get the point.
Embrace the Work
Raise your hand if, in the midst of a creative project, you’ve thought “I’m just not feeling it today,” and left to do something else. We’ve all been there. If you take nothing else away from this piece, remember that those are often the exact moments when we should keep going. Anyone can show up when it feels easy, when we’re flush with creative inspiration and drive. But showing up when we’re feeling off, when the good stuff won't come easily, when Resistance is particularly formidable and we’re riddled with self-doubt and self-criticism — that's what separates the professionals from the amateurs. That is exactly when the Muse takes note of our dedication and pays us a visit.
On June 23, 1971, Philadelphia Phillies pitcher Rick Wise was due to take the mound against the Cincinnati Reds, but he was sick with the flu. “I did not want to go to the park,” he remembered. “Warming up, I felt like the ball was stopping about halfway to the plate.” Not only that, but the stadium was sweltering — over 100 degrees Fahrenheit on the astroturf. But Wise overcame the heat and fever and fatigue, and as the game progressed, got sharper and stronger with each passing inning. By the end of the game, he famously pitched a no-hitter and hit two home runs. Pitching is as much an art as anything requiring a brush or pen. And the Muse rewarded Wise’s dedication with an inspired performance.
So how do you call The Muse? First, stop worrying about whether she'll show up. Sit down and get to work, even when it’s the last thing in the world you want to do. When you’re due to perform and you’re riddled with stage fright. When you’re slouched at the keyboard and the words won’t come. When every drawing looks like shit and you want to shove your sketchbook in the shredder.
Step onstage anyway. Keep the keyboard clicking. Drag your pencil across the page.
Because, as much as our instincts might suggest otherwise, that tends to be precisely when the Muse grabs her keys and heads over for a visit. When the breakthrough happens. When the flash of lightning scorches down and ignites all the days - or months, or years - of dry powder you’ve stored and sends your work booming through the stratosphere.
When in doubt, remember Kunu.
P.S. — Want to learn more about the creative journey? Interested in tools and practices to improve your artistic work, create more consistently, and accelerate the progress of your creative endeavors? Enter your email below to subscribe to the Call the Muse Newsletter: