Muses and Mercenaries

Jenny Rappaport put up a post on her blog, Lit Soup, that got me thinking. It was about the balance between creativity and pragmatism. As a creative-type who hasn't had a day job in something like ten or fifteen years, it's a balance I should know something about.

For me, it's a matter of place and time. The two ends of the spectrum are too dangerous, otherwise.

At the creativity end of the spectrum, I went to school surrounded by black turtlenecks and European cigarettes, endlessly encouraged to 'draw my feelings about the chair' or 'explore the way the poo scumbles across the canvas'. We were taught to look up to artists who never touched their own work, and others whose art involved stripping naked and pelting themselves with raw meat. I'm not kidding.

Nothing against those artists, but under conditions like that, it's understandably easy to crawl up your own ass until you've forgotten that fresh air exists. A trust fund helps. So does a grant.

For me, the danger is different. I'm at endless risk of turning into a mercenary hack. I approach my work with a real sense of craftsmanship and pride in a job well done. (Except of course, that the job's never done as well as it might have been, but The Unattainable Search for Perfection is a different post...) That counts for my novels every bit as much as my tattoos.

The world being what it is, I'm lucky enough to trade the exercise of my odd little talents for occasional sums of money. Under conditions like that, it's understandably easy to do the job, take the money, and look for the next job. Before you know it, you've forgotten what it's like to feel that sense of joy in your work. You no longer feel quite so lucky about your career.

I lost a fair amount of my 20's chasing dollars and exercising craft. I'm still making up for lost time.

These days, I follow the muses where they lead, humbly when I can, full of Luciferean pride when I can't. Some of my efforts cost me more than they make. It's all part of the game.

Hence, the balance between my inner muse and my inner mercenary. In those creative times, I give myself wholly and fully to the work. Everything I have and all that I am goes into doing the best that I can in that moment.

Then the mercenary takes over. He's the hard-nosed bastard who can fix you with a flat-eyed stare and name a price that makes you swallow hard. Take it or leave it.

And there is a heirarchy. Writing, painting, making comics, the muse does the work without thought, and the mercenary sells it. Tattoos, work-for-hire and commissions, the mercenary knows he'd damn well better bring back something the muse likes...

Just a thought!