As a writer I find myself struggling between my three states of being: scholar, romantic, and subversive. When I wake up in the morning, it’s a three way tie between what my voice is that day as I draft reports for work or tinker with my projects. Do I want to be seen as wisdom incarnate, deftly nudging thoughts and ideas into the realm of enlightenment? Do I want to be the beauty connoisseur, in love with the idea of infatuation as I encourage everyone to chase their own passions? Or am I just the scaly little bastard pissing in everyone’s coffee.
Generally, it’s the latter. Thankfully, not literally.
In my Wordsmith Pantheon, I have three figures manipulating how I engage the world. At the foot of the throne is the Professor and Aphrodite. In the big seat is a three horned little prick giggling over the Professor’s pleads for prudence and Aphrodite’s begging compassion.
My god of wordsmithing is an evil little shit. He’s the muse behind various vulgar renditions of Christmas carols. He’s the reason my wife pinches me at parties when someone asks me what they should do with their lives. He’s the evil shit that doesn’t have the attention span to deal with something that doesn’t make him laugh.
My god of wordsmithing is a seven year-old bastard.
The more I talk to other artists and other writers, the more I realize we’re all fighting the same fight. Where the goblin holds the throne in my world, I know others who can’t help but write science fiction that is half NASA lecture and others still who have to fall in love with everything they make. All the while I settle with drawing a picture or penning a story that makes me feel angry in a certain direction.
I sat drinking beer with my best friend, explaining why I haven’t been able to finish the edits on my novel.
“Everytime I try to work on themes and characterization, I think of a funnier scene I need to add in.”
“Drinking makes you less funny.”
“Maybe,” I shrugged, “but there has to be a balance when I’m sober. Some way of checking myself, forcing myself to balance the other two gods.”
“No,” he leans over the poker table, ” you’re not funny when you drink, so give me back my damned chips.”
You can’t choose your gods.