The Romance of Art
Fiction: A short story of Art's inspired journey back to Life
We’re doing something a little different today — a short story about how listening to the call to create — listening to the Muse’s call of wonder — can turn a dreary life around, an experience I’m sure many of us in the arts are familiar with! I presented this as a fictional story because the greatest truths are found in fiction and poetry. If you’re not into fiction, we’ll return to our regularly scheduled programming later this week. If you’d like to see more fiction let us know in the comments!
This story originally appeared on my personal blog, Reflections of the Sovereign Artist, here.
Editor’s Note: In two days, this post will be locked and is available only to paid members because we don’t want this duplicate content on the open web in a way that might draw traffic away from the original post. You can always read the entire post here.
Please enjoy.
The Romance of Art
Of course, I’m addicted to her now, but it started innocently enough. I still remember the first time I saw her. All my days had become the same: black and white, devoid of living. I’d wake up, get ready for work, sit at my desk and stare at spreadsheets all morning, eat lunch at my desk to save time and money, stare at spreadsheets some more, go home, eat dinner alone, watch Netflix, go to bed. Repeat. I lived in a cloudy haze.
But on that day, the day I first saw her, I remember that the haze suddenly cleared and I wondered, for the first time in a long time, what am I doing with my life?
Living a life of quiet desperation. That’s what. My motto: What’s the point? Deep down, I knew something important was missing in my life.
On that fateful day, I decided to go for a walk during my lunch hour. I still remember my boss’ raised eyebrows as I walked by his office, heading for the door. “Going out for lunch today eh, Art?” he said.
I wandered around downtown and, eventually, sat down on a bench in the small park near our office. I just enjoyed the breeze, there were two dogs playing while their owners chatted. I watched the squirrels run up and down the trees. It was nice.
And then she walked by and smiled at me and said, out of the blue, “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it? It’s like something out of a story.” And with that, she smiled again and continued on her way. I watched her until she walked around the corner of the nearby building. I stared at that spot for a long time, but she didn’t come back.
As I worked that afternoon, I couldn’t stop thinking about her and what she had said. I felt something inside myself, something that I hadn’t allowed myself to feel for decades. So, that night, instead of watching Netflix, I wrote about my day in my journal. And, for the first time in ages, I actually had something worthwhile to write down. I wrote about my brief visit to the park, about watching the dogs play, about the breeze, and, especially, my meeting with a mysterious woman.
I didn’t see her again for many weeks, but something had changed inside me. A spark had been reignited. I went to the park every day during my lunch break, hoping she’d be there. I continued to write in my journal, which I brought with me everywhere now. I wrote about the weather. I wrote about the people I saw. I laughed with joy when dogs and children played in the grass. I noticed how old men sat over in the corner and played chess. I noticed a whole world existed outside of my spreadsheets - a world I had forgotten about. A world I had avoided.
And then one day, she appeared. She walked by and smiled at me again. This time she said, “You look like you’re feeling much better than the last time I saw you.” And she kept walking.
She was right. I did feel better! I felt happier. I felt, maybe, even some joy. So, I wrote about that in my journal, which made me feel even better still. Nothing had changed in my life, yet everything had changed in my life. How? Just from two smiles and two comments from a beautiful woman? Yes!
A week later, as I sat at my desk, struggling to make sense of what one of my clients had done this time, I felt someone watching me. I looked up and she was standing just outside my office, she opened the door.
“How do you know where I work?” I asked, blurting the first thing that popped into my mind.
“Write about me” she whispered. Then she turned around, shut the door, smiled again and walked out, passing right by my boss’ office. I ran out into the hallway to catch her, but she was nowhere to be found. I looked up and down the hallway. How could she have disappeared like that?
My boss stuck his head out of his doorway. “What’s going on, Art?”
“Did you see a woman walk by?” I asked.
“A woman? No, I didn't see anything. Are you feeling OK?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
That night, I wrote about her in my journal. I wrote that she was beautiful. I wrote that I wished I knew her better. I wondered if she would ever spend more time with me. I wrote about how she had changed my life and everything in it, despite only talking with me a few times. She always seemed to appear when I least expected her.
After that, I started seeing her more often. She would come see me at the park more often. She popped into my office unexpectedly. I worried that my coworkers would notice, but they never said anything. I would ask her to stay longer. I asked her to sit and talk with me. I asked her what her name was. I asked her to have coffee. She never said yes or no. She always just smiled.
“She can kill with a smile, she can wound with her eyes,” I wrote in my journal. And when she did finally say something! How sublime! Everything she said inspired me. Every utterance filled my whole being with possibility. “She promises more than the garden of Eden”, I wrote in my journal.
One day, out of the blue she whispered, “leave your door unlocked tonight.”
I must be crazy, I thought, but I was now addicted to this woman. I left my door unlocked.
Yet she didn’t come. I was disappointed. “She can ruin your faith with her casual lies” I wrote in my journal.
But it didn’t matter. Addicted.
I started leaving my door unlocked every night. If I was at home, it was unlocked.
One evening, after work, I was writing in my journal. I walked to the front door to make sure it was unlocked (something I did obsessively now) and decided to go for a walk. The sun was setting and I walked up to the top of the hill in my neighborhood and sat down on the grass and just watched the sun set. I watched the clouds form animals and vistas and epic horseback-mounted battles that ever changed with the wind and the light. I felt happy.
And suddenly, she was there, next to me.
“Why didn’t you come? I left the door unlocked.” I asked.
“You weren’t ready for me.” she said, “but you are right now, in this moment, while we watch the sun set. You should share your thoughts about this moment.”
“With who?” I asked?
“With me. And with yourself. Will you write about it?”
“Yes. I will do anything you ask.”
She smiled. And we watched the sun set in silence.
“She only reveals what she wants you to see,” I wrote in my journal.
Increasingly, I gave up my questions, my concerns and simply enjoyed each moment, just as she always did. “She can do as she pleases, she's nobody's fool” I wrote. Once I surrendered to those things mentally, she started appearing to me more often, though she only stayed for brief moments of time. “She can lead you to love, she can take you or leave you,” I wrote.
She gave me ideas. She laughed with me. She cried with me.
And then one night, she finally visited me at home as I wrote in my journal. She sat down next to me and looked deeply into my eyes. Then she leaned in and just as I thought we were finally going to kiss, she bit my lip, hard. So hard that she drew blood. Then she laughed and danced around the room.
“What was that for?” I asked, though I wasn’t upset.
“For us to go anywhere worthwhile,” she replied while twirling around the room, “you’ve got to be willing to face pain. You’ve got to be willing to bleed. Think about it for a while and you’ll understand. Can you do that? Can you bleed?”
And she left.
“She'll carelessly cut you and laugh while you're bleeding, but she'll bring out the best and the worst you can be,” I wrote.
From then on, I was hopelessly addicted to her. She visited often - always unannounced. But sometimes when I thought I would see her, she disappeared. I wouldn’t see her for a week or two, and then she’d appear, intoxicate me all over again, and flit off into the ether again.
On one such night, I sat reviewing my journal and realized I had written some interesting things. And then the following thought popped into my head.
I’m going to write a book.
It was a crazy thought. I couldn’t tell anyone yet. They would think I’m crazy. Me, a writer? But it felt right.
Feeling suddenly that life, finally, once again had a purpose, I decided to take a shower. And, as I stood there in the steam, thinking, of course, of her. The shower door opened and she stepped in!
We stood under the water staring into each other's eyes.
“I’m going to write a book.” I whispered.
“She leaned in and put her lips on my ear and giggled. “I know,” she whispered. “Write about me. About our days in the park. About our sunsets.”
“Wow.” I exclaimed.
“That’s what I’m for,” she breathed.
I leaned in to kiss her, but she turned away.
“I have to go now,” She said.
“Why?”
“That’s how this works. The waiting, the anticipation, the thinking about things. It makes everything better. Remember what I said. It’s better if you’re willing to bleed.”
And she left.
I started writing. I wrote about her. I wrote about our talks and our walks. I wrote about our sunsets. I wrote about our showers together, which always went something like the first time. She would appear unexpectedly, whisper something inspiring into my ear, and leave. “The most she will do is throw shadows at you,” I wrote.
I’ve accepted that this is who she is. Ours is not meant to be a normal romance. She is in charge. She appears when she wants and, though I try to encourage her by putting on music she loves, by keeping the house in a way I know she likes, by always keeping my journal close so that she will find me writing, nothing I’ve tried brings her to me on my timeline. She only visits briefly on her timeline. She takes care of herself, she can wait if she wants.
Until…
One day, as I was writing my book, she appeared. And she sat down next to me. She took my hand in her hand. Her grip gentle, but strong, grip guided, and started moving my own hand. I felt as if we merged. We did merge. I was no longer me and she was no longer her, we just were together.
She was right! It was so much better when it finally happened because of the anticipation. I no longer existed. There was no thinking. There was nothing but the two of us and the page. Myself, the page, and her. We channeled formless energy together and created. We bled. And as one, we wrote the book that would later have my name on the jacket, yet I would never be able to claim that I had actually written.
We wrote it together, she and I.
After we finished the chapter, I was ready to keep going, but she stood up and danced toward the door.
“Gotta go!” she laughed.
“Please stay,” I begged.
“Doesn’t work that way!” she giggled. “You know that.”
She is frequently kind and she's suddenly cruel, I thought.
“OK, please, the just tell me your name,” I begged her.
She danced over to me, slowly walked behind me, and again put her lips to my ear.
“Just this once, Art,” she whispered…..
“I am Calliope……your Muse”
I gasped and turned around to face her, but she was gone.
Other posts you may enjoy:
The Mystery
I’m not sure who you are channeling but it is true and I’m being enriched by your work. You are a wise soul and I appreciate you. — Ed Penniman
What is Art?
…this is one of the ones I chose to print out and put in a binder. I will be printing out some of your others to read, cherish, highlight and study. Your Substack is one that I return to time and time again, always in awe. I am elated for your upcoming book. — Harley Claes
Resonance
Your words have inspired me today. For a while I’ve known that being an artist means being true to myself and my art. It’s one thing to get that idea and quite another thing to put it into practice. Thanks for the encouragement! — Susan Thompson
The Courage to Find Your Self
This morning I found the topic interesting as I am at a major crossroad in my life. Starting over at 72 after my 21 year marriage ended due to a cheating spouse. It destroyed everything I thought I knew about myself and my life. It rocked me to my core and I have not painted since discovering the betrayal nearly a year ago. The divorce is final. The house has finally sold and I am now free to embark on a new life alone. Your words have encouraged me in that I know all this was part of the Lord’s plan and He is wanting so much more for me…. — Linda F Windland
I Never Even Called Me by my Name
Thank you for this! This resonates so much. I heard God call me a surfer once. I didn't understand but over time, I see it's who I am - I love catching and riding spiritual waves. — Eugene Terekhin
No AI Zone: Everything written in this post (and all my posts) is written 100% by me, Clint “Clintavo” Watson, a flesh and blood human seeking to grow my soul and come home my truest self; for that is the essence of creativity. I do not use AI to assist me with writing — that would deny me the very growth of my world through writing that I seek.
I only rarely use AI images with my (non-AI) writing. On the rare occasions I do use an AI image (usually fiction), I also feature at least one artwork by a human artist with image credits and links to their work or, if I can’t find a suitable image, I donate a free month of website service to one of our artist customers at my SaaS company, FASO Artist Websites.
Poetic expression, spiritual ideas, and musings upon beauty, truth and goodness should be free to spread far and wide. Hence, I have not paywalled the work on Reflections of the Sovereign Artist. However, if you’re able to become a paid subscriber, I’d be eternally grateful. It would help, encourage and enable me to continue exploring these topics and allow me to keep it accessible for a world that is in desperate need of beauty, truth, goodness and love. — Creatively, Clintavo.
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