{"id":185,"date":"2011-11-01T08:00:57","date_gmt":"2011-11-01T12:00:57","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.siriuspress.com\/studio\/?p=185"},"modified":"2011-11-22T07:04:39","modified_gmt":"2011-11-22T12:04:39","slug":"calling-on-the-muse","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.siriuspress.com\/studio\/2011\/11\/calling-on-the-muse\/","title":{"rendered":"Calling on the Muse"},"content":{"rendered":"

Twitter: @JulianGallo66<\/a><\/p>\n

Even when you think nothing is happening, the creative process is always working.<\/em><\/strong> <\/em>
\n

\"Thelonious<\/a>

Thelonious Monk Quartet<\/p><\/div><\/p>\n

I\u2019m going to state the obvious: The creative process is not the same for everyone. Each of us come to the page, the canvas, the instrument, the marble, the clay, with something we feel we need to express. For some, it may be merely esthetic, for others, it will have a message, either social, political or deeply personal. In the end, though, what drives us to create anything is this insatiable desire, this need<\/em> to express ourselves. It is part of what makes us human beings, after all. Something<\/em> drove those Cro-Magnon people living in the caves of southern France to wander all the way to the back of their cave to merely blow some red ochre over their hand, an image left for us to see tens of thousands of years later. This urge to create has been with us since the dawn of humanity.<\/p>\n

I began as a musician, having played in rock bands well into my thirties. Writing was something I came to much later in life, although I had always written, but it always took a back seat to the music. It wasn\u2019t until I was thirty years old that I seriously began to pursue the art of writing. It began with poetry, then eventually moved towards fiction, essays, articles and all sorts of things. But there is one poem from my book \u201cExistential Labyrinths\u201d (Black Spring Press, 2003) that I feel captures the essence of the creative process—or at least my own creative process.<\/p>\n

When I was writing poetry exclusively, I had a routine. I would often write at night, sitting alone in my one room hovel in New York City and the goal would be to write at least five poems a night, no matter how awful some of them may be. The idea was to just \u201cget it out\u201d, whatever thoughts, feelings or ideas I may have had. Some nights went along swimmingly, others, not so much. I found myself literally staring at the computer screen, and absolutely nothing would happen. During one of these bouts of not feeling the muse, I just began to type, and this poem seemed to magically appear:<\/p>\n

A Sort of Mirage<\/h3>\n

Shadows in ink.<\/p>\n

On such evenings I\u2019m<\/p>\n

too tired to applaud the maestro<\/p>\n

but a fresh mat\u00e9 soothes nevertheless.<\/p>\n

War has not been declared<\/p>\n

and there is not one fraction<\/p>\n

of my life left behind.<\/p>\n

There are a lot of commas<\/p>\n

and etceteras lying about the hallway<\/p>\n

waiting to be used, waiting to be set free<\/p>\n

to dance across the page.<\/p>\n

They seem to comfort each other<\/p>\n

after these outbursts;<\/p>\n

a sort of mirage<\/p>\n

these words I cannot grasp.<\/p>\n

~~*~~<\/p>\n

A little obscure, sure, but after reading it over a couple of times, it dawned on me that I had written something about trying to come up with something to write about. Sometimes one never knows when inspiration will strike and when the muse (or the \u201cmaestro\u201d in this particular case) will offer her hand to you and tell you to just get on with it.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve since moved away from poetry into the realm of fiction, most likely because I needed a larger canvas so to speak in order to get across what I wanted to say. Just following wherever the muse leads me. She may be beautiful but she\u2019s not always cooperative and I suspect that these bouts of writer\u2019s block that occur at times is her way of saying that she will only lead me there, not do the work for me. There\u2019s got to be some effort, some actual work<\/em> involved. To create any form of art is often very hard work. It rarely comes easy. But if you are committed and you are serious you can achieve some amazing things and the proof of this is all the amazingly talented people that are out there doing some amazing things (whether independently or traditionally); and life is much richer because of it.<\/p>\n

~~*~~<\/p>\n

\n

Biography<\/h3>\n
\"Julian<\/a>

Julian Gallo<\/p><\/div>\n

Julian Gallo is a musician\/writer\/painter who has poems and short stories published in about 40 magazines and journals throughout the United States, Canada and Europe and also has 10 books under his belt: “Standing On Lorimer Street Awaiting Crucifixion” (Alpha Beat Press, 1996), “The Terror of Your Cunt is The Beauty of Your Face” (Black Spring Press, 1999), “Street Gospel Mystical Intellectual Survival Codes” (Budget Press, 2000), “Scrape That Violin More Darkly Then Hover Like Smoke In The Air” (Black Spring Press, 2001), “Existential Labyrinths” (Black Spring Press, 2003), “Window Shopping For A New Crown of Thorns” (Lulu Press, 2007), “November Rust” (Lulu Press, 2007), “My Arrival Is Marked By Illuminating Stains” (Lulu Press 2007), “A Symphony of Olives” (Propaganda Press, 2009) and “Divertimiento” (Propaganda Press, 2009). His second novel “Naderia” (Beat Corrida) was released in January 2011 and his third, “Be Still and Know That I Am” (Beat Corrida) was released in September 2011. He is also currently playing guitar and bass for NYC singer\/songwriter Linda La Porte.<\/p>\n

Connect with Julian<\/strong>
\nWeb Site<\/a> | Twitter: @JulianGallo66<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

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Title<\/h3>\n
\"November<\/a>

November Rust<\/p><\/div>\n

\"Naderia\"<\/a>

Naderia<\/p><\/div>\n

\"Be<\/a>

Be Still and Know That I Am<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

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