I have never been an ambitious person. Now my Muse has introduced me to ambition for the first time, and I’m determined to become a published writer.
It feels strange: like a divine discontent, or like being Macbeth. Although I have so much to be grateful for in life I want more, and I’ve been brought up to think that makes me a naughty, whiny child; yet somehow in this context it doesn’t mean that- it means some kind of restless poet soul.
Ambition belongs to the strident orange ray which also rules over physical vitality and sporting prowess. It’s something that has never been part of me: I’m always getting tired, and in my wardrobe there are no orange clothes.
In some ways a taste of the orange feels wrong, like an obsession. Yet it also feels very right as I wonder why I didn’t have the drive and focus years ago. Some artists always have it while others have to be prompted, often by a friend or lover, or as in my case by a Muse.
I’ve never been confident either. Every time I browse the works of other fantasy writers I always find at least one who I consider better than myself. I have to remind myself that it’s all taste: skill and experience as well, but largely audience taste.
I write in a very simple style- in fact my Muse sounds more experienced in worldly life than me when she writes, and she isn’t even incarnate. But that is my own voice and my own way, which she has encouraged me to find.
There was a time once in my life when I had to live very simply for a while to sort out some problems. It wasn’t dire poverty, just rather romantic things like wearing an old evening dress as a nightdress, and I loved it! It felt pure, and fun, and it was the complete opposite of the orange ray of ambition. I’ll enjoy the ‘tangerine dream’ of myself and my Muse being the next big thing- but at least with my temperament I won’t sink into despair if it doesn’t happen.