Musing on muses
When I was nineteen years old, I realized I was never going to be somebody’s muse. They’re described in every book, script, and casting call. Slender, delicate, tall (but not too tall), white skinned, symmetrical features, huge eyes, soft voice. Either so brash and reckless that she must be saved from herself, or so quiet and delicate she must be saved from other people. This girl is fascinating. Movies, books, and epic poems are created around her. She doesn’t talk too much, not enough to counter the personality people project onto her. She is probably sad. Or else she just has “sad eyes.” I am none of those things. I am not slender, or delicate, or tall at all. My eyes are too small, my thighs are too big, my voice is too grating. Yet I, like many women I know, have always yearned to be someone’s muse. To have someone take a chance on me. To be discovered by a handsome artist who will create a movie, or a song, or a book, or an art piece all from finally seeing me. To expound...