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If you haven’t cribbed the knowledge from William Gibson’s “Neuromancer”, the loa are the spirits manifested by the adherents of Voudoun. When they take possession of a worshipper, they are said to ride him or her like a horse. David Byrne refers to this phenomenon in his song “Papa Legba”, which as you might have supposed, is the name of the chief loa and the opener of communication with the spirit world. When the voudounsis is mounted by a loa, she takes on the physical attributes associated with that spirit. Worshippers of Baron Ghede, for example often speak in a nasal tone and have a marked fondness for rum and cigars. while the love goddess Erzulie may demand the worshipper’s total devotion.
Not to drag the comparison out too much farther, possession by the loa seems to me to be very much like writing a novel. In fact, without thinking about the similarities at all, I’ve evolved a kind of mystical language around the process of writing. It seems to me, having written one book and being about a third of the way through my second, that working in such a long form isn’t principally an act of will. It seems to me, rather, that it is guided by a spirit I refer to as the Genius. Each novel has its own demands, its own moods and colors, and its own gifts, and they seem to come from the spirit of the work itself. Different Genii feel different, but they all seem to require of the writer that their gifts be accepted and cherished. This means that when the Genius tells you that your protagonist must go on a sea voyage and encounter a mysterious sea monster, you bloody well had better listen or find that , after many such refusals, that the source of inspiration has abandoned you altogether. I call this “pissing in the Well”: profaning the mysterious sources of your creativity.
Now, having said all that, it’s important to make it clear that the writer is not the slave of the Genkius. The Genius is a source, a wellspring, an advisor. You must use your own craft and cunning to work and shape the material given you by that source. sometimes, you find that the idea offered belongs to some other work altogether, something to be honored but set aside for a past or future project. The important thing is that the writing flows through you like a live current, rather than being forced out of you by some constricted notion of artistic will.
I feel that I have a balanced, wholesome relationship with my Genius. Some artists, though, seem to have a toxic tormented relationship with theirs. I suspect that some Genii are so demanding and their gifts so great that their hosts turn to drink or drugs to drown them out. Or maybe the truth they bring is too painful, maybe they seem too unstinting in their role as couriers from the world of ideas. As far as I can tell, the Genius is a reality and if you’re an artist you ignore it at the peril of your sanity.
I don’t mean to be so dramatic about it, butI’ve come to these conclusions because I’ve done a lot of a certain kind of suffering when I’m not working on my current book or short story. For instance, I’ve been stuck at a certain point in “Dragons and Angels” because my protagonist Pol Dairre has to make a sea voyage of some kind and I know very little about sailing vessels. With the rest of the book so far, I’ve known enough about London in the 17th century and the character of Henry VIII, on whom the wicked king in my novel is loosely modeled, to write certain scenes to my satisfaction. But except for “Moby Dick”, my reading in such things as the difference between a topsail and a spanker are woefully limited. And yet, there has not been an hour since I began my break from writing a couple of months ago that I haven’t worried at the problem like a dog with a bone. The Genius is a benign force, but it is powerful and it is persistent and it can make you more than a little bit crazy.
And yet, I accept the yoke cheerfully. How many of my countrymen, I wonder, are driven by nothing more interesting than a demanding spouse, a wretched job or a need to pay last month’s extorionate phone bill? I write with the aim of creating a world which others may inhabit; a world of angels and dragons, of fiercely noble toymakers and malign and gentle-spoken kings. I am blessed, and I am not even remotely tempted to drown the blessing with whiskey and despair. Writing is prayer, it is communion, it is joy. How many great artists have died not knowing that? Not me, Bubba.
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