On Your Mark!

The essential truth is that sometimes you’re worried they’ll find out its a fluke–that you don’t really have it. You’ve lost the muse–or the worst dread–that you never had it at all.
— Robin Williams

EIGHT YEARS AGO I SUFFERED THE MOST CATASTROPHIC, SOUL-CRUSHING FAILURE OF MY PROFESSIONAL CAREER. NAY — MY LIFE!

I was still ego-drunk from the moderate success I was enjoying from my boutique digital advertising agency in southern California. Every venture I touched seemed to blossom without much effort.

“Call me King Midas,” I often thought to myself, during those heady days.

Awash with disposable funds, I poured all of my money into another ‘boutique’ venture. In true cliche fashion, this new venture was a chic, high-tech themed hotel in a moderately sketchy part of town. In retrospect, I’m surprised it even lasted as long as it did. Anyway, the details are less important than the outcome — I lost everything. Everything! And managed to get myself sued in the process.

Yeah, I lost money and most of my fancy over-priced toys, but those were the least of my troubles. After the dust settled and the legal shootout was over, I found myself completely devoid of energy and creatively depleted. Now, I’m usually quite easily inspired (most creative entrepreneurs are) but now I was physically, emotionally and mentally spent.

I had no money, soon to have no house and no creative fire left in my belly.

I was just a shell–a terrified shell.

Calling my experience a mere ‘creative block’ would’ve been the understatement of the century. It felt more like ‘creative rigor mortis!’ I didn’t even have enough energy to watch television or eat anything more complicated than cereal. On most days, I routinely slept way past noon and on other days, just stared at my dimpled ceiling. My therapist would later inform me I was going through a mild form of PTSD, but I didn’t know that at the time. It just felt like even breathing was exhausting enough.

I was given just thirty days to evacuate my home and I spent the first seven of those days in bed. At some point on the eighth or ninth day, I finally dragged myself out of bed — perhaps to evacuate my bowels of what was, no doubt, a multi-day build up. I meandered aimlessly through the house and found myself staring out of my back screen door. A year earlier, I would’ve been frolicking under this gorgeously sunny, So-Cal afternoon. Astonishing how fortunes change on a dime.

Standing there, deep in my nostalgia for a by-gone lifestyle, I heard a rapid fluttering and light buzzing against the upper left corner of the doorway. A hummingbird was hovering just outside the screen door, actively digging at something only hummingbirds could find important. I couldn’t see what it was actively feasting on, but I was utterly mesmerized by the shimmering hues of purple and red reflecting off its immaculately painted feathers. It looked like a hovering Christmas ornament under the dancing sun rays — its wings just a blur of activity. Then the oddest thing happened!

The hummingbird froze in mid-air, cocked its head at me, and then flippantly said,

“Looks like your muse is dead, mate. Better find a new one before its too late!”

Then it zoomed off, leaving a purple-red jet stream of hummingbird magic dust in its wake!

Ok, I know what you’re thinking.

No, I was not high!

I was absolutely sober. At that point it was at least ten months since my last joint. I swear that hummingbird spoke. Audibly. Needless to say, the whole affair yanked me from my depressive stupor. Its not everyday you get visited by a talking hummingbird. Where are the witnesses when you need them most?

I stumbled to the bathroom again and washed my face for a good long while. After some intense mirror-gazing, I made up my mind. Half-naked in the middle of my dirty bathroom, I resolved to find a new muse. I wasn’t quite sure what my old muse was, or even that I had one to begin with. Either way, I needed one IMMEDIATELY. I needed to rekindle my creativity — my life force.

I packed up my entire house over the next few days and sold most of my remaining crap. All of my remaining possessions fit into one suitcase which I loaded unto my sole means of transportation — an old 1996 Vespa PX.

Then I set out on a journey to find my new muse.

The stories to come will recount the circuitous (and sometimes tumultuous) path I took and how I finally found what I was looking for — the rebirth of a creative life.

Siggy