@Emma_of_the_Bay

how do you write a Pagan pop song? I know that devotional music is a thing, but that’s not really my genre. basically, I’m a guitarist and I want to write a mainstream(ish?) song about how much I love Apollo, but I don’t think any audience would be able to relate. or care.

I’ve been trying to write a song all night and my hands keep fumbling on the B7 chord of the guitar. When I write new music, I like to have “a song seed” to build on: a phrase, a tune, a cool riff on the guitar. But tonight, everything I scribble on my Notes app is just embarrassing. Who wants to hear about Apollo the “averter of evil?” The “shining one?”

It’s like a bad Christian song.

I can’t sleep and I can’t give my guitar a good practice without waking up my sister across the hallway, so I exit the Notes app and check my favorite Pagan Tumblr. There’s no way that Emma_of_the_Bay has responded to my music question at this ungodly hour, but a guy can hope. The light from my phone casts my messy bedroom in a funky greenish glow.

I feel a bit parasocial but I like looking at Emma’s old posts. She’s a legally ordained priestess of Apollo who lives in a cottage by the sea, which seems almost too good to be true. In one photo shoot, she’s at Seattle Pride with her tall, pink-haired wife, the two of them holding up bisexual flag and trans flags. In another, she’s dancing barefoot on the beach while her friends light the candles on a gauzy white altar to Aphrodite. Seems like a good life.

I roll over in my bunk bed, knocking a couple of pieces of laundry to the floor, and keep scrolling. I know I should get some sleep, but I want to stay like this forever. In my cozy goblin’s-lair of a room, I can pretend like the rest of the world is just as affirming as my carefully-curated Tumblr-feed.

The digital alarm clock by my bed reads 2 AM. Darn it. I reach for my headphones, turn on my Apollo playlist, and fall asleep listening to “Here Comes the Sun.”

I’m kind of trashed the next day. I have to drive to Dunkin for coffee during lunch just to get through calculus. During the drive back to school, I can’t stop fantasizing about parking near the woods, leaving my phone in the car, and just going feral for the day.

I go to Bernadette, the local Catholic girls’ school, which sucks because I’m not Catholic. Or a girl. I’m still figuring out where I fit in the gender identity sauce, but Not a Girl is a big part of it.

Bernadette isn’t the hellhole that my friends make it out to be — there are lesbians galore and a couple of nonbinary kids — but I’m sick of the dysphoria and ready to switch schools at the end of junior year. My parents have been decently supportive: they’re Christmas-and-Easter Catholics. Mostly, they send me to Bernadette because the public school sucks.

After school, I run upstairs to my bedroom, swipe on some deodorant, and change out of my uniform into a Green Day t-shirt and shorts. I have two hours to spend with the guy I’ve been seeing before my sister gets home and tattles on me.

It’s a ten minute drive to Brandon’s house. When I show up, he takes me straight down to his dad’s basement, an honest-to-god nerd cave with Lego figurines on the shelves, Funko-Pops, and a cracked pleather sofa. We were friends and then boyfriends and now we’re friends who kiss sometimes. My friends think that’s toxic. I think it’s just queer culture.

After kissing a lot for half an hour, we put on an episode of South Park and curl up on the couch. Brandon fingers the necklace around my neck: a lyre with the sun behind it.

“What’s that supposed to be?” he asks, twisting it back and forth along the leather cord. I almost push his hand away. Too personal, even for him.

“It’s for Apollo,” I say.

“Like the character?” he asks.

“Like the deity.”

Brandon twists open a bottle of Coke. “Same thing.”

“Not really,” I say. “Not if you’re religious.”

Right away, I wish I hadn’t used that word to describe myself. Working with a deity is cool in queer circles. Worshiping a god is not.

Brandon takes a swig of the Coke, straight out of the bottle. “Religion is the tool of the oppressor.”

I shrug and turn up the volume to distract him. I don’t want to fight. Brandon calls every minor inconvenience “a tool of the oppressor.” It’s his catchphrase.

Still. Moments like this make me glad we’re not dating anymore.

Let me rewind a bit, so I don’t sound like a religious freak. The Apollo stuff started six months ago. I had been trying to hold off my gender identity crisis until the summer, but my aunt said something horribly dysphoric and I just snapped inside. I walked to the park across the street to clear my head. I scrolled through my phone until I felt better. A drag queen on TikTok was talking about Greek mythology and how many of the gods are some flavor of queer. She described Apollo as “a glorious bisexual god” and “a ray of light and truth to guide us out of the darkness of the closet.” I got chills all over.

That afternoon, I sat in my bedroom and prayed something like, “Dear universe, whoever’s listening, help me come out to my parents as questioning.”

I thought about Apollo.

Imagine living in a world with queer gods. It would be so much better than just being tolerated by the capital-G boss God.

Sunlight filtered in through the window until everything started to glow.

“Hey, Apollo,” I said. I took the dusty book of Greek mythology out from under my bed and flipped to a random page. And my jaw dropped.It was the story of Apollo and his boyfriend Hyacinthus, who died in a game of discus. In his grief, Apollo memorialized their love forever with a flower: the fabulous purple iris. I felt like crying. There weren’t any stories like this in the Bible.

After that, I couldn’t be Christian or atheist or even agnostic. I was all Apollo’s.

Now I’m wishing I hadn’t told Brandon about the necklace. I could’ve made up somestupid cover story about how it represents my songwriting.

On Tuesday, I bring my copy of Hellenismos: Practicing Greek Polytheism Today to school. I can’t tell if I want my friends to notice or not.

On Wednesday, I tuck the lyre necklace under my shirt before I drive to Brandon’s house. Just in case.

On Thursday, I check Emma_of_the_Bay’s blog three times to see if she answered my question, but of course she hasn’t. She’s at a folk music festival with her cool musician friends.

On Friday, I come straight home, double check that my parents are out of the house, turn on my Apollo playlist, and pray out loud. Technically, I can pray with my parents in the house. But it’s easier when I’m home alone. This way, I don’t have to worry about them walking in on me and looking at me weird.

When I get home from soccer practice on Saturday, my dad is sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop open. He holds out an envelope for me.

“This came while you were at soccer.”

“You opened it?” I take the torn envelope from him. It’s the mail I’ve been waiting for all week: a bumper sticker, magnet, and membership card from Hellenion, an international Hellenic Polytheist group.

“Yeah, sorry,” Dad says. “Force of habit.” He’s been opening all my junk mail from colleges.

I look over his shoulder at the laptop and realize that he’s reading Hellenion’s about-page.

“You really believe all this stuff?” Dad asks.

My palms start to sweat. “I do, yeah.” When I asked my parents’ permission to join Hellenion, I played up the Classical history part and downplayed the part where people actually worship the old gods. Now I’m wishing I had sat down and explained it to them sooner.

“Oliver,” Dad says. “Have you read Greek mythology?”

I stare at him. I hate that patronizing tone of voice. All I do is read Greek mythology. Not just that, but philosophy, history, archaeology finds, theater. It’s a religion with homework.

“We studied some of those myths in grad school,” Dad says. “It’s twisted stuff.”

I swallow. This is an argument I’ve had with my friends before, so I’m already preparedfor what to say next. “I think the myths are metaphors -– the same way that progressive Christians have non-literal readings of the Bible.”

Dad shakes his head. “Metaphor or not, those gods aren’t anything to look up to.”

We’re both quiet. I try to remember all the times I’ve had this conversation withclassmates and how I won them over, but it hits different with my own dad. I play with my lyre necklace out of habit.

“That one you wear the necklace for,” Dad says suddenly. “Apollo. Do you know what he did to a man who challenged him to a music contest?”

I shake my head. Music contest… it must’ve been one of the stories that I skimmed.

“He tied him to a tree and flayed him alive. Please don’t tell me you,” Dad meets my eyes “believe in gods like that.”

A lump forms in the back of my throat. I can’t seem to move.

“Okay,” I say, not sure how else to answer. Then I walk upstairs to my bedroom, so that he can’t see me cry.

Why didn’t I stand up for myself more? Why did I give in like that? I should’ve said something to defend Apollo’s honor. But the myth is just so awful.

Maybe all this time I’ve been wrong about Apollo.

I sit down at the altar on my desk: a bowl of bay leaves, a scarf with tiny crows on it, a candle that I bought from Goodwill, and a tiny statue of Apollo. All I can hear are the doubts inside my own head. When praying doesn’t help me feel any better, I pull up Theoi.com and read the myth of Marsyas, just to make sure that my dad wasn’t making it up.

He wasn’t. It’s in multiple ancient accounts. Some poor satyr named Marsyas challenges Apollo to an instrument contest, and when he loses, Apollo flays him alive. I have no idea how Emma_of_the_Bay would spin this into a beautiful metaphor about the nature of the gods.

But just in case, I check her blog.

May 10th– I believe that the Gods are good. Not nice. Not easy. Sometimes, not gentle. But good.

April 23rd– Myths are human stories meant to describe non-human Gods. Out of context, they get all warped. But when we study them alongside philosophy, history, archaeology, religious practice– that’s when we start to know the Gods.

April 7– Apollo is truth and light. Sometimes the truth hurts. Sometimes sunlight burns. You know what else hurts? Love. That doesn’t make me want to love any less.

The door creaks open and my sister pokes her head inside.

“Mom wants you to do the dishes.”

“I’m busy,” I say, not looking up from my phone. “I’ll do them after dinner.”

My sister walks across the room and picks up the bowl of bay leaves off my altar.

“Are you talking to your imaginary boyfriend?”

I feel myself flinch. Blood pounds in my ears. My hand shakes so hard that it knocks a cup of pens to the floor. “Can everybody LEAVE ME ALONE and just let me worship Apollo?”

My sister drops the bowl on my desk and runs away. I know I shouldn’t have snapped. She’s twelve. She likes to say annoying things on purpose. But I’m so, so tired of having to explain myself to everyone. And my sister can be a brat sometimes.

Mom will want me to apologize. I need time to cool down first. I grab my guitar, text my parents that I’m walking to the park, and walk to the door, determined not to look at Dad on the way out.

It’s a two minute walk to the park across the street. I sit down on a rusty bench and take my guitar out, comforted by its familiar weight in my arms. The park is quiet except for the rustling sounds of a mom pushing a stroller on the other side. The empty swings sway in the breeze.

I place my hands on the guitar and this time the B7 chord comes out perfect. The mom turns her head around and smiles at me from behind the monkey bars. Encouraged, I strum gently up and down the fretboard, letting the music lead me to where I need to go. There are no words yet, but this riff feels like Apollo. Light and hopeful. Bright, but terrible, too.

I open my phone to jot down a few lyrics, not caring if they’re any good or not. My phone has just one new notification.

Hi Oliver,

This is such a great question. As a musician myself, I write two different types of music about the Gods: devotional songs for Pagan audiences and mainstream songs that anyone can relate to. Since you said that you’re not interested in the former, I’m going to focus on my mainstream songwriting. Still, devotional music spans many genres – including pop – and if you want to write something that’s unapologetically Pagan, I suggest you check it out. 😉

Over time, I learned how to hone in on the relatable parts of my songwriting and cut the more obscure and alienating lyrics. Ambiguity is your friend in this. So are metaphor and shared experience. Greek mythology references appear across classic literature and popular culture. If you weave them in subtly, your listeners will love it.

But before you worry about being relatable enough, have you considered writing from a place of honesty and just sitting with your love for Apollon? (I use the traditional Greek spelling of his name).

The universality can come with revision.

Khaire,

Emma

Hot tears hit my face. I wish I could talk to Emma_of_the_Bay forever, just being seen and understood. For a split second, I think of sending her another message and asking about Marsyas. But I know on some level that I’m not really talking to her. She’s a stranger online in Seattle, and I’m here alone at this park. It’s up to me to figure it out on my own. Marsyas can wait until later, when I feel less raw. Or maybe the rawness is what the Marysas myth is all about.

I hug the guitar to my chest and start my song for Apollon.

[Rose Eleusis (she/her) is a musician and storyteller based in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. When not writing fiction and poetry, she can be found leading rituals and workshops with her vibrant local Pagan community and performing her original songs for cello and voice across the region. Rose is also a lyre-player, a devotee of Persephone, and a Classics student with dreams of becoming Hellenic reconstructionist clergy.]