Find the muse.
Just write. (Sing it to the tune of "Just Dance." Feel free to throw in a "Gaha-gaha" here or there like Lady Gaga does.)
Just write: that was yesterday's mission and the past week's mantra. Find the muse and write. And maybe do some laundry. There is still a pile of clothes on the floor, so you now you know my priorities. I was hoping for an early start, but sometimes life doesn't go your way and your mind doesn't go to the zone. The muse was hiding. I really should have done laundry in this time frame, but as is often the case, I was restless. Pacing the house. Staring into cupboards. Stepping outside to the porch. Annnnd repeat. For lack of anything better to do, I washed my hair, then packed up my bag with all my writing necessities and headed out for coffee. The muse was obviously not hiding in my house, and I reasoned that maybe...just maybe...the muse was at the local coffee shop. Because I'm sure even muses need caffeine.
Just write: that was yesterday's mission and the past week's mantra. Find the muse and write. And maybe do some laundry. There is still a pile of clothes on the floor, so you now you know my priorities. I was hoping for an early start, but sometimes life doesn't go your way and your mind doesn't go to the zone. The muse was hiding. I really should have done laundry in this time frame, but as is often the case, I was restless. Pacing the house. Staring into cupboards. Stepping outside to the porch. Annnnd repeat. For lack of anything better to do, I washed my hair, then packed up my bag with all my writing necessities and headed out for coffee. The muse was obviously not hiding in my house, and I reasoned that maybe...just maybe...the muse was at the local coffee shop. Because I'm sure even muses need caffeine.
Much to my relief, the blanket of humidity that was smothering the region earlier in the week has finally moved out. Though still a bit muggy, it was nowhere near what it was, allowing for a relatively comfortable outdoor reading/writing session. I am currently working my way through A Million Miles in a Thousand Years by Donald Miller. I've found that memoirs and memoir dopplegangers tend to put me in a writing mood; add to it that this particular Miller piece is about writing good stories and making life count...it's a good fit for this time in life. He is the second author in two readings (the first being Caitlin Moran) in as many weeks that discusses a rampant imagination, where elaborate stories and conversations with strangers are dreamt up. I find great relief in learning I'm not the only one whose mind wanders into daydreamy scenarios. I've loved a hundred men, saved a thousand worlds, written the next great novel and lived happily ever after. These mind-walks have only once put me in a dangerous situation: about a year ago when I still had a full-time job, on my short drive to work, I was chasing a storyline and followed it right into the middle of an intersection when I had a red light. Thankfully, it was still early and there were maybe 3 cars in the area, but my heart stopped. Knowing that intersection, the light had been red long before I happened upon it--it wasn't like it had just changed. And so I silently cursed he who shall not be named for being such a dangerous distraction. The muse was a prankster that day.
Heading to a slightly less-populated coffee spot, I claimed a table in the shade, set up shop and started reading. In the midst of talking about stories, Donald Miller said this: "Some people say a writer catches spirits, and the spirit whispers lines inside his brain." He gets it!! I thought with relief. This is pretty close to what happens. Some days, this spirit--the muse--is there and I can't stop writing. It's like this amazing ex nihilo type of experience--out of nothing...suddenly I can't stop the words. The muse is on my shoulder, spurring me on. If I pause, the muse prods lest I forget anything. It is annoying when I get an idea in the shower, or when I'm driving, because there's no way to write it down. (The prankster muse strikes again!) As I furiously try to rinse my scalp, I rehash the idea in my head, it loses its spark, quickly becoming mundane and forgettable. Dialogue disappears. When I try to revisit the thought, I switch verbs or adjectives and it's just not the same as that initial jump I had on the idea. This usually results in frustration and me wringing my hands, though not literally. (I usually just picture myself wringing my hands. Which is probably weird.) So yesterday, I'm stalking my muse, hiding in plain sight with an iced coffee, hoping this elusive creature will appear. And lo and behold, as I'm reading, a distraction drives past and this is what happened:
That weird, disembodied feeling when a car pulls up to a stoplight, windows down, country music trilling. Your consciousness suddenly finds that trap door in your mind that takes you to the place where your creativity flows and frenzied, you grab your pen and notebook. All because of a beat up blue minivan with its windows down at a stoplight. It sits an interminable amount of time, interrupting your reading session. Even if you don't know the song, you've heard it before--enough times that the twang activates your reticular activating system and you start singing along in your head. Something about summertime and the water. The scene is...nostalgic?--like this is what summer is supposed to be, windows down, music blaring. And another part of it is honestly annoying, because you're trying to read. Then a church bell starts ringing for Saturday Mass and a white Mercedes sedan zips haphazardly into a handicap parking space. You try to keep writing and not judge the girl that jumps out of the car in the off-white polka dot summer dress and t-strap sandals that, frankly, just don't go with the outfit. But then you realize she's just throwing away some garbage and the judgment fades away, like the country music from that minivan as it drove away. Judgment is replaced by thoughts on commendation for using the trash receptacle. "Well done, citizen!" you think in your head, and take a sip of your iced espresso-based drink. You resist making a face. You've had better and wonder absently if it's worth finishing. The caffeine content could keep you up all night, drinking at this late hour, and the amount of milk that's in it...well, the debate rages as to whether or not milk is even good for you. Another patron starts his car and lets it idle for a few minutes, the low rumble of the engine making you wonder if he fancies himself a character in one of the Fast and the Furious movies. The tall man in the bright orange shirt walks to his minivan, coffee in hand, and levels a steady gaze and stern "hello" in your direction. You're grateful the creepy guy with his slow, plodding gait is gone, though you also wonder where exactly he's gone off to. He trod through the mulch on his way past, when one step to the right would have placed him on sidewalk. You take another sip of your lackluster beverage and wonder again if it can be returned. Really you just need to go back to reading, but gosh girl--you're on a roll!--and talking about nothing! Tossing a careless glance over your shoulder, you suddenly notice the creeper across the parking lot, his back to you. He's in dark coveralls and a faded blue ball cap. Just standing there. Possibly texting, judging by his posture. Or taking photos of the customers in the drive-thru at the neighboring establishment. Tough to tell. You look again and he's gone. You know if Simon Pegg had anything to do with this story, the creeper would suddenly reappear at your side and you'd realize he's actually a zombie. You'd struggle frantically to remember differences between fast-moving zombies and slow-moving zombies, and if it really even matters at this point. Your mind scrambles to recall what the most effective way of dealing with zombies was, and that even though you're not sitting with a stash of vinyl records, hopefully you can deal with it appropriately.
Heading to a slightly less-populated coffee spot, I claimed a table in the shade, set up shop and started reading. In the midst of talking about stories, Donald Miller said this: "Some people say a writer catches spirits, and the spirit whispers lines inside his brain." He gets it!! I thought with relief. This is pretty close to what happens. Some days, this spirit--the muse--is there and I can't stop writing. It's like this amazing ex nihilo type of experience--out of nothing...suddenly I can't stop the words. The muse is on my shoulder, spurring me on. If I pause, the muse prods lest I forget anything. It is annoying when I get an idea in the shower, or when I'm driving, because there's no way to write it down. (The prankster muse strikes again!) As I furiously try to rinse my scalp, I rehash the idea in my head, it loses its spark, quickly becoming mundane and forgettable. Dialogue disappears. When I try to revisit the thought, I switch verbs or adjectives and it's just not the same as that initial jump I had on the idea. This usually results in frustration and me wringing my hands, though not literally. (I usually just picture myself wringing my hands. Which is probably weird.) So yesterday, I'm stalking my muse, hiding in plain sight with an iced coffee, hoping this elusive creature will appear. And lo and behold, as I'm reading, a distraction drives past and this is what happened:
That weird, disembodied feeling when a car pulls up to a stoplight, windows down, country music trilling. Your consciousness suddenly finds that trap door in your mind that takes you to the place where your creativity flows and frenzied, you grab your pen and notebook. All because of a beat up blue minivan with its windows down at a stoplight. It sits an interminable amount of time, interrupting your reading session. Even if you don't know the song, you've heard it before--enough times that the twang activates your reticular activating system and you start singing along in your head. Something about summertime and the water. The scene is...nostalgic?--like this is what summer is supposed to be, windows down, music blaring. And another part of it is honestly annoying, because you're trying to read. Then a church bell starts ringing for Saturday Mass and a white Mercedes sedan zips haphazardly into a handicap parking space. You try to keep writing and not judge the girl that jumps out of the car in the off-white polka dot summer dress and t-strap sandals that, frankly, just don't go with the outfit. But then you realize she's just throwing away some garbage and the judgment fades away, like the country music from that minivan as it drove away. Judgment is replaced by thoughts on commendation for using the trash receptacle. "Well done, citizen!" you think in your head, and take a sip of your iced espresso-based drink. You resist making a face. You've had better and wonder absently if it's worth finishing. The caffeine content could keep you up all night, drinking at this late hour, and the amount of milk that's in it...well, the debate rages as to whether or not milk is even good for you. Another patron starts his car and lets it idle for a few minutes, the low rumble of the engine making you wonder if he fancies himself a character in one of the Fast and the Furious movies. The tall man in the bright orange shirt walks to his minivan, coffee in hand, and levels a steady gaze and stern "hello" in your direction. You're grateful the creepy guy with his slow, plodding gait is gone, though you also wonder where exactly he's gone off to. He trod through the mulch on his way past, when one step to the right would have placed him on sidewalk. You take another sip of your lackluster beverage and wonder again if it can be returned. Really you just need to go back to reading, but gosh girl--you're on a roll!--and talking about nothing! Tossing a careless glance over your shoulder, you suddenly notice the creeper across the parking lot, his back to you. He's in dark coveralls and a faded blue ball cap. Just standing there. Possibly texting, judging by his posture. Or taking photos of the customers in the drive-thru at the neighboring establishment. Tough to tell. You look again and he's gone. You know if Simon Pegg had anything to do with this story, the creeper would suddenly reappear at your side and you'd realize he's actually a zombie. You'd struggle frantically to remember differences between fast-moving zombies and slow-moving zombies, and if it really even matters at this point. Your mind scrambles to recall what the most effective way of dealing with zombies was, and that even though you're not sitting with a stash of vinyl records, hopefully you can deal with it appropriately.
After all, this is your afternoon--your time to finally enjoy a Saturday off with a cup of coffee, however unimpressive it turned out to be, and a book about storytelling. You really don't have time for zombies.
And so yesterday, my muse was a navy blue minivan, driven by Donald Miller and Simon Pegg, and they were apparently listening to nostalgia-inducing country music. The lesson in this? Don't put your muse in a box. If you're insisting your muse be an ethereal, waif-like blonde elven goddess, you might miss the hobbit-like brunette flying by on a motorcycle. And really, the latter is the more intriguing story. I think that, too often, we look for the obvious answer. The easy answer. I focus so hard on the story I think needs told, that I end up not telling any story at all. Instead of pounding on the same door that isn't budging, try a new one. Maybe the muse behind the first door, thinking you've moved on, will crack it open for a peek. And if you're fast enough, you can get your foot in the door and squeeze your way in. Or maybe, the muse is behind the next door you haven't tried yet. Keep an open mind. Don't tie yourself to one door. One project. One option. Remember, the muse plays the prankster. And pranksters like playing pranks. Always be open to the unexpected inspiration.
Especially if it's an annoying blue van blaring country music. You never know where that will lead you.
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