Muse? Have You Met Pirate Boy?

Like a Ninja, Pirate Boy moves at the speed of light--or darkness, depending on how you view these things. So there are very few photos that depict the "real him," though if you look closely, you can often see a gleam of mayhem lurking in the corner of his eyes.

For the first time ever, I think, my kids have gone to visit my cousin for a beach vacation, and I am having a stay-cation WITHOUT THEM. It will be a combination of work/writing and hopefully, a LOT of rest, along with some decisions this week about my treatment plan. I have visions of watching David Letterman without the background noise of the xbox next door in Oldest Son's room. I have thoughts of Law & Order marathons while sipping my Ensure (and really? why does that crap taste like baby formula?). I have three chapters COMPLETELY written in my head (and you know how that goes transposing it to the page . . .). I have things to do. Healing being one of them.

Not a day goes by, generally, when someone doesn't ask, "When do you find the time to write?" Even with Oldest Daughter an adult and living in her own apartment . . . I have three kids and both my parents living with me (including a dad on a WWII kick right now who interrupts me with "fun facts" about the search for Eichmann every five minutes--some of which are interesting but can you not HEAR me typing?). And the answer is . . .

You learn to write in bursts.

You learn that the Muse isn't as delicate as you first thought. She is like those women who show up for a funeral with their grief casseroles or who come when the newborn baby arrives to do the new mom's laundry--she shows and just gets it done. She doesn't need candles and soft music and silence.

You learn that a house has a rhythm and even the most chaotic house has moments of quiet.

You learn that no one wants to hear you whine about how it's "hard" to write. Or that you're sick. Or that you're tired. Really? Just do it. I mean, yeah, we writers will listen and we WILL empathize. But in the end? Sit your ass in your chair and write.

You learn a lot of things about the Muse. Mine's nemesis is a little Pirate Boy.

But even they have truces once in a while.

Thoughts? Who or what is your Muse's nemesis?

And what have you learned about your Muse?

Thank You, Scrabble and Writing Gods

My mother raised me in the school of "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." I didn't realize what a gift that was until I spent some time around people whose "mamas didn't teach them right." Like my lovely trip on the Crazy Train two weeks ago. Unfortunately, since my mother raised me that way, all I can do is post the final board and let IT do the speaking for me. You know, he probably feels bad, so buy his book.

And yesterday, my writers' group read a chapter about an intriguing (I hope) concept of this dystopic society living in isolation--The Pilgrims. I had intended the plot to go in one direction, but there was a great deal of ETHICAL debate last night. I now think my plot is going in a different direction, simply because of the challenges/questions raised last night. I thank the writing gods, the muse, that handed me the Pilgrims. I thank my writers' group for never letting even something simple slide.

I believe, ladies and gentlemen, the Muse handed me a gift last night.

So what was the last gift the Writing Gods handed you?

Snap Out of It

One of my favorite films of all time is Moonstruck. I consider it one of those perfect little films. First, it was written by John Patrick Shanley,who also wrote the play Doubt. When that film comes out--with Meryl Streep, no less--it will be a must-see film! I also love Moonstruck for the casting--dead on and perfect. I love the scene, especially, between Olympia Dukakis and John Mahoney. But what I especially love is Cher telling Nicolas Cage to "Snap out of it!"

I ended up recalling this scene because I was interviewed yesterday for an article in a magazine on "people to watch in 2009"--and with three book releases, apparently, I am worth watching go stark raving crazy. But more importantly, I was asked how I manage my time. I mentioned him and said there really is no such thing as time management in my life. But then I thought about it seriously. And I reached the same conclusion I often do.

Snap out of it.

You see, somehow, by virtue of writing being in the arts, I think I used to get invested in what I "needed" to create. I needed candles and music, and a quiet place. A room of my own, so to speak. I needed uninterrupted time. I needed to be in the zone. I needed to be free of emotional pain. I needed to not be worried about anyone in my life. I needed . . . I needed . . . I needed . . .

One the absolute blessings of being 40 years old and pregnant--with three other children to care for--is you find out pretty damn fast you don't need any of that. I turned in a book two days before giving birth and one four months after.

One of the blessings of Demon Baby is his ability to give my life a clear-eyed and sharp-edged reality. It was as if he were born specifically to tell me, in craptastically clear terms, "Snap the crap out of it, Mom." (For lurkers who are not regular readers, he is three, brilliantly diabolical, and his favorite word is crap. Preferably said VERY loud and in the vicinity of old ladies in the grocery store who look at him like he is the anti-Christ.)

In fact . . . I work. Relentlessly but not tirelessly (BIG difference). I work and work and work my craft at odd times, in stolen moments, before dawn, at 3:00 a.m. I work it that way because I have to and there's nothing heroic or different about it simply because what I do is in the arts and what someone else does is nursing or teaching or slinging hash or building a road. There's no huge mystery to the creative process. I mean, yes, there is. Like I really CAN'T tell you where I get my ideas from or why I have a Muse who lives on cocaine and cigarettes if the sheer volume of ideas she gives me is any idea. But there's no mystery to the WORK of it. You sit your ass in a chair and snap out of it.

Well . . . I've got to run. That Muse on cocaine and cigarettes just phoned in a new idea.

Thoughts? Ever feel like you need to snap out of it? Ever feel like you have to tell someone ELSE to snap out of it?

The Muse

I wonder how everyone views their muse. Some writers feel like they "channel" someone else, some other entity, something separate from themselves when they write.

Some feel they "wrestle" with their muse--fight with it. So there's clearly a separateness there.

Some name their muse.

HE is not my muse. He is my Muse Slayer. Along with him, whose annoying songs are playing in the background at the moment.

But I generally don't think of myself as having a muse. Not as a separate entity. I think I feel creative most of the time, and at certain times I get to sit down and WRITE it versus playing scenes and dialogue out in my head. The muse has never been elusive for me. In fact, it delivered the Shiniest of New Ideas to me last night and I have that "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh, I better get this one down on paper before someone ELSE thinks of this idea." But did the muse deliver it? I don't know. Then again . . . using logic . . .

If I have a Muse Slayer, I must have a muse.

So how about you? Do you think of the creative side of yourself as a separate entity? We're amongst friends. You can confess to another personality. Or naming an invisible muse. Share your muse with us all.

The Muse Is a Two-Year-Old Who's Had Coffee

For a while, my muse was nowhere to be found. I have never had "writer's block." I know there are movies (like Adaptation) that hilariously depict writer's block, but in my life, that has never (knock wood) happened. Instead, I have had periods--this last one being only perhaps the third time in my life--in which the writing has felt listless. I didn't have the heart for it. I was weary in my personal life, and it drifted through to my writing life. It wasn't that I couldn't write, but my output slowed.

Then the muse returned--about three weeks ago, I guess. I was sleeping better. I felt a little better. Whatever "it" was, it lifted.

That was fine . . . the muse was back, I was writing and in the groove.

Then the muse started drinking coffee--pots of it. I don't know where she got her hands on the coffee, since I gave it up, but . . . she wasn't just here in my life, she was here and practically taking over. Thus I decided the muse was rather like my toddler, who at this moment is lying on the kitchen floor next to my office having a tantrum because I will not let him have a cookie at 7:00 a.m. The muse is like that.

What is this experience like? It's insanity . . . the muse wants to be fed--NOW. She wants me at this computer--NOW. And she wants me staying up late, and getting up early to tend to her needs--NOW.

I am glad she is back. I won't knock it. She came up with THE MOST SPECTACULAR concept last night. But man . . . it would be nice if she laid off the coffee and the sugar rush so life with her was a little more normal.

People who aren't writers ask me all the time what being a writer is like. "How do you come up with ideas?"

I can't always explain the process. But this post is pretty much what it's like.

I have a muse. Her name is Taz!

The Girl is Calling

I came up with a new idea for a book. I think the central premise is pretty original (as original as anything can be--hasn't everybody thought up everything?). And I know who my main character is--a woman very much like me, only childless (which, with four kids, is something I can barely imagine, but she longs to have children, and that I CAN imagine). This main character is very, very much a part of me--I know this woman.

But the dead body--and there is a dead body in chapter one--is a discarded girl. I don't want to say anything more. But it is her . . . SHE is calling me.

Maybe, in this character, I see all the unwanted children in the world. All the discards. All the kids in foster care. The little boy from HeadStart I took in for part of the summer two years ago. The babies I visited in the projects. The children abandoned by a broken system.

Whatever it is, for the first time in a LONG, long time, this girl, this child, will not be silenced. She is there when I wake up. She is with me now as I am blogging. She is my last thought when I go to bed. She pops into my head as I am driving. And she is in my garden with me.

For people who do not write, I probably just sound nuts. For people who do write, you know this happens with special books or special characters. This one is an ache in my heart. I wish I could describe what this feels like to people this never happens to, but this child, this discarded little girl, is real. To me.

I wanted to blog about her because this is what writers mean (I think) when the Muse comes to visit. It is that story that wants to invade your current work in progress. The story that HAS to be written NOW. The story that is with you at breakfast and taking up a seat at the dinner table. This is what it feels like when the Muse has you and won't let go. When a novel has to be written.

I am resisting the girl. Not that I don't want to write her story, but I know, already, this is one of those books, like The Roofer, that will be difficult to write, that will filter through every part of my life. But believe me, the girl will not be silenced and I will likely, just to exorcise her a bit, start a little of her story today.

So tell me . . . do you have a girl calling you? What is it like the the Muse has you in her grips?