My buddy HelenKay Dimon doesn’t believe in the concept of a muse. Poor thing. What, nowhere to lay the blame for a lack of productivity? No one to thank for a fantastic day of writing?
I can not fathom it.
I believe in the muse. My muse. Elle Muse. But I’m in charge, she isn’t. Sometimes it feels like she’s in charge, but that’s a cop-out. I’m in charge. She can kick me in the keister, but honestly she only does that when I’m not taking proper control like I should. When I’m not putting her to work. Because she’s lazy, you see, and she won’t work unless I order her to.
I don’t believe in the muse in the way that I can’t write unless “she” visits me. Like some magical outside force. I believe in the muse the way I believe in my creative subconscious. My muse IS my creative subconscious. And my creative subconscious will laze about if I allow it to.
Years ago, I had a tape from some RWA conference workshop or another that instructed one how to do relaxation exercises, how to visualize an aspect of your creativity so you could learn to channel it, to make it do your bidding. I used to listen to this tape every day before sitting down to write. Then it became second nature. Now, if I’m having trouble with a scene, I do the nighttime exercise. I lie in bed and visualize my muse. Or, more accurately, I visualize a certain body part—her hand. I visualize handing her a piece of paper. On this piece of paper, I’ve written my story problem. I tell to fix it. I tell her, “When I wake up tomorrow morning, this story issue WILL be solved, or, in the immoral words of Donald Trump, ‘You’re Fired.'” (Well, I don’t actually say the last part; I might scare her off). Then I visualize my muse (the hand of my muse…kind of like something from the Addam’s Family, but with a great manicure), feeding a blank piece of paper into an old IBM Selectric typewriter. No computers allowed. Don’t ask me why. Okay, go ahead. Why a typewriter? Because my muse is really myself, during my first pregnancy. She’s about three months pregnant, and she’s wearing a blue-and-white pinstriped skirt with a white knit top. I remember this outfit very clearly, because I worked in a correctional facility, and I needed to have my photo taken for a badge and pledge homage to the Queen (in much the same way my muse pays homage to me). And I happened to type on an IBM Selectric typewriter at this time.
Why is my muse me during my first pregnancy? Because I happen to believe that creating a life and creating a story are both worthwhile creative endeavors. Weird, maybe, but there you have it.
Now, I know all these details about my muse, but I don’t visualize anything other than her hand. Feeding the blank sheet of paper into the typewriter. Then she begins typing, and I fall asleep.
Oddly enough, I’d say about 7 times out of 10 I wake up the next morning with the story problem solved. I might not remember that I gave my muse instructions. I might just sit down at my desk to write. And then suddenly a great idea will pop into my head, and I remember—I put Elle Muse to work. And she delivered.
Good girl. Have a piece of chocolate. Oh, you can’t eat it, because you’re a figment of my imagination? No problem. I’ll eat it for you.
I might make it sound easy. Give her a problem, she solves it. It’s not easy at all. Often I walk around for two or three days in a snit about my story problem before remembering to visualize giving it to her to work on. Once I consciously put her to work, though, that’s when great things begin to happen.
I wish I could remember the name of that tape, or the name of the presenter, so I could give them due credit. Alas, it was so long ago that I listened to the tape or workshop, that I don’t have a clue. But it works for me.
What works for you? Do you believe in the muse? Do you have one? Go ahead, share. But be warned. My muse can beat up your muse any day of the month. Excerpt every third Thursday. That’s her day off.
