Dear Jean:

I really hope you donÂ’t mind this open letter, but I couldnÂ’t resist on 2 counts. First, I think youÂ’re a brilliant poet and writer and enjoy your words tremendously and seeing as your muse had left thought I might help. Second, I felt like writing to someone tonight and on this occassion you happen to be it!

I read on your latest post your request for suggestions as you felt you were bogged in a creative fetid pond. How terrible of your muse to leave you in such a place! I hope you wonÂ’t mind, but I'd like to share a few of the exercises I was given in my grad school writing program to coax our muses into returning quickly when they had abandoned us.

1) Open a book of your choice at random, preferably a work of fiction. As you flip through the pages in the book, stick your index fix in the book letting it rest somewhere on the page and read the passage where your finger lands. Then either write a sagacious assessment of a character or scene from either an omniscient writerÂ’s perspective or a visceral response to what youÂ’ve read as either another character or an omniscient reader.

2) Your word play is phenomenal and often inspires me to write a few stanzas of my own. It was suggested to me by a published poet I respect that I should read poets I am unfamiliar with to become inspired. For that I go to either poetry.com or google certain key words and sometimes will add poem in the mix. Sometimes it can be a miss, but the last time I did it I found you, so sometimes itÂ’s a big hit!

3) Recently IÂ’ve been going through a poetic dry spell and felt my muse had left once again in a huff because I wasnÂ’t paying him any mind (yes, my muse is a man). So I went to Barnes and Noble and went to the section called WriterÂ’s on Writing and came across a book called The Pocket Muse: ideas and inspiration for writing. I loved this book so much I bought it. HereÂ’s an exercise I picked at random: Write about the worst visitor who ever darkened your door. Ironically, I already wrote a funny post about that. Its a cynical email response I sent declining his request to visit again.

4) Or you can do like I do at times, visit a new blog at random and strike up a conversation via comments with new bloggers. IÂ’ve encountered the most interesting people that way, you included!

Well, I hope one of these inspires your muse to return, if not thereÂ’s lots more where that came from. I Look forward to reading your pearls once again.

m\

Posted by: Michele at 09:35 PM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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1 Wow... I am so very touched by this, I am almost at a loss for words! (almost, heh) Your glowing comments about my writing have me blushing... and, I absolutely appreciate your suggestions. I'm making notes. Two other books I often use to kick-start my muse are: 'Walking On Alligators' and 'Write Your Heart Out'. M, this is really overwhelmingly nice! Thank you.

Posted by: Jean at March 05, 2007 09:49 PM (86QII)

2 I wanted to comment on this sooner, but time constraints and all. Firstly, what I'll write you may not agree with, but my muses have been beating me for days to write it, so here goes... One's muse doesn't "stop" or get "blocked". The stubborn humans have a pre-determined direction and we want them to try something different. The human is saying "Give me something funny" and we are trying to teach something what the color green tastes like. Do you follow that difference? It's not a matter of apples & oranges - it is a matter of apples and concepts. This "impass" is caused by human stubbornness. Next time, just write down what we want you to write. You don't have to publish it - or even save it. Just let us flow through you. We don't ask much - just full control of your creative process. You have a huge queue items to create - lessons to learn - trying to pick and choose which is counter-productive. So, the next time you claim to have "lost your muse", please don't blame *us*. We know where you are. You're the fallible human here, human. Just close your eyes, take a deep breath, let it out, and let your fingers go to work. Shut off that physical-bound brain and listen to our thoughts. We'll all be much happier. ... That is all. p.s. That is what my muses sound like, btw.

Posted by: _Jon at March 06, 2007 05:01 PM (cPJtC)

3 Typical guy... he has a horde of women inspiring him while I only have one... man!

Posted by: michele at March 06, 2007 05:21 PM (BN/Fu)

4 ha..._Jon....er, Muse... you make a lot of sense. Will ponder this. thank you. M- I did a post early this morning, from a reader's request. Kinda long. Thanks, again.

Posted by: Jean at March 06, 2007 07:34 PM (GQv1b)

5 ... Both of mine are men - immature and all that. And if men have women for muses, that would explain why we go crazy. But at least my muse isn't a ferret or some such stuff like Harvey....

Posted by: _Jon at March 07, 2007 09:49 AM (ZM3Qb)

6 My muse is LEMUR, thank you very much: http://badexample.mu.nu/archives/043960.php

Posted by: Harvey at March 09, 2007 10:06 AM (L7a63)

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I donÂ’t know why I ever thought that I could and should participate in this writing project because the truth of the matter is I canÂ’t. It was the single biggest stumbling block in finishing my masters program. Since I could not write on command like the others, I edited other's work and I encouraged and inpired. I did that so well that I was hired by 3 different professors to edit their books for publishing. I didnÂ’t get paid on those projects because my aim was to having some representative work for my portfolio when I applied to work in publishing. I can also claim to my credit 2 entries to an academic literary encyclopedia, but that's academic work. NOw, ask me to write fiction or poetry with a deadline or to put 1,666 words on paper per day over 30 days and I get jammed up so tight I cant find my way out of a document.

Of course it doesn't help that in the past year I have seen 12 bloggers who have managed to publish their blogs. Yes, that's write, including one of a woman who took a job as a cab driver because she wasn't motivated to do anything else to make money and needed something to write about. Another of those published bloggers is on their 3rd concept book.

I have to tell you though, I AM happy for them because I did enjoy their blogs (well, except the cab driver's) and in fact linked to them. Still, that doesnÂ’t take away from my own frustration over seeing others writing away and managing to come up with something substantial to write about. For me, the writing experience is incredibly different. I have be drawn, almost compelled to write over everything else in order for me to produce something... even something decent. I have to be sent to the page from my inner being, otherwise I can just sit there and bat stuff around for hours.

In this case, if I continue to write about not being able to write IÂ’ll only manage to implode the little writing esteem I have managed to develop since starting this blog, so IÂ’ll stop while I have a few shreds of esteem left.

Believe me itÂ’s not for lack of ideasÂ… I have them. As proof I put the 3 best story ideas that I attempted today in the extended entry. The truth is I didnÂ’t feel them. They felt so hollow. And since they lacked the emotional essence that drives my writing I just couldnÂ’t continue. The last thing I want when I write is to feel that IÂ’m forcing it. So to those of you participating in this novel writing project I wish you much passion and drive so you may complete your work.

Good luck!
more...

Posted by: Michele at 01:41 AM | Comments (8) | Add Comment
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1 Wow. You can write.

Posted by: vw bug at November 02, 2006 07:58 AM (NoCe/)

2 I felt this way all summer. I didn't write anything. No short stories, hardly any blog entries. I think I had to recharge a little since I write so much during the school year. I also alternate between "I can't put three words together and have them make sense" and "I'm the next Faulkner, I'm such a damn genius!" It's all part of the self-torture we call writing. I know how much it sucks to see other people being recognized while you're not. It makes you feel like they're more worthy than you. Most of the time, though, it's that they're in the direct line of sight and you're not. I'm a firm believer in the idea that anyone can be anything they want, despite what my classmates say about class oppression (a la Marx) and limited opportunities, etc... It's just a matter of will-power and paying your dues. The thing that's helped my writing the most in the last year has been reading. I have a steady of diet of only the best writing I can get my hands on. Most of it is NOT contemporary. I know some defend post-modernists and say that there's a lot of good writers out there now. I agree there are SOME, but not A LOT. Go back about 40 years and start backwards from there. For me, the '20s and '30s were the highpoint of truly American literature. It seems like you also have to develop an ear for deleting what's unnecessary. About 30% of the words I use in my first draft are completely superfluous. To prove my point: Thirty percent of my first draft is superfluous. A lot of editing is personal preference, too. What some consider too verbose, others feel is "color". For example, in your last paragraph, I might reword the sentence to: "Clara thought Millie was a goldmine of self-deprecating entertainment." Then I would delete the last sentence, except for maybe "Clara giggled," and something about the torture (but drop "dying day", too cliche). Others would disagree. I just have cultivated this sensitivity to an internal tuning fork that either rings true when the sentence is working, or rattles in discord when the words aren't right. I just have had to train myself to listen to it. Sometimes it rings quieter, sometimes louder. But every time it rings out of tune on a sentence and I leave that sentence in, in workshop, someone mentions what I had already felt. I've come to think that most of writing is actually editing, not the initial creating. It's the refining, smoothing, and sometimes re-sculpting that happens after you've figured who says what to whom and who does (or does not do) what to whom. Editing is what makes good writing great, IMHO.

Posted by: Jon Brisbin at November 02, 2006 10:31 AM (W6Sge)

3 For me it's more of a project to see if I can do it. The fact that I'm not writing for an audience is a bonus in that I'm not anxiety stricken over whether or not I'm doing good work. *grin* I know there are people who are born writers. They MUST write, they start when they are young and nothing stops them, even if they are never published. Then there are people who want to write, but don't have the compelling urge within them to put the words on paper. Then there are people like me... readers who envy those with the imagination to create. I've never ever tried to write anything more than a class writing assignment back in the days of high school English. Even then, the fact that the teacher would be reading it was enough to stop me from letting out with the extra oomph... what if it sounded stupid? I do hold back from the overblown verbiage which is really necessary to write a great novel. I'm trying to see if I can actually put some of that out in my story if I think of it as something that's just for me. LOL. We'll see.

Posted by: Teresa at November 02, 2006 10:42 AM (o4pJS)

4 I'm closer to Teresa on this one. I think I can't write, but I don't know it. I have written tons and tons of words for academic papers. To me, that's incredibly simple. I can literally write a 10- or 20-page paper in a day if it's about the academics of computers. As for the creative writing, I really want to be good at it, but I fear I'm not. I have trouble coming up with ideas, but when I do, I can run with them. I've written and submitted dozens and dozens of short stories (Fantasy and SF) to magazines and journals -- I've never been published once. Now, with the NaNoWriMo, indeed, I can write it knowing that no one will care what it is. I'll go ahead and post it online, but mostly for my own enjoyment and a sense of accomplishment. In addition, one of the points of writing so much so fast is that it's NOT edited! Once I write the words, that's done, I'm on to the next words. There's ZERO proofreading (which if often painfully obvious) -- and I, too, will have lots of useless stuff added to the text. Your three attempts are good. But if you can't let it flow, there is not point in forcing it. I'm stumbling so far this year because the story isn't coming. Last year, I had a story and I really knew where it was supposed to go before I started. I have NO idea where this one is going, so it's wandering A LOT. But sometimes it's fun because surprises appear that even I didn't see coming! Thanks for the well-wishes, and you can certainly start planning what you might write in time for next year!

Posted by: Ogre at November 02, 2006 02:33 PM (oifEm)

5 Do what's best for you. (And just for the record, you can *too* write!)

Posted by: Richmond at November 02, 2006 06:53 PM (e8QFP)

6 .. dang... if I had to stop writing about having nothing to write about, I'd be doomed!...

Posted by: Eric at November 03, 2006 09:59 AM (NlzwQ)

7 This might be helpful, or at least comforting: http://badexample.mu.nu/archives/091570.php

Posted by: Harvey at November 09, 2006 11:59 AM (L7a63)

8 Good wishes also.

Posted by: Bruce at November 13, 2006 09:02 PM (o+0N8)

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Darkness and Silence... my constant companion this evening.

There's a wonderful quiet echo in the silence that surrounds me. From the park across the street I can hear the hushed whispers between lovers. These are intermingled with the smiles and laughter of others and the sounds of generators working overtime in the distance.

In the cloak of darkness these lovers profess promises they hope to keep. The weight of which will be truly felt and tested tomorrow and in the days to come.

As I sit by my darkened window, barely seeing their outlines, I wonder where they'll be tomorrow. I wonder if their permanent embrace is a way to create their own world and blocking everything around them from entering their conciousness other than their loverÂ’s presence. I wonder if in the light of day they will still feel the closeness they experienced in that long embrace? I wonder if they would still look lovingly into each otherÂ’s eyes if they truly knew each otherÂ’s flaws and fears? As she lovingly caresses his face, the question that remains is will her love stand the test of time and distance, or will it be as fleeting as her time on that bench.

Posted by: Michele at 11:44 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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After sitting silently watching the moon cross the sky for hours, she finally turns and absentmindedly shifts her gaze back to the blank computer screen before her. “Where are you? Where have you gone?” She whispers sweetly into the air, sighing a deep wistful sigh full of longing. She turns to look out the window once again.

“You know I’ve not gone far. In fact, I’ve been nearby all along. It’s you who’s been so busy and so preoccupied that you’ve left me out in the cold with no room for me.”

“That’s not true! I sit here every night hoping you’ll visit, waiting for a word from you that will fill my soul, and what do I get? Nothing… silence.” She paused and took a few deep breaths to gather her courage. Courage that would finally let her speak the truth and shatter the fragile icy lies between them, “We’ve become estranged you and I. It used to be that the sound of your whisper at my ear would inspire my soul to write sublime poetry. It used to be, that I would wake up from a deep sleep with a big smile and an impassioned soul that could fill a thousand pages in my diary. And in those moments, I would have complete songs or poems emerge from me, all inspired by my dreams and thoughts of you. But that’s no more... you’ve slowly taken it all away from me with each absence."

“But I’m here now. Doesn’t that count?”

“Yes, you’re here, but you’re not giving me anything I can hold onto or believe in. Yes, you’re here now, but in a sense you’re not, because you keep looking at your watch and fidgeting, hoping this conversation will end soon so you can be gone once again.”

“I never promised you anything… I never said I’d stay. I…”

“I never asked for anything either. It was you who came back into my life, insisting on being a part of it. It was you who sweetly worked your magic into my heart and mind, with your tender "baby's and sweatheart's" sweeping me off my feet and filling my soul with passion for months on end. You were always there, never leaving my side. Now you're almost never there and each time you leave you stay away longer, leaving me empty, barren, a wasteland... leaving me wanting you all the more with each absence. I wish you had never come back!”

“You don’t really mean that… do you?”

“Do you remember your first words to me? [He shrugs his shoulders and drops his head down to stare at the floor.] You quoted William Stafford to me: "I am your own way of looking at things …When you allow me to live with you, every glance at the world around you will be a sort of salvation" and then you took my hand, gazed deeply into my eyes and placed my hand on your heart. You stared intensely for a long time, long enough to possess my heart and fill my soul. Each day with you was a new affirmation of my limitless possibilites. Then one morning, after months of living in such bliss and spiritual union… after there was such a true deep connection between us... a connection where I could sense your thoughts though you were miles away... one morning I woke up to find you gone… without a word, without so much as a goodbye.”

“It seems to me that you want more from me than I’m able to give you. I’m only your muse, and you need to remember that. And you knew all along that I don't live for just one person, I live and eed to be shared amongst many in order to live and thrive. You knew I exist only when I'm back in the world exploring, and you refused to do that. You refused to let me exist outside your small little world. If you want someone to blame, then blame your fears for keeping me hidden, apart and secluded from the world and the people I love. If there’s any blame to go around then you are to blame for fearing those around me, would love me more than you.”

“Bastard! Had I known I was to share you I would have never let you into my life!”

“Well, until you accept that about me, I won’t be able to stay or make you happy. I’m really sorry that it has to be this way, but that’s the way things are with me. It’s not personal, you understand… it’s just the way I came to be."

Angrily grabbing the open notebook on her desk, she proceeds to tear the pages inside. “Know this, you bastard… I... don’t… need… you! I was fine before I met you, and I’ll be fine once again when you’re gone.” Throws the notebook across the room and into the trash bin.

And with that he was gone. She turned to stare out the window once again, trying hard to stifle her sobs, as she realized she will never experience the passion they once shared.

Posted by: Michele at 12:04 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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1 Maybe he was pining for the fjords?

Posted by: Ted at October 18, 2005 11:35 AM (blNMI)

2 ... From the street below, she heard a clucking sound. She peered out, fearing he would be there - and he was. He was looking up at her, shaking his head. Softly, he said; "But you know I'm not unique. I have .... teammates." He seemed to struggle for words himself. Inspiration and ideas came so easily when he was just flitting from person to person - dropping in during a quite moment and providing a thought was just 'how it worked' for him. But here, as he stood looking up, he found himself saddened. It seemed the rules were so simple. They were for him. But not for her. And despite all the joy, hope, and love that they had shared, he now saw that he had brought her sadness and sorrow - even regret. It tore him apart inside. He didn't even know that was possible. All this time, he shared openly. He delighted in delivering the gifts he brought. They were often accepted with such open arms and thankful words. That was how it was supposed to happen. He stood there - dazed and confused. He struggled to find the words to show he wanted to help, but he found himself speechless for quite a while. He listened to the sobs, felt the anger, and shared the frustration. Then he had an inspiration. "My friends, perhaps they can help you. Perhaps one of them can ... share with you." "What friends??" She asked softly, choking back the depression. "You've always come alone, you've never mentioned anyone else like you. Besides, knowing what I know now - I'm not sure I want to associate with anyone like you now." She began to feel the anger from lost hope rise within her. "You lift me up just to watch me fall. I don't think I can handle that anymore. It may be fun for you, dropping spirits just to see if they'll sprout wings, but I'm all busted up from the hard landings. These scars don't heal quickly - despite your soothing words and lilting melodies." "I'm not the girl I used be." She sighed, sadness returning to her voice. "I know you aren't a girl anymore. Being a woman is different than being a girl. It's better. You have more sources to draw from now than you ever imagined before. But it's important now you understand me here: I don't change. I'm always going to inspire young women to create, flirt, explore, and grow. That's what I do. This pain you feel is partly my fault. I --- I grew too attached to you and stayed too long." He found himself choking on his own words. His realization was coming out of him faster than he could think about it. He was speaking as if someone were speaking through him. He took a deep breath and let himself continue. "I've helped many, many people. I've interacted with some special souls. But I never shared like I shared with you. No one has been like you. No one. I did what I wasn't supposed to do. You see, I... I kinda kept you for myself. Others - like me - came and I pushed them away. I wouldn't let them in. I should have. It would have made this difficult time not happen. You would have had - " his voice softened even more " ... a more smooth transition." In a flash, he realized how selfish he had been, and how much damage he had caused. His shoulders slumped. A came across him. A sadness enveloped him. "I'm speechless, if you can beleive that." His future became clear. He broke the rules. And now he wouldn't be sharing with anyone. 'If I had just done it right.' he thought to himself. He gently kicked at the ground. He shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his coat. He sniffled. He took a deep breath. He could feel her begin to fall asleep. Their time together was at an end. "Well, My Voice," he wispered " I'll be going now. I have some final words for you though: You will have other muses. You should have had more by now, and it is my fault that you didn't. You will always be special to me. Somenight - long from now - I will return to see what you've created without me. I am interested to see how your voice changes when others have inspired you. I'm sure it will be fantastic." His voice faltered. "It just won't be from me." He sobbed. It shocked him. He found himself unable to lift his eyes to gaze upon her. He knew she wouldn't be looking down. He also knew he needed to let her go. So he lifted his heavy foot and placed it in front of the other. It landed heavily on the pavement, and his back foot lifted gently behind him. Slowly, he began to trod up the street. Each step hurt. Each crack in the sidewalk threatened to swallow him. He didn't look up. He didn't look back. He couldn't. She heard his first footstep. Somehow, it cleared her mind. She glanced at the notebook in the trash. "That's done" she thought to herself. From the top drawer, she removed another notebook. Empty. Clean. Fresh. She placed a pen across it and took a long deep breath. "I'm ready."

Posted by: _? at October 18, 2005 05:53 PM (/R7YK)

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