The Muse Did It

Greek Muse?

If you’re a writer, chances are that you have an inner muse.  Some writers wax poetic about how their muse brings them glittering plots that they pull out of the air like magical, sparkling fairy lights that appear out of nowhere.  Inspiration finds them everywhere, because that diligent little muse of theirs has spent some time (obviously) floating around the universe hand picking the best and most important characters and plots, poems and lyrics just for them—like an Etsy store for your writerly soul.  Of course, mostly the whole idea of the muse got really old around the time that ancient Greece did too.  So why am I talking about invisible writing friends?  Either I need to get out more, or there’s some truth to this madness.

My muse and I are a little more like frenemies.  She (he?) does eventually show up to work, but sometimes she would rather do something else.  I can imagine her out there, coasting around and daydreaming about whatever invisible people daydream about.  I can’t blame her, exactly.  Sometimes the going is tough.  Sometimes, it’s hard to sit down at the desk and feel blank.  This is usually when the muse has decided to not show up or instead sits on my shoulders and pulls my hair into odd little curlicues –it is so not helpful.

In her TED talk, Elizabeth Gilbert talks about the “elusive creative genius” of ancient Rome and Greece as being a divine spirit or “Daemon” that was a magical entity that lived with the artist and helped them to create things.  Muses have been around for a long time.  Of course, back in the day, it was completely normal to say something like “yes, I realize that book I wrote was kind of lame, but it was my muse’s fault.  She had an off day.”  What is particularly interesting about this lecture on muses is the idea that at some point, we stopped thinking of our writing in relation to muses and instead took on all of the blame, praise and stress ourselves.  Writing became a solo task.

What I think is kind of sad about this lack of belief in the muse is that the pressure is high—if something doesn’t turn out the way it was supposed to, there’s no one to chastise but myself and that isn’t very conducive to the writing process.  Elizabeth Gilbert’s point about believing in muses for our sanity is a good one: blaming the muse does kind of alleviate the stress of having to come up with something that is pure genius all the time.  It’s like blaming the dog when you’ve eaten one too many enchiladas.  We all do it, so why deny it? Blame it on the Muse.


Why Truth Really is Stranger than Fiction, Or How I Won a Zombie-Ninja Fight

See? Zombie ninjas do exist.

When I remember the run that I went on yesterday afternoon, I can still feel the burn of snow as it blows like a sheet of sandpaper in my face and the heart-pounding heave of my heart as  it feels like it might just give up at any second.  I remember the run taking forever, because it totally did.  There were so many streets that we ran down that by the end, when I hobbled up the stone path to my front door and said “Screw this.  Let’s make new New Year’s resolutions to get all fat and lazy,” Matt laughed at me and said “It’s only been twenty minutes.”

Okay, so I might have remembered the run a little differently.

Memory is a funny thing. Prior to the run of doom, I was listening to a podcast from on memory and imagination.  Apparently, neuroscientists have discovered that the two are closely linked in the brain so that every time we recall a memory it is being altered by the part in our brain that operates the imagination–meaning all of your memories are totally wrong.  Or at least kind of messed up.

As  a fiction writer, this makes for some interesting writing.  It’s always my goal to try and reach those deep inner truths that make scenes come alive, but this notion that our memories are always being re-remembered from an imaginative perspective based on our current situation makes for some difficult discoveries in the way of truth.  How can you find truth when the truth that you remember is kind of fiction?

Perhaps, when whoever said “truth is stranger than fiction,” what they really meant was “our memories are all kind of screwy anyway, so let’s just call it some damn good fiction and leave it at that.”

Anyway.  I’ve decided to take this whole memory-and-imagination-are-kind-of-the-same-thing-thing to mean that when I write my memoir I can totally lie and say that I was in a huge ninja fight with all sorts of zombies and ninjas instead of just having had surgery.  True story.

On a more realistic note (if one can even claim that this exists on the topic), I’m starting to think that writing with truth means writing the true feelings that emerge out of a situation and not necessarily the details that really happened.

Aimless Wandering and the Pen as Divining Rod

It was sunny and crisp outside so I couldn’t help going for a walk, which led nowhere in particular since I didn’t really have any place to be. Observing the newly melted water glistening in the sun and the flecks of snow as they glinted in the cold wind was interesting, but there is also a certain amount of discomfort in not having a plan. I kept thinking: people are going to wonder what I’m doing! Why am I wandering aimlessly?

Later, when I was home and working on a short story I encountered a similar feeling. Instead of writing it on the computer I chose to write it by hand in a notebook. I didn’t stop to think hard about my choices or plot points–I just wrote the story as it came to me. In the end, I liked the rough draft a lot better than I thought I would and it made me think that part of the creative process needs to be this uncomfortable act of divining the thoughts from…wherever they come from. Even though it feels weird to not know where the story is going, I think in the end the picture becomes clear.

What do you think? Do you begin with the end in mind or leave it up to chance?

The Value of Free Writing

I used to think that free writing was something that we did in school when the teacher wanted us to practice our writing skills without us knowing.  In high school, there was creative writing class, and we did free writing again, but those snippets of ideas were forgotten after the notebooks were graded and filed away.  Everything that we did back then was for a grade; it didn’t really hold much dedication, rhythm or meaning to the act of free writing.

This week I started free writing again, but somehow it felt different.  Why this act of free writing felt new eluded me until this morning when I realized that it was the ritual of writing without borders or criticism that changed the feeling.  There is something meaningful when you open a new notebook and sit at the desk for five or ten minutes and simply write about nothing in particular.  The pen becomes  a divining rod for ideas.  The writing feels more real and deeply rooted in emotion when it is all about putting pen to page rather than staring at a blank Microsoft screen.  It just works better.

I hadn’t really intended on learning anything today, but then sometimes that just happens, doesn’t it?


Making lists are sort of a guilty pleasure for me. I like to make lists about everything, leaving a trail of scattered papers around the house. Naturally, I had to make a list of New Year’s resolutions. It went something like this:

1. Go jogging once in a while (hey, you never know when zombies are going to take over the world)

2. Finish another novel

3. Be more social (I tend to hide behind my MacBook in my office)

4. Learn how to pluck own eyebrows–no, really, I don’t know how…

5. Learn to appreciate the little things…and avoid junk food.

Inevitably, when making a list of resolutions the items on said list usually end up being things that I want to change about myself. So I had a thought. While change can be good, maybe it’s time that we spend the wee hours of the New Year appreciating what we think is awesome about ourselves. If positivity and inspiration is a state of mind, then it is up to us to cultivate that feeling.

Living the Dream: The Phases of Building IKEA Furniture

Since I’m taking a short break from the writing to help a friend move into his new house, I’ve decided to write something a little different. Here is how I see the process of building IKEA furniture:


It begins when you see the furniture set up in the store. “It can’t be THAT hard to put together,” you say to yourself as you sit on the already constructed model in the dream-like show room. “What could possibly go wrong?” Even as you begin to unpack the many pieces and that familiar sense of foreboding bubbles to the surface, you push it back down. The cartoon directions are cute! The furniture has a funny name! It can’t be that bad…


It’s been hours. Your living room now looks like a battleground riddled with the corpses of torn cardboard, oddly named screws and some directions that make no sense. A vague feeling of hatred for that little stick dude rises to the surface as you peer bemusedly at the directions one more time.

“Why don’t they make non- Allen key screws?!? What’s up with those directions?”

Welcome to anger-ville, population you.


“Oh, —–.” and other variations. Insert any and all of your favorite expletives here, because in this phase they are plentiful. Usually occurring after you have built your furniture backwards, lost that all important screws and/or have fully assembled said furniture without a crucial piece, you beg the furniture to “just work dammit!”


Dammit, it didn’t work. Maybe you insulted its mama one too many times, because now it looks like something made by Picasso’s brain-damaged brother.
“This is never going to look like furniture,” you moan, sinking to the floor. In the depths of furniture building depression, THE DREAM seems pretty far away.


Congratulations! At some point, you have to pick yourself up off of the floor and do your best (or worst).

Your furniture may or may not look like what it did in the store, but you can sit on it/store your stuff in it and now it is time to accept the fact that it is what it is. Good job, friend, go and have a beer.

It’s Not the End of the World, You Know

Whenever I am worried about something, my mother says “it’s not like it’s the end of the world, you know.” Throughout the years, there have been many things that have warranted this reaction and today wasn’t really an exception.

Except maybe it was–if you believe in the whole Mayan Apocalypse debacle. But let me explain first. I am terrified of the dentist. As a child, I had a dentist who the kids called “Wild man Bill,” because he looked like a mad scientist and he frequently shrieked at anyone who would listen. The guy was like the boogeyman of dentists.

Since then, I’ve avoided the dentist as much as possible. Until this morning, when I had a jolt of pain in my tooth. To make a long and embarrassingly panic-ridden tale of childish fear short, I went to the dentist.
The dentist turned out to be really great. I joked, she drilled, we had some laughs and more importantly–it wasn’t the end of the world.
It was while sitting in the dentist’s chair that my mother’s words came back to me”…it’s not like it’s the end of the world…”

Here is a thought: even if you are facing something that scares you, it’s probably going to be okay. I think that after a certain point, we just have to accept that even if the world ended, we’d handle it and move on.