The Thursday! Newsletter 1-16: Ain't No Muse
Volume 1, Issue 16
I recently had a difficult discussion with "The Muse".
At least that's what I assume it was. Darned thing flitted in, all starlight and fluffy clouds, straight to my desk. I was on the couch roughing out a couple ideas for a story I want to write next week but it didn't even bother to say Hi or even acknowledge my presence. After a couple minutes during which I didn't hear anything but some light paper-shuffling, I closed my notebook, got up, and went over to the desk.
The Muse sat on the desk, with my "Idea Notebook" in its lap. It read through some of what I had there, its tiny finger tracing down the page like a grouchy accountant conducting an inspection of the books. I waited, arms crossed. After a minute or so, it flipped the page and read more, then another page, then a fourth. I capture a lot of little ideas, you see, and write them down for times when I need to grab a few of them and see what I can make from them. For instance, one of the stories I wrote this week used a famous quote (more or less) from one of my favorite movies and a whole bunch of atmosphere cribbed from some of the gothic horror stories I like to read. That is, these days, how I'm writing -- a little of this, a little of that, a bit of some other thing. Let the ingredients dance around like pent-up teens at an early 80's concert at CBGB and see what comes of it. So far, it's working pretty well.
The Muse, though, was not so impressed. It lifted its pouty, cherubic face and said, "Nope."
"Nope, what?" I plopped myself down in the chair and took the notebook from its hand. The thing looked a little bit like Winston Churchill, a little bit like the donkey from Hee Haw, and a little bit like a teacher I had back in elementary school who always thought I could do better no matter how well I did.
"Nope. This won't do," it said. It sounded annoyed. I guess it had some reason to be. Most of my adult life I've wanted to be a writer and for most of my adult life, the main piece of advice I've heard is that a writer must be kind to The Muse. Wait for The Muse to arrive with a story in hand. Sit at the keyboard and show The Muse that you're serious about your craft and it'll show up, all hard-hatted and carrying its metal lunchpail (That one's a Stephen King special). Think happy thoughts and The Muse will come and you will write and your writing will be clever and lovely, or at least it'll be inspired because that's what The Muse does. It inspires.
The Muse wasn't didn't seem like it wanted to inspire me. It seemed like it wanted to strike me down with lightning from a clear, moonlit sky.
"This is junk, Jimmie. What's wrong with you? Don't you want inspiration?"
I sighed. This wasn't going to be easy. "Look, we need to have a little talk. See, I have all the inspiration I can handle right now."
It narrowed its eyes, which were suddenly as black the ink in all the zeroes in James Patterson's net worth. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I'm okay. I don't need to wait for you to show up. I don't need whatever special gift you're supposed to bring me but somehow never manage to deliver. I guess what I'm saying is--"
"NO!" The Muse banged a pudgy fist on my desk and I barely caught a wooden Yeti carving I received as a birthday gift from toppling from its shelf and embedding itself in The Muse's noggin.
"Sorry," I said. And I really was sorry because what I had to say next was going to hurt it even more. "The real problem is, I no longer believe you exist."
It gasped and looked at me with the pouty lip of an ancient infant. I looked back and shrugged helplessly.
"What can I say here? The truth is I'm writing stories pretty regularly not because of anything you do but because of what I do. I sit in the seat and type. I open the notebook and write. I keep my eyes and ears open for things in the world I can use in my stories. I listen to the way people talk so my dialogue works. I read other people's stories and poems to keep my mind open and alive. I spent time in my online community with other creative people who encourage me and who let me encourage them. That's all me and not a single bit of you. So, what is it that you actually do?" I wanted for its answer. We sat in silence for almost a minute, with only the hockey game on the television to break the silent tension. When The Muse didn't speak, I kept going.
"You don't do anything. I used to think you didn't do what I was told you could do because I was unworthy. I used to think I wasn't a writer at all because you never came to visit me no matter what I did. I spent years wondering where you were and why you never saw me. I wrote absolute boring crap and hated my own words. Eventually, I gave it up. For decades. But I finally figured it out. It took long enough, but I got it. Want to hear?"
It glared at me. I noticed it wasn't nearly as solid as I remembered it being a minute before. The light of the lamp behind it passed through it. I smiled. I was right.
"I figured out there's no such thing as The Muse. There's just us. No magic. No fairy dust. No lunch pail. No winged cherub. What we write or draw or paint or sing or play comes from our heads and our hearts. We see the world and reflect back parts of it with our skills and our experience. The more we do, the better we can get. We aren't magicians but skilled professionals. For way too long, I let the very thought of you hold me back. I"m kind of done with that. And I'll tell you what else I am. I am a writer and you are...a lie." I said the last two words a bit more loudly than I meant. My cat stirred on the cough and I looked around the bookshelf to make sure she was still asleep. When I looked back, The Muse was a faint outline, fading away like the shimmer from sun-baked asphalt. As it faded, I fancied I heard a faint voice, spiteful and beaten.
"I hate you."
"Yeah," I said to the now empty air. "You and my Inner Critic. I kick his butt a couple times a week, too." then I got up, went back to the couch, and got back to those story ideas. Cool stories won't float in on fairy wings, you know.
New Story Alert: I have two new stories up on the site this week: "The Cat Who Danced" and "The Words on the Wall". If I can get enough written, I might just be able to put out a short story collection a little later this year. Would you be interested in such a thing?
New Book Alert: Well, here's the thing. The USPS delivered a box full of my books on Sunday night to a front porch, just not my front porch. It rained for a good chunk of Sunday night and all day Monday. My lovely wife found the box Monday evening on the other front porch. It didn't get rained upon but it did sit out in the damp for so long that the box itself was droopy and most of the books got that "humidity wrinkle". We figure we can salvage a few of the books, but not all of them. Amazon is sending out replacement books, at no cost to us, which should arrive between March 9 and 11 to a different address where I know the USPS does not routinely mis-deliver packages. I'll get them shortly thereafter.
What that means is this: I have a few books now that I can send out with autographs and everything, but I'm not sure exactly how many. Less than 10, surely. I'll have more in a couple weeks. So let's do this anyhow! If you want an autographed book, send $15 to me via PayPay at jimmiebjr@gmail.com. In the place where you can put notes and such, give me your mailing address and any special inscription you might want me to include. If you want two, it'll only be $25. I'll send out as many as I can now and more when the new batch comes in. If you don't mind a bit of a wavy book (with no water damage or stains or anything like that) so you can get one sooner, I'll send you one of those.
I appreciate your patience so far and ask for just a bit more. This is all very new to me and I'm improvising things as I go. I expect a bump or two in the road, though I don't expect the bumps to be huge. Except where the Post Office is involved.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Here Are the Arts and/or Letters I Promised...
This is just one of several stunning photos taken in the early 1900s and developed using an ingenious process called Autochrome. The pictured that aren't Autochrome were painted by hand. Enjoy!
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Here Are Links, either Useful or Fun!
Apparently, Stonehenge was made from recycled stones taken from an older henge.
If you have a spare $2.5 million kicking around, you could own a 15th-century Book of Hours! If you can't quite scrape up that much scratch, maybe you ca find enough under the couch cushions to buy a complete first edition set of Plato's works. Half a million ought to get it done.
I'll admit, as a lover of British television and certain British fantasy writers, I'd heard of a "ha-ha", but I'd never seen one. Now I have.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
One Last Thing
To borrow a phrase from another smart author, Thursday! is free, but it is not cheap. To show your support, forward it to someone who'd like it or order my book. If you like it, you can add your review to these. Is this your first time seeing my newsletter? You can read previous issues and subscribe right here.
If you'd like to talk back to me, encourage me, suggest something you'd like to see or you'd like me to write about, you can always hit the reply button! I can't promise I'll always answer back, because I'm quite forgetful, but I'll read everything you send.