Friday, December 28, 2012

A Muse isn’t for Your Amusement

Writings of The Muse
I don’t really have time for this, but they say if you want something done, ask someone busy to do it. You aren’t going to find anyone busier than me these days. We’re currently wrangling a litter of shape-shifting familiars and one very reluctant witch toward a fight with a bunch of demons. It should be interesting, if I can ever get them there. Right now they’re all insisting on kissing and being angsty. Three-hundred years old and the girl is still plagued by angst. Why do fictional characters never grow out of that?

Don’t answer that. I’m getting off topic. This is meant to be an introduction post. The Idea Salesman has insisted that blogging is a part of my contract, so here I am. Blogging.

Blogging. What an absolutely awful word. It’s like the English language just threw up a little in the back of its mouth and with a thick sloppy plop, spit out a new word. You can’t even say it without making a little vomiting motion with your mouth. Blahg-ging. Clearly someone in the inspiration department was having an off day.

I’m getting off the point again though. That is likely to happen a lot. I am, after all, a Muse. It is my job to sift through all the random information in my novelist’s head and find the seeds of her next Good Idea. I don’t always strike gold and I usually have the Inner Editor to help me filter out the Not So Good Ideas.

I’m not entirely sure the internet is the best place for me. I’m running unfiltered here, which is somewhat disconcerting.

Contrary to popular belief, Muses do not just flit around tossing out nuggets of creativity like rose petals and expecting works of pure genius to be born fully-formed from merely observing the graceful way they drift along the breeze. Well, most of us don’t. I won’t bore you with horror stories of my predecessor. Let’s just say we’re all better off now that she’s moved on to play in the imagination of a two-year-old.

I’m not altogether sure the two-year-old is better off, but that’s her parents’ problem.

My problem is inspiring a novelist who insists on writing at damn-that-hurts-are-you-freaking-kidding-me-the-sun-isn’t-even-up-yet o’clock in the morning. Musing is hard work. I’ve got to find those potential good ideas and polish them up until they’re shiny enough to pierce the haze of Real Life. Real Life brings with it stress and responsibility and upheaval. And I have to compete with children and pets and spouses and friends. That’s a lot of haze.

And most of the time there’s only one cup of coffee to get us through it.

Most of my work gets done in the background, lining things up and finding filler for plot holes whenever I can steal some brain power during a shower or while the toddler is entertained with her whatever toy has caught her fancy today and Renee is folding laundry. I only get a few hours a week at the keyboard. Random scraps of time cobbled together by sacrificing a precious hour of sleep and on the sufferance of Long-Suffering Husband.

And today I’ve had to devote my time to doing this. Blogging. Ugh. Don’t expect to see me around here too often. The writing comes first.

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