Receipts and Whiney Muses

"I'm bored," my Muse whines. "When will you be finished?"

"Taxes take time. I have to get this right," I say.

"But you're not doing your taxes yet. You're just totaling receipts."

"These receipts tell me how much money Medusa's Muse has earned."

"And lost." She slumps into a chair.

I scowl at her. "Thanks for fixating on the losses."

"This year hasn't exactly been booming for your press."

"That will change."

"You say that every year."

Ignoring her, I focus on the pile of receipts again. Does the receipt for photocopies go in the supplies pile or the promotion pile?

My muse kicks my chair. "This press of yours is sucking more than money. It's sucking your creative energy."

I sigh. "Why do you do this every year?"

"Do what?"

"Bitch and moan about the press every time I have to do bookkeeping?"

"Because there is nothing creative about bookkeeping."

"True, there isn't. But to be creative I need to also be pragmatic. Bookkeeping keeps the lights on."

"But it takes too long. Why not hire someone?"

"Because that would take money, which you so kindly pointed out I don't have."

She crosses her arms and sulks. "I hate this part of publishing."

"Everyone does."

"During the Renaissance, you would have had a patron to take care of all those incidentals. He would have paid your taxes and provided you food and shelter, clothing and entertainment. All of your needs would have been taken care of, simply so you could create brilliant works of art."

"Talk to Rick." I clip a stack of receipts together and then label them postage.

"Don't you want to take a break and work on your play?"

"Yes, I do, but I have to get this done first."

"But..."

Swiveling in my chair to face her, I snap, "If you don't stop interrupting me I'll never get this done, which means I'll never get to work on my play."

She regally stands, looks at me, and in a calm voice says, "Don't forget you have a deadline on your play. You told UPT you'd finish the rewrites this week."

"I know."

"I'll leave you to it then." With a toss of her snake tresses, she softly walks from the room.

Muses!

Where was I? Crap, I know I have more receipts for travel. Where's the one from the dinner in October?

The Constipated Muse

My hubby and I ran away from home for Christmas: no cell service, no internet, no family, no stress. Our daughter went to stay with her dad for the holiday, granting us four days of nothing to do but lounge. We spent three nights at a B and B in Westport.  Drinking wine in the afternoon and then walking on the beach while our dog ran across the sand was the perfect vacation to wipe away the stress of this hectic year.

When I returned home from vacation, my muse was waiting for me.

"Feel better?" she asked when I walked into my room.

Setting my overstuffed canvas suitcase on the floor, I said, "Yes. Much better. You?"

"Fine. I'm fine."

I studied her pursed lips, her folded arms, the snakes twined severely on the back of her head. "You don't look fine."

"Of course I am. It was a nice break. I'm glad you had fun."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing. I decided to stay here and read."

"Really? I thought you were going up to Alaska to play in the snow."

"I changed my mind." She reached out and brushed lint from the back of my office chair.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

She nodded.

Shaking my head, I said, "Why don't I believe you?"

"I'm fine!" she snapped, taking a step away from me.

"Okay, you're fine. That's why you decided to stay home all alone and read books you've already memorized rather than go play in the snow with Alaskan wolves. And that's why you're holding your body so tight those snakes look like they might break in two if you sneeze."

She sighed. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay." I bent down and opened my suitcase.

"You wouldn't understand. It's a muse problem."

"Alright. We don't have to talk about it."

Pacing the room, she said, "It's painful and muses find it embarrassing, so we don't talk about it, especially not to our artists."

"If you say so." I pulled out a pile of mostly dirty clothes and threw them toward the hamper.

"I doubt you would even understand, but..." She stopped pacing and stared up at the ceiling. "Sometimes, we muses can get... backed up."

"Backed up?"

"Yes. Our energy can... get stuck."

I stood. "Stuck?"

"Yes. Stuck." Her lips pressed tightly as she stared at me, then she said, "It's very uncomfortable."

"Sounds like it. But what do you mean your energy gets stuck?"

"Sometimes the creative fires burn too hot and too much inspiration flows through me without an outlet. Since you're human, and busy..." She rolled her eyes."... you couldn't possibly handle the amount of creativity that needs release, and besides, you'd burn to a crisp, or at least your brain would."

"So it's like being horny?"

"No, not at all. After a while, too much repression leads to a slowing down of the inspirational flow, which causes the creative fire to back up. The fires build, but the outlet becomes blocked. This leads to actual physical pain for the muse."

"I see." She watched me closely as if judging if I was capable of grasping something so delicate and crucial to the muse experience. I took a deep breath and said, "It's more like being constipated."

Her eyes widened. "What?"

"Constipation. You know, when you really need to go but you can't, so all you feel is cramping and gas."

"I should have known that you'd imagine trapped creative energy feeling like the need to shit."

Suppressing a smile, I held out my hands to her. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to belittle this, I'm just trying to understand what you're going through so I can help."

"You can't help. You can only make jokes."

"I'm not laughing."

"Yes you are. You think I can't see that smile you're hiding."

"What can I do to help."

"Do you really want to help?"

"Yes, I really do."

"For starters you can finish the kids book immediately so you can finish the play. Then you can start the next play. And after that I'll tell you about the other book idea I have. I have lots of ideas to pump new energy into Medusa's Muse, including a new website and e-books. " She paced the room again. "Your workshop is ready to go forward and I have lots of thoughts on how and where to present the material. Also, you seem really excited about writing for kids, so I have several more possible subjects. And "Miranda" is waiting for you to finish, but I'm not sure that's where your passion lies anymore. Don't forget Burying Mama. You should just send it out into the wild again and see what happens." She whirled around to face me, her eyes shining. "Plus those two short stories are simply stellar, but of course need polish."

I sat down, suddenly feeling tired. "No wonder you're constipated."

Stamping her foot, she yelled, "I am not constipated!"

"I know, I know... I'm sorry. You have too many ideas for one artist. It's a big problem. I'm sorry I can't get all of your ideas done."

She gracefully dropped to the floor and sat with her legs criss-crossed. After a moment of silence, she said, "It's not your fault. It's mine. I push too hard. I want too much. Everything in the world inspires me, but the whole world is too full. That's why I stayed here in your room reading books I've already read a thousand times. I don't need any more ideas." She held her stomach tightly. "Ouch."

You need a good laxative, I thought, but decided it wise to keep my mouth shut. "I'll try to finish the kids book this week, if that will help."

"Thank you." She smiled at me. "But no pressure. Like I said, this is my fault. The creative flow is out of balance because I'm out of balance. It's time for me to focus, and help you focus, until we're both in harmony with the work.  It just takes time."

Time. That seems to be the biggest problem of all.

Enough with the Insecurity

"Have you read your blog lately?" my Muse asks while storming into my room with a stack of books in her arms.

"Yeah. I wrote it didn't I?"

"Then you know how pathetic you sound lately."

"Pathetic?"

"Yes. Pathetic." She paces the room still holding the tower of uneven paperbacks. "Blah, blah, blah... I'm so insecure... I don't have any confidence... I'm so afraid... pathetic!"

"What are you talking about? I'm trying to help people."

"Help people? If helping people is showing what a complete wimp you are then you're doing an awesome job. Here! This is for helping people." She tosses the books at me.

Flinging out my arms to protect my head, I catch one of the flapping books as it heads for my eyes. Several land in my lap and the rest bounce onto the floor.

"Watch it!" I shout. "What the hell are you doing?"

She puts her hands on her hips and in a mocking tone says, "Helping you."

I look at the book in my hand. How to find meaning in the second half of life. "What's this?"

"It's a book to help you stop being so annoying."

Looking down at my lap I read The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People and Co-Dependent No More. 


"Why are you throwing self-help books at me?"


"Because nothing else seems to be working. You're still the same insecure, terrified, wimpy little writer and editor you always were. Only now you're too old to blame it on youth." 


"I am not."

"Yes you are."

"Not."

"Yes!"

"You're just mean!"

"God! You can't even argue like an adult!" My muse kicks Going to pieces without falling apart so hard the front cover rips.

"You know I grew up in a crazy household. It's taken me a very long time to get over it."

"But that's the problem, you still haven't. You're still living like that little girl, and at your age, it's boring."

"Will you please stop making cracks about my age."

"Not until you start acting your age. Then I might."

I stand and let the few books in my lap fall to the floor. "I'm sorry."

"Stop saying you're sorry."

"Okay, I'm... you're... right."

My muse crosses her arms. "I am?"

"Yes, you're right. I have been too focused on my own insecurity, and yes I have been writing about it too much. I'm just nervous, that's all. But I'm working on it."

"Work on it harder."

"Okay, but you know you don't help when you throw self-help books at me."

"Be happy they weren't encyclopedias."

We stare at each other, our eyes not quite meeting for fear I might turn to stone. Her snakes stick out their tongues at me.

My muse sighs. "You really have no idea how talented your are, do you?"

I shrug. "I guess not."

"Well figure it out." She turns her back on me. "And stop wasting my time."

I look down at the floor and read, The places that scare you. 


"Maybe if you didn't yell at me so much I wouldn't be so insecure."

She turns to face me again. "Don't try to blame this on me."

"You aren't exactly the nicest muse on the planet, you know."

"The niceness of muses is overrated. We're all bitches. And besides, do you want to be coddled or inspired?"

"Inspired, of course."

"Then pick up these books, read a few, and get back to work. Enough with the insecurity for frell's sake!"

I snap my fingers. "Just like that? You know it isn't that easy..."

"Yes it is. Stop writing about it, dwelling on it, thinking about it, and stewing in it. When you feel insecure push it aside, take a deep breath, and keep working. Simple."

I can't think of any way to respond, because the simplicity of her words is so... simple. But is it really that easy? Just stop thinking about insecurity and it will go away?

She reads my mind. "Yes, it really is that simple. If you stop feeding your fears, they die. God, I didn't have to read a single fucking self-help book to know that. Humans overcomplicate everything."

I shrug. "Okay then, I'll give it a try."

"Good." She walks out of my room, yelling, "And throw out those books, too."

Coffee with my muse

"It's about time!" my muse says when she sees me sitting at the kitchen table typing away at my lap top.

"Hmmmm...." I mumble, still fixated on the screen.

She picks up my Wonder Woman coffee cup. "You're writing again."

"Trying to..." My voice shows how annoyed I'm feeling, but as usual she doesn't seem to care.

"Your coffee's cold." She takes a sip. "And you didn't put enough cream in it. You know I like a lot of milk in my coffee."

I stop typing and look at her. "Who's coffee?"

"You need a warm up." She crosses the room to the black and gray pot half filled with dark, strong coffee and pours some into my mug. Then she opens the carton of milk I left on the counter and fills the mug to the rim. Sipping, she sighs. "Perfect."

"Who's coffee?" I ask again.

Sitting at the table beside me, she drinks deeply and then nods at my lap top. "What are you working on?"

"The kids book."

"Good. I'm very excited about this project. It's a great subject."

"I'm glad you approve."

"I do. And then what?"

"Once this is done I need to finish editing the new manuscript for the press."

"Wonderful! And then?"

"I finish my play."

"Excellent. I can't wait to read it. And after that?"

"I finish my coffee." I take the mug out of her hands and hold it tightly.

She raises an eyebrow at me. "Touchy."

"Did you need something?"

"Just seeing what you're doing."

"I'm writing. Isn't that what you wanted me to do?"

"Yes. But I'm making certain you're really writing and not just commenting on Facebook."

"Facebook can be very stimulating."

"True, but it's not writing." She taps my laptop. "This is." Rising from her seat she smiles at me. "Carry on."

I set my mug on the table and start typing again, but I've lost my train of thought so I have to pause for a moment. Reaching for my mug, I realize it's gone.

Bitch

another reason to hate my muse

I let the kitchen door slam behind me as I walk outside into the heat. Squinting, I see my Muse lounging in a hammock in the sun, wearing a gold, string-bikini so small I wonder why she bothers.

"Will you give it a rest, for frell's sake!" I yell.

She lifts her oversized designer sunglasses from her eyes to stare at me. "What?"

"Stop giving me all these damn ideas! You know there's no way in hell I'll ever be able to write them down, let alone complete any of them!"

"So?"

"So? It's summertime! Queen Teen is out of school. I hardly have time to pee."

She shrugs and puts her sunglasses back on. "That's not my problem."

"Yes it is, so knock it off.  Stop sending me images of Art Deco living rooms and single-wide trailers and rainbows and Depression Era music and Johnny Depp impersonators and fan dancers and everything else you like to conjure while I'm busy taking care of my daughter and cleaning this house."

"Again, it's not my problem. I am supposed to send you those ideas. You are supposed to write them down. Whether or not you think you have time to do so is not a consideration."

"God, I really hate you sometimes!"

She smiles. "I know."

Swim in other people's words

"I've decided that you are far too exhausted to create anything right now," my Muse declares while she watches me struggle to type without the use of my right thumb.

"I'm okay. I'm getting used to this." I adjust the sling on my hand. "It just slows me down is all."

"I'm not talking about your hand, although that is the most apparent symptom of exhaustion."

"Really... I'm fine."

"Stop typing and look at me."

My hands freeze above my keyboard and I am suddenly aware of the acute throbbing in my thumb. Swiveling my chair around to face her, I pretend not to feel any pain. "What do you have to say?"

"You have that look in your eye, the same one I saw on Frida's face when she stopped sleeping because she couldn't stop painting."

"You were Frida Kahlo's muse?"

"No. I am friends with her muse and I visited from time to time. She's not the only one. Sometimes you artists push yourselves too far, as if you think you're going to run out of time to create something."

"You're the one constantly nagging me to keep writing."

She sighs. "It's true. I've pushed you too hard, I fear. I was simply trying to keep you writing despite the ridiculous amount of time you spent in graduate school."

"It wasn't ridiculous!"

"Let's not argue about that. You're missing the point." She holds out her arms to me and I stand, taking one of her hands in my good, left one. Leading me to the mirror, she says, "Look at yourself."

I see the dark circles under my eyes against my too white skin, the lank hair, the dry lips. I see the weariness in my dull eyes looking back at me in the mirror. Looking down, I see my right hand encased in a black brace, the swollen thumb isolated for protection. More than just my hand, I feel how much every muscle in my body aches from fatigue.

"What do I do?" I ask.

My muse smiles. "Rest."

"Not gonna happen. I'm a mom."

"Rest your mind. Don't worry so much about writing or revisions or deadlines. Swim in other people's words for a while and soak them up. Take in creativity, because your own energy reserves are on empty."

"But I have two pieces I have to write."

"Write them next week if you must, but don't start any new projects. You need time to refuel that vast pool of artistic energy you normally have. Anything you try to create right now will be utter crap, anyway. Plus, if you don't let your hand heal, you'll be in much worse pain and unable to write at all."

Looking back at my reflection, I murmur, "Swim in other people's writing..."

"Yes. Look at that stack of books you've been wanting to read." She nods her head toward the 30 books I have stacked in an uneven tower leaning against the end of my bed. "Read three of those before you even think about revising your play."

"But I have so little time and so many ideas..."

"Pooh! You have plenty of time. You're only 44. Why are you trying so hard to burn out before you're 50?" She leans her hands against my dresser and stares into the mirror, her eyes narrowing as she looks at me. "And lets not forget who gives you all those ideas. If you ignore my advice to rest, I won't help you with any of them."

"That's blackmail!"

"Call it what you like." She walks to the stack of books and picks up The Traveling Death and Resurrection Show. "Start with this."

I catch the book she tosses me.

How to make your muse insecure

My muse is staring at me while I work. She hasn't moved in ten minutes. Even her snakes are attentive.

"What?" I ask.

"I'm trying to decide if anything about you has noticeably changed."

Stopping my writing, I turn to stare back at her. "What do you mean?"

"You seemed so different on Saturday."

"Why? How was I different?"

"So... confident."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"No. I don't mean it to sound like a bad thing.... it's just..."

"Yes?"

"Where did it come from?"

"Pardon?"

Moving closer, she sits on the edge of my desk while keeping her gaze fixed on me. "This confidence I saw. Where did it come from?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. You obviously didn't notice how scared I was. It was terrifying standing in front of all those people trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about. Thank God they were a good crowd and asked a lot of questions. If they'd just sat there staring at me the whole time, I would have thrown-up."

"But your fear didn't show. You stayed in control of yourself and that room and got your point across effectively. The audience learned from you and were inspired by you, which is what good teaching requires." She picks up a strand of my hair and strokes it between her fingers. "Even when you lost your train of thought a few times, you just took a deep breath and got organized. I've never seen you so... confident."

"Think my confidence is hidden in my hair?"

She laughs, but keeps playing with my hair. "No. I'm just wondering what exactly has changed about you."

"It felt good standing up there in front of those people sharing an idea with them. I liked it. And I believed that I had something to say that could really help them. That made it easier."

She lets go of my hair and leans closer. "Yes, this idea of yours... where did it come from?"

"I don't know... it's just something I was thinking about... about how many options there are to get published now and how someone can figure out what choice is right for them."

"But you created a step-by-step process for discovering that path. How did you know how to do that?"

"I just thought about it a lot. Thought about my own journey and how I figured out that I wanted to start a press. And I thought about how I've been trying to get an agent for my fiction, but it's so hard to get one. So what other options are available? Once I started thinking about that, the idea of the four step process just sort of... bloomed."

"Are you sure you didn't have help?"

"Help?"

"Yes. Help. From anyone, or anything..."

"I suppose I've had help from other writers and teachers over the years, but no one specific. I didn't steal the idea, if that's what you mean."

"Of course that's not what I mean. You're not the type." She stands, smoothing the snakes away from her face. "I want to know what inspired you."

"Are you asking me if I found a different muse?"

"No... of course not." Standing in front of the mirror, she pats her snake hair into place. "You would never do that to me." She pauses and glances at my image reflected in the mirror. "Would you?"

"Where would I find another muse?"

"They're about, always hunting for a new artist to inspire."

"I already have a muse."

"So. If one sensed that you were unhappy..." She turns around and looks at me with wide, sad eyes. "Are you unhappy?"

"No. I'm fine. Everything is fine between us." I stand and move closer, trying to be close enough to reassure her while also keeping my distance from her unpredictable, poisonous, snake hair. "Medusa, I don't need another muse. I have you, and I like you. Even if you're a bit hard to work with sometimes, we both know I've created my best work since I've been working with you."

She nods. "I'm glad. Because I like working with you."

"It would be nice to hear it now and then."

"Why? If I didn't like working with you, I'd be gone."

That's my muse. Forever kind and supportive.

She pulls back a snake that is slowly inching closer and closer to my head. "Are you sure no one else inspired you?"

I hold a hand to my heart. "I swear."

"Good. But just to be sure, I'm going to look around and see if anyone else is trying to get a hold on you. You may not even be aware if another muse is attempting to take control."

"You make it sounds like a pack of vampires out to get me."

She smiles. "Who says we aren't?"

Who indeed?


"But first," she says, taking my arm and leading me to the couch. "You must tell me all about this process of yours for finding your publishing path."

"Didn't you hear enough on Saturday?"

"I want you to tell me again. Slowly. I find it very intriguing."

"Well, first, you have to look at your work and decide why you're writing and who you're writing it for. Then..."

My muse didn't keep her promise...

... or rather, she forgot I have two tests. Here I am, studying for my very last exam, my Master's exam, the one I need to pass for my degree and to graduate from San Francisco State University, and my muse is whispering in my ear, "What do you want to publish next?"

"Stop it. Go away."

"What book will you publish first?"

"I said stop it."

"Do you really plan to try publishing fiction for a change?"

"Can't you see I'm trying to study?"

"That could be very interesting. And challenging..."

"I'm not listening."

"I like a good challenge. Y.A.? Adult fantasy? Not children's books, surely."

"I said I'm not listening."

"Yes... Y.A. Now there's an interesting market. But what will you publish to crack it?"

"Will you please...!" I shout.

"I'm interested in that manuscript your friend has been shopping around. It sounds like it has potential. You should call her."

Impossible! I turn back to my text book. "Cortical Visual Impairment is the leading cause of vision impairment in children..."

"And I wonder if that writer who's story is in the punk anthology is really working on a memoir. What a fascinating read that would be."

"... followed by Retinopathy of Prematurity, Optic Nerve Hypoplasia, Albinism, Optic Atrophy and refractive errors"

"Do you think Tama will ever have the time to finish her book? I hope so. I'd love to work with her. She's so funny."

"In adults, the leading causes of blindness are Macular Degeneration, Diabetic Retinopathy, and Cataract."

"We are going to have so much fun when you finish school."

I slam down my book. "Then maybe you should let me finish school by studying for this frickin exam!"

She is silent for a moment, staring at me, her snakes slowly winding themselves behind and away from her freezing gaze. Then she shrugs. "Of course. I'm simply reminding you how wonderful it will be when you are done."

"Thanks," I growl.

"And when you have a job, you'll finally have money to invest in Medusa's Muse."

I slowly pick up my text book and force myself to keep reading.

She smiles. "Yes, a little money invested in Medusa's Muse is just what you need. It's time to take it up a notch, really market those books of yours. Maybe even buy some t-shirts and other shwag to sell at events. People really love the logo, as they should."

"The macula has the highest concentration of cones. Cones allow us to see color and fine detail..."

"It's going to be a great year for Medusa's Muse. I can feel it in my bones!" She keeps talking as I try desperately to concentrate on eye diseases.

But I'd rather be talking to her about future projects and expansion and revising the budget and calling a creative team meeting to get those artistic ideas flowing and....

Damn it! She sucked me in!

Here's to madly writing

I am taking time out from studying to work on an article for Hip Mama, enjoying a peppermint hot chocolate at the cafe, when suddenly my Muse sits at my table across from me.

"I like your haikus," she says.

Staring at her, my hands frozen above my keyboard, I'm not sure if she's really here or a just needy figment of my imagination. "Thanks," I finally squeak.

She grabs my hot chocolate and takes a sip. "You do know of course, that you can get a peppermint hot chocolate any time of the year."

"I know."

"Then why do you insist on only drinking it during the holidays?"

"It's a tradition. And if I drank it all the time, it wouldn't be special. "

Nodding, she takes another sip. "I suppose that's true."

"Why are you here?" I finally ask. "I thought you were mad at me."

With a dismissive wave of her hand, she says, "Please. I was frustrated, that's all. I've had time to think and I've come to the realization that you're right. This is a temporary writing freeze, nothing more. You must focus on school and finish what you started, and not only finish, but finish well. Once you have a day job and a regular schedule you'll be so hungry for creative endeavors you won't be able to NOT write. I can wait."

"I'm glad you understand."

"I'm practical to a fault." She leans across the table and meets my eyes. "I have fabulous ideas brewing already, just waiting for the right moment."

"I know. Even when you were mad at me you were sending images about my next play."

She laughs. "Isn't it wonderful. It will be your greatest work. When is Script-Frenzy, by the way?"

"April."

"Then you'd better finish school by then, because I will be hounding you day and night until that play is written."

She drinks more of my hot chocolate, her snakes leaning close to the cup to catch the scent of peppermint. "This really is quite delicious."

"Want your own?"

"No. I'll just drink yours." She laughs again and the snakes hiss happily.

I watch my fearsome muse lick sticky chocolate off her fangs, her pale green eyes sparkling. Then I say, "I'm glad you're back."

"I never left."

"I wasn't sure."

"I will never leave you, Terena, although you may someday wish I would. Because ultimately you have no choice. You will either have to keep writing, or go mad."

Taking back my drink from her clawed, beautiful hands, I raise the cup to her. "Then here's to madly writing."

"Happy Thanksgiving," she says.

Am I still a writer, or should my muse find another artist?

My muse flopped onto the bed and let out a deep, pitiful sigh. "I'm bored."

Uh oh. It is never good when a must gets bored.

"When will you finish school, for Heaven's  sake?" she demanded, lifting her head to stare at me.

"Um... March. I think," I replied. "If all goes well."

"March?" Every snake in her hair glared at me. "Are you serious?"

"Yes, I am."

"March is four months away!" Her head fell back on the bed and she stared at the ceiling. "Four months... I can't stand it!" She bounced off the bed and stood. "You have to stop immediately."

"Stop? I can't stop now. I'm almost done."

"But you won't be done for months! This is impossible. I can't live this way any longer!" My Muse sank to her knees and clutched her head. The snakes entwined themselves around her fingers and wrists, hissing gently as if to comfort her.

"I'm sorry. I know it's hard..."

Without raising her head, my muse wailed, "You have no idea how hard it is."

"Not much longer. Really. It will be over before you know it."

"And then what?" Her golden eyes were filled with tears as she looked at me. "When you finish school you'll get a job. Then you'll be working all the time, with no end in sight. I've seen it before. An artist spends all her time at work, then at home doing laundry, and before long 20 years have passed and she hasn't written a damn thing. And then what becomes of me? Do you really think I'll just sit around and wait until you retire at age 65?"

I met her gaze and felt twinges of cold harden my toes and fingers. "I'm sorry. I know this must be difficult."

"Difficult?" My muse angrily swiped the snakes away from her face and rose to her full height of 6 feet. All the snakes hid on the back of her head. "Difficult?"

"Yes. And I appreciate your patience..."

"I am not the muse of a school teacher!"

"I know..."

"I am the muse of a writer. Do you know who else I have inspired?"

"Not really..."

"Leane Zugsmith! I was the muse of Leane Zugsmith."

"Who?"

She ignored me. "And before her, Margaret Oliphant. I have inspired countless others through the centuries, creating some of the greatest work in the Western World. Does that sound like the muse of a school teacher?"

The cold from her gaze had creeped up my arms and into my neck, forcing me to look away. I studied the floor and listened to her snakes hiss louder as she ranted. A pissed off Muse is not a pretty sight.

Suddenly, my Muse was quiet. I glanced up and saw she was sitting on the bed again, looking tiny and pale. "I like you," she said, staring at me with sad eyes. "I really do. I saw a deep potential in you, inhibited only by your lack of confidence and your insistence that you are undeserving of any measure of success. I thought with my guidance you'd uncover your talents. Instead, you've decided to become a teacher, giving up writing plays and novels for the comfort of a steady paycheck and a retirement fund."

"That's not true..." I whispered.

She stood and studied me closely. "It isn't? Are you sure?"

I met her unblinking eyes and nodded. "Yes. I'm sure."

"Then prove it." Suddenly, my Muse vanished.

Happy Third Birthday, Medusa's Muse

I've been so busy lately I forgot Medusa's Muse birthday! Three years old on October 1st, which is the date the press became a real, legitimate, tax paying business. Prior to that was two years of planning, which I think of as gestation. The first book published by Medusa's Muse launched in November, 2007 and was called Traveling Blind: Life Lessons from Unlikely Teachers. Then came the handbook, What You Need to Know to Be a Pro, and the latest book, Punk Rock Saved My Ass. Wow, three books in three years! How on Earth did I manage to pull that off?

Happy Birthday, Medusa's Muse. Many thanks to Jane and Rick for helping to make this crazy dream of mine come true, and thank you to all my friends who support the press and cheer me on.



And of course, thank you to my muse. Without her, I'd never have found the inspiration. This is how it began...

When Muses Get Bored

Watching a city rise from the dust - Burning Man

 

(image from Google Earth Blog      )

My muse went to Burning Man last week because she couldn't resist watching people build the city. "Imagine watching a city being built by a thousand artists on a lake that's been dead for ten thousand years, with the sun and the alkali sucking the moisture out of their bones as they work." She sighed loudly, as if she were starving and had just smelled a fresh blackberry pie.

I smiled. "It sounds almost sacrificial. Must be an amazing sight."

"And at last I will see it."

I stopped cleaning my Camelpak and stared at her. "You've never been?"

She shook her head and sighed again, this time as if the blackberry pie had been taken from her. "No. I am a writer's muse." Rolling her eyes, she said, "I've never enjoyed the pleasure of time with a sculptor or musician's creative energy, so there's never been a reason for me to go. ... until now." She smiled.

"I'm pretty excited we're going, too."

She looked at my Burning Man ticket stuck to my bulletin board. "You've dreamed of going for so long."

"Years! But I've never had the chance, or the money, or the time... " I continued rinsing the bladder of my Camelpak, letting the bleach-tinged water pour into the sink. "I've either been in school, or broke, or busy raising my daughter. This is the year to go. Plus, it's extra special I'm going with my dad."

My muse grinned. "I like your dad. His muse is a little crazy, but he seems to like that chaotic energy. He's done some good work with her."

"Will she be there?"

"Of course. She's the one who suggested they go in the first place. She can't get enough of that Burning Man energy. There will be a large gathering of muses from all over the world, showing off their artists and inspiration."

I turned off the faucet. "I'm sorry I don't have anything to show off out there."

She waved her hand as if dismissing the thought. "Please. You have nothing to be sorry about. You yourself are the art I can display."

As I felt the stroke of pride in her words, and the excitement at the thought (I am the art), my muse suddenly stripped off her clothes and shook out her long main of black hair, her snakes writhing with excitement. She was beautiful standing in a sun beam, her skin gleaming with hints of gold and flame. "Time to go. See you in a few days."

"I'll be there."

And then she was gone.

I finished packing, thinking about my muse running naked across the playa, watching the city rise from the dust.

Finding the Source

My muse stood on the edge of the bluff, the ocean crashing and rolling far below her. The wind whipped the snakes in her hair; I could heard them hissing with glee as they crashed into each other like a slithering mosh pit. When I stood beside her, my muse looked at me and grinned.

"Can you feel it?" she asked.

"What?"

"The roar of the world."

She turned back to face the sea, transfixed by the tug and flow of the tide. "It's all here, everything you need to create."

I nodded. "I feel it."

"Good. I was afraid you'd forgotten how."

I was taking a break from my frenetic life, spending time with my friend Jody at a place called the Howard Creek Ranch, three miles from Westport on the Mendocino Coast. We wrote, ate, talked, drank wine, walked along the bluffs, talked about our writing, and then wrote some more. Slowly the tension in my body gave way to a calmer quiet and I could feel my creative energy stirring. It had become sluggish with the weight of grad school and motherhood, but that old, Victorian farm house near the ocean, the desire and concentration to write grew. By the end of our stay I'd finished an essay left on hold too long and then dove head first into play revisions. I was afraid I'd forgotten how to write anything longer than short blog posts or papers for class. Happily, writing is a lot like riding a bicycle.

My muse is rested and fully energized. After three days of talking to the gulls and the abalone (who are quite intelligent, my muse says), she was filled with ideas. I just hope I can keep up with her.

My Muse is Back

I was strolling across the San Francisco State campus, taking my time on my way to class, when suddenly my muse appeared beside me wearing an orange sundress and large, round sunglasses.

"Yummmm... there are some mighty fine young boys at this school," she said. "And girls."

"What are you doing here?" I stopped walking and looked around quickly, wondering if anyone else could see my nemesis and the mistress of all my creativity.

She put her hands on her hips and rolled her eyes. "Good to see you too."

"I thought you were on vacation."

"I was."

"Then why are you here now?"

"I'm back."

"You're not supposed to be back yet."

"Says who?" My muse smiled a slow, sardonic smile. "You?"

I pulled up the shoulder straps of my too heavy back pack. "You know I'm in school right now. I don't have time for you."

My muse burst into a belly-laugh and her snakes joined in, hissing in tiny, whispered puffs of glee. "I love it when you pretend that you're in control. It's so funny." She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. "Seriously though, I cut my vacation short because I figured out how to fix the ending of your play."

"That's great, but couldn't you come back in three weeks. I really need to get to class."

"No I can't come back in three weeks. The inspiration is now. I fixed your play. Don't you want to know how?"

"Of course I do. I'm excited to see what you've come up with. But right now I really have to go to class. It starts in ten minutes."

"Fine. Go to class. I'll just take the ending of your play with me. I haven't been to Nepal in a long time. Maybe I should do some mountain climbing this summer." She narrowed her eyes. "All summer."

I sighed. Why are muses so sensitive?

"Okay, I'm sorry," I said. "I appreciate you cutting your vacation short and dashing back here to help me with my play.  Thank you." I touched her arm gently, making sure I was out of reach of her snake hair. "And I want to hear all about it. Unfortunately right now I really do have to get to class, but can you meet me after and we can talk about your ideas? Please?"

She crossed her arms and stared at me for so long I began to twitch. The clock was ticking and I was now going to be late for class, but still she stared. At last she shrugged and said, "Alright. I'll meet you after your ridiculous class and we can talk then. Really, I don't understand what all this fuss is about school."

I decided not to argue with her. I was late. "You're probably right, but it's important to me. So I'll see you later."

My muse watched me walk away, until a tall, young man with long dark hair rolled by on his skateboard, weaving around pedestrians in a lazy grace. "Oh my..." she said, and then suddenly she too was rolling by on a skateboard in silent pursuit of the beautiful man. She smiled at me when she passed me by and I laughed. At least she'd be distracted for a while.

Happy Birthday Jane Austen!!!!!!

Today is Jane Austen's birthday and I'm celebrating by re-reading Sense and Sensibility, one of my favorite books written by one of my all time favorite writers. Jane Austen was highly successful in her time, despite the fact she was a woman and a spinster, and her work has resonated with people for 200 years. How did she create such timeless characters who still speak to us today? Their circumstances may be different, but the deeper drives and longings are not so different from our own.

Here is an interview with Andrew Davies about adapting Jane Austen's books for the screen.



Happy Birthday, Jane Austen. Thanks for the wonderful stories and the lessons you taught me about writing.

The secret inside Christmas Jars

My muse is examining the book we got in the mail last week: Christmas Jars, by Jason F Wright. She turns each page slowly, studying the words, the font, weighing the book in her two hands, stroking the paper, turning it upside down to hunt for hidden message or more money.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"What is the secret of this book?"

"Secret?"

"Why did it inspire a total stranger to send you money?"

On the day before Thanksgiving, a mysterious package arrived in the mail addressed to my husband and me, with no return address or name. Inside was a slim book called Christmas Jars, and inside the book was an envelope with a check. We couldn't figure out what it was and thought maybe my husband had sold something on ebay, but why the book? After reading the introduction, I realized that the check was a symbolic Christmas jar, a collection of spare change in a jar that you save to buy Christmas presents. The book was about a family who anonymously gives money at Christmas to people who are in need, and that story has encouraged thousands of people to do the same.

It was hard to believe someone was kind enough to send us money. On the one hand, I felt happy knowing people really care about others and they wanted to help, but on the other, I felt ashamed that someone thought we were "needy." Yeah, I admit, things are tough. I was laid off from my day job two years ago and since then I've been in grad school trying to learn a new, employable trade. My husband was laid off in May. Every day is a struggle to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads and we were contemplating skipping Christmas this year, except for our daughter of course. We don't know if we'll be able to keep our house and we pray every day that our car will start (200,000 + miles is a lot of miles), but we don't really think about it. We just do what needs to be done. I suppose though, we really are needy.

Eventually I let go of the shock and shame and felt truly grateful for the gift from a total stranger, and grateful to the author of the book for inspiring someone to give it. And when we're back on our feet, my husband and I plan to do the same.

My muse is still staring at the book as if it contains the mystery of the Universe. "It's so small. Only 115 pages. Not even a full book."

"It's a novella."

"I know that. But how can a book with so few pages inspire so many people?" She sets the book gently on my desk. "It's like that book Eat, Pray, Love."

"How so?"

"Elizabeth Gilbert wrote a book that inspired thousands of people to think about their own lives and make changes. And Paolo Coelho wrote The Alchemist, which has a cult following, although it really isn't that great of a book." She twirls a hair-snake between her fingers rapidly, ignoring its hissing squeals.

I think for a moment, then say, "They all speak to the readers on an emotional, personal level, on what Jung would call the collective unconscious."

"I understand that," my muse snaps. "That's obvious. These books appeal to a large number of people on a deeply intuitive level. But mechanically, how do they do it?" She picks up the book again and wags it before my face like a frustrated teacher. "What secret does the author have while writing the story? Do they have a plan? Do they even know what they're doing when they write it? What is their process?"

Taking the book from her hand, I say, "I don't know."

She shakes her head. "I know you don't know, that's the problem. I need to talk to his muse."

"This really bothers you."

"Of course it bothers me. There is something in these books that I am not grasping, and that is unpardonable for a muse!"

She looks at herself in my mirror and straightens her snakes into an acceptable tangle on the top of her head, then she applies blood red lipstick. "I need to talk to his muse."

And she's gone.

Collage

Being forced to be creative outside of your comfort zone is difficult. Without my laptop, I feel that I am trying to juggle five balls with one hand tied behind my back. My creative productivity has plummeted.

I am obviously too dependent on creating words on my laptop.

And that is why, two nights ago, my Muse handed me a stack of magazines and said, "Remember that dream you had two weeks ago? The one with the little girl and the stream and the large rock you waded out to."

"There were dragonflies flying all over."

"Yes. That's the one. I want you to create that with these." She tapped the stack of fashion magazines in my arms.

The magazines had been collecting in my living room over the last year until they were a large stack of dusty, glossy pages needing to be tossed in recycling. I don't typically buy them, but on occasion a particular article or cover will attract me and I'll spend an hour salivating over beautiful clothes and images, imagining what it must be like to wear Channel while sipping champagne at Cannes.

I dropped the stack on my desk. "I'm not a visual artist."

My muse rolled her eyes. "Don't limit yourself. That's the death of art." She opened the top right drawer of my desk and pulled out a pair of scissors and masking tape. "Go get that sketch pad out of the pantry."

I did as I was told, not wanting to piss off my muse any more than absolutely necessary. When she's made up her mind I'm supposed to do something, she won't let me sleep until it's done.

She was already going through one of the Vogues, pulling out photos of water and rocks. Nodding at the stack she said, "Pick a magazine."

I sighed, sat in my chair, and opened Vanity Fair. This is such a waste of time, I thought. I should be working on my novel, or finishing the synopsis of my play, or sending queries for my article, not pulling pictures out of magazines to make a collage no one will ever see.

A strange thing happened as the hour passed; the images absorbed me. I didn't look at the words, although a few phrases did catch my attention, such as "you are the dream." Pictures became the language. After I had several different images of water ( deep blue, fast moving, ocean waves, green algaed lake, tranquil stream, clear flowing from a faucet, reflecting moonlight), I began arranging them on a large, blank paper.

My muse found a black and white picture of a little girl wearing a tutu with a plastic sword strapped to her waist. "This is you!"

I laughed. "I love it."

Carefully trimming the little girl out of the background, I felt the dream become tangible on the paper. It isn't exactly how it looked, but all of the images recreated the feel of the moment in my dream when I stood on a rock and looked across the river at me as a little girl watching the dragon flies dance in the sky. The images told the story far better than any words I could come up with.

In our constant rush to produce literature, we writers tend to forget how to play. There is so little time to write it seems, every second is precious and must not be wasted. I can still write in my journal and on scratch paper, but my productive writing is all on my laptop. What if you were forced to stop writing for a while? What if your muse demanded you take a break and be non-verbal instead? Could you do it? What would you create without words?

Oidhche Shamhna

Halloween is my muse's favorite holiday because she like to see what people reveal about themselves on that one night, when they put on a costume and give themselves permission to be ridiculous. All the hidden fears, desires and childhood fantasies are on display. Children become powerful superheroes with the ability to control the universe. Housewives become dangerous vixens. Business men show off their garter-belts. Creatures from horror movies wander the streets, hunting for candy instead of blood. Grown women dress up like cowboys, complete with cigar and six-shooter. Suddenly, everyone is an outlaw.

Halloween is also called Oidhche Shamhna, or the eve of samhain, which is the Celtic new year (Nov. 1). The Celts built bonfires to celebrate the death of the old year, in which bones were burned (bone-fires). It was said that the veil between the world became thin as the year turned, so spirits and the ghosts of loved ones could come for a visit with a living. Not all of those spirits were friendly though, so the Celts decorated gourds with symbols and scary faces to keep the bad ghosts away. People also wore masks to confuse the evil spirits.

"The Celts really knew how to throw a party," my muse said while trying on one of my vintage hats.

"You were there?" I asked, startled to think of my muse at a party 2000 years ago.

She shrugged. "Of course. Why are you so surprised? I've been to all the hot spots." She adjusted the hat's veil and turned her head side to side while studying her reflection. "As soon as the sun set, the bonfires were lit and the feasting began. We dressed in our finest, danced in the light of the fire and sang songs to the gods. The music was incredible. I'll never hear better." She scowled and took off the hat, but almost ripped the veil when a snake got its fangs tangled in the netting.

"Sounds beautiful."

"It was. But I think I like today's celebrations better. Back then, people conformed to the traditions of the ceremony. Now, you can dress up any way you want and if you get arrested, so what? It's much more egalitarian now days."

"What are you going to dress up as?" I asked.

With a slow, almost wicked grin, she said, "A goddess of course."

Why am I not promoting my own book?

I know I'm in trouble when my Muse puts on a suit. Dark blue with a red tie and black, shiny shoes. Her hair-snakes are pulled back into a severe pony-tale that wiggles down her back. She does not look amused.

"What did I do now?" I ask.

"Why haven't you been marketing your own book?"

I shrug. "In case you haven't noticed, I've been a little busy."

"Bullshit." She taps her foot and glares at me.

"Bullshit?"

"Yes, bullshit. You're not that busy."

"Excuse me, Miss I-wear-a-power-suit-so-I-know-everything. I am in grad-school! I'm up to my eyeballs in homework and exams, plus I'm still a mom, in case you forgot, and I have a press to run. So yeah, I've been a little busy."

She sits down in my chair and puts her feet up on my desk. "Those are just excuses."

Now I'm getting mad. "Easy for you to say."

"You have enough time to do something every week to promote your own book, but you don't. You've tossed your book to the side and have focused solely on the punk anthology and school. If all you did was one small thing every week to promote your book, more people would be reading it. But instead you've shoved the box holding your books under the couch and act as if you never published it. Like your work doesn't matter." She looks directly into my eyes. "Your work matters."

"I know my work matters..."

"Prove it."

I sigh and sit across from her on the desk. "I really am busy right now..."

"How many places have you sent your play?"

"My play?"

"How many places have you submitted it?"

"One."

"Just one?"

"Yes."

"And how about your other play, the ten minute one? Where have you sent that?"

"A festival in New York."

"Have you heard from them?"

"Yes."

"What did they say?"

"They said no."

"Where did you send it after that?"

"Nowhere... it might need work."

She rolls her eyes. "Hah. Again, you act as if your work doesn't matter. You write volumes of pages, some of it good, and then stick it in a drawer and forget it. Just like you did you book, a book you dedicated an entire year of your life to. Why did you spend money printing it if you weren't planning to sell it?" A snake strains over her shoulder to see what is going on. My muse shoves it back impatiently. "All you have to do is one simple thing to market your book every week. That's it. Nothing expensive or too time consuming. Just one small thing. I'll bet you have time to do that."

"But what?"

Swinging her legs off my desk, my muse stands and walks to my book case where she pulls out a large, heavy book. "Pick a page and do what it says." She tosses the book on the desk where it lands with a startling bang.

I pick it up. "1001 ways to market your book."

"Do you even remember buying it."

"Yes. A long time ago. I hear there's a new volume."

"Why did you buy it if you weren't going to use it?"

I shrug.

"Just pick a page and do it. One thing every week." She stands beside me and leans against my shoulder. "Do it for me," she whispers.

One thing a week.

I open a page.

Rain all the way from Japan

My muse is running down the street in her underwear, shouting, "Rain!" She is giddy with the smell of it, the feel of wind and rain all the way from Japan flowing on her skin. Her snakes are shivering in a frenzy, lapping up the rain drops with golden tongues, eyes wide in wonder because they forgot what rain smelled like. It's been too long since Northern California has felt rain, and now it seems that four years of drought is trying to break free in one glorious torrent in one stormy day.

The sound of rain on my roof soothes my nerves. I light a candle and watch rain drops run down the window pains, leaving long fingers of gleaming water. My muse is still outside, refusing to come in, even though snakes are cold blooded and if they had teeth they would be chattering. She squats beside the garden and watches the ground soak up the moisture so fast she can hear it hiss. The snakes answer. Rain... rain... rain... rain...

As you can see, rain stokes my creativity. I'll probably be up most of the night writing terrible poetry.