Why Medusa's Muse?

Why Medusa's Muse? My Muse asks me that question. I think she's a little offended by the implication, like I'm not appreciative of her presence, or maybe I think she's evil. I remind her that she does have snakes in her hair, to which she replies, "Everyone needs a pet. They don't mean anything." Then she wraps them securely on top of her head with an emerald pin, impaling one through the throat.

I'll try to explain. Medusa's Muse is that problem that immobilizes you. Your greatest fear, your most painful defeat, crashing into your life and making you fall. You don't know how you're going to deal with it, but somehow, despite the grief or rage, you find a way. And not only do you handle it, but you transform it. The event or person which almost destroyed you becomes the defining moment in your life and tells you who you are. You looked Medusa square in the eye and she blinked. You weren't turned to stone, not completely. Maybe parts of you were immobilized for a brief time, but your heart never stopped beating. That's the secret of Medusa. If you look her directly in her eyes, she will be the one to falter. The stories say you will die, but the heroes who do are the ones too afraid to meet the monster's gaze. They looked into her face, too afraid to look into her eyes, so they perished. Lock eyes with her. She'll startle, and blink, and then you'll be free. Not only free, but powerful.

I want to publish stories about people who faced their demons and survived. Not sensational murder and mayhem stories, but stories about real people who are able to transform pain and defeat into something joyful, and in so doing, change the world for the better.

My Muse kisses the top of my head. "I like it. When do we get started?"

I am a Publisher

I'm actually doing it. Calling myself a publisher. How daring! How arrogant, even. Me, a publisher? Publishers are those elusive people who breath life into your manuscript and make it sing into the world, bright and shining. They hold the key to bringing you validation as a writer. I am not one of those people. Or am I?

The more I read the more I understand that the literary world is not owned by Random House. Publishers are people. And in this day of computers and the Internet, it is possible to publish a book yourself. Not easy... but possible.

I filed my domain name, calling my press, what else... Medusa's Muse. I'm setting up shop in my bedroom with my computer and several books on publishing, plus spending hours on the Internet researching and reading about other small presses. And I've been pondering what kind of publisher I want to be. What kind of books do I want to bring to life?

I am now seeking a book to publish, deciding not to publish my own. I write fiction and I can't publish fiction right now. As a fledgling, start up, one woman press, I have to find books that can pay for themselves. I know I won't get rich doing this, but I have to be able to pay the printing bill, so for the time being, I'm staying away from fiction. Someday I hope Medusa will be stable enough to support fiction.

My muse is extremely happy, so much so she's returned to being female. "It was fun being a boy," she says. "But we have a bigger challenge now." She gathers up her snakes from the corners of my room and they slither back into her glittering hair, contained. For now. She likes it when I listen to her.

Okay, maybe this time she was right.

When Muses get bored

Lately I've been hearing whispers from my Muse, gentle pushes toward one thought: Create a small press. I laugh and shrug them off, but the idea won't leave me alone. It has wrapped itself around my ankles like the snakes my Muse set loose in my room, compelling me to pick up a book and read about small presses. Peruse the Internet for blogs about publishing and web-sites of small press organizations. Just checking things out, I say. I'm not serious. It's always good to learn new things. My Muse smiles and coaxes another snake to climb up my spine. Come on, what's stopping you? Afraid? No, practical. Publishing is a whole art in itself and I am but a poor writer who can't get published. Sounds like desperation to me. But the thought won't leave me alone. My Muse is surprisingly tender, encouraging me to learn more. I'm not saying you should publish your own work. I honestly think you would be an excellent publisher. Now I know he's up to something because my Muse is never this nice to me.

I find him lounging on my bed reading a book.
"Why do you suddenly want to be a publisher?"
He slowly closes his novel and looks at me with sleepy eyes, "Because you're wasting your talents."
"Wasting? I'm a writer! A good writer! I'm wasting nothing!"
"I didn't say you weren't a good a writer. I said you have other talents which are going to waste." He rolled off my bed gracefully and stood close to me. "You're better at editing and helping people tell a story than you realize. You're also organized, intelligent, and love a good challenge. What's more challenging than opening a small press?"
"Climbing Everest while blind-folded."
"Exactly." He leaned over, picked up a snake, and wrapped it around my shoulders like a shawl. "Think of the possibilities."
"You know, you're not really Viggo. You just look like him."
"I know."
"Just because he has a press doesn't mean you should have one too."
"I know."
"You're being too nice to me. What are you up to?"
Grinning, He tapped my cheek with one long fingernail. "I'm encouraging you. Isn't that what you want?"
"Yes, but you're never encouraging."
"Time for a change." He walked slowly out the bedroom door and called to me, "Yes. It is time for a change."
The snake wrapped itself around my left arm. I stroked it softly and began to wonder again. What if?

After the panic

We finished the play and it's not bad. Could use more polish and I hate the end, but overall it's a good start and I get to turn something in to my class. But as I was writing, I had a one of those frightening thoughts that make your skin tighten and tingle.

I hit "print." My muse, who was leaning over my shoulder to watch, smiled, stood up tall and stretched lazily with his arms over his head. I kept staring at my lap top screen, feeling colder by the second.

"What happened to the snakes?"

He slowly stepped beside me and leaned against the desk to see my face. "Snakes?"

"The ones that were in your hair?"

My muse nodded while he stared at the screen. One finger tapped the desk top. Then silence. I waited.

"They're in your room," he said.

Panic Play

I ran into the back yard and screamed at my muse,"Quick! I have to write a ten minute play and it's due in two days." Then I stopped and stared. My muse sat in the same lawn chair she'd been glued to for the past two months gulping down red wine and smoking so many cigarettes the butts were piled around her like sand dunes. She looked up at me and blinked, her eyes shining dully out of her blackened, sunburned face.
"Oh my God." I whispered.
"What?" she croaked. Her lips cracked and she glared at me.
"Um, nothing. Just... how long have you been out here?"
"How long have you been wasting time surfing the internet and watching 'Rosanne' re-runs?"
She lit another cigarette and the flame from it's tip glowed so hot I was afraid she would combust. Her entire body was blackened and creased, as if she'd dipped herself into hot mud. She really did look like a burnt marshmallow. There is no better way to describe her.
"Yeah, right." I walked toward her, forcing bravery. "Anyway. I have to write a play and I need your help."
"What kind of play?"
"I don't know yet. That's why I need you."
She stretched slowly and I cringed as tiny particles of her skin sluffed off. "So now you need me."
I glanced at the hose. Maybe spraying her with water would help keep her from bursting into flame?
She put out her cigarette against the lawn chair. "When's it due?"
"Friday."
"This Friday?"
"Yeah."
She suddenly jumped up and a large piece of skin from her thigh peeled off like tissue paper. "That's two days away!"
"I know. That's what I said. So I was wondering..."
"Why'd you wait so long?"
"I lost track of time."
"That's ridiculous! You never would have allowed this to happen before! I can't believe you've waited until the last minute!" She quickly peeled off more skin as she talked. "Is your lap top ready?"
"Yeah. The battery's charged and I started the program."
"Excellent. You know how I hate to wait for the technology." Rubbing her skin hard with her hands, she said, "Stand back."
I almost jumped back onto the deck as she began to rub and shake furiously, letting pieces of dried, black skin fly all around her until the flakes were as high as her ankles. She leaned over and rubbed her hair until it too fell on the lawn. When she stood, I was even more amazed than when I first came outside. Standing in front of me, glowing pink and nude, was Viggo Mortenson.
"Wow," I whispered. "What happened?"
My muse shrugged. "I haven't been a man in a while. I figured it was time."
"Why Viggo?"
"You like him don't you?" He smiled slowly and I blushed.
"Yeah. Sure. He's cool."
My muse walked toward me, his eyes penetrating mine. "And he's mulit-talented. He can act, sing, write and paint. He's politically active and doesn't take crap from anyone. So he's perfect for me. Don't you think?"
I felt frightened by the sheer power of my naked, Viggo Mortenson muse. This was going to be hard to emulate. "You look great."
He smiled. "Yeah. I do. I like being a boy." He scratched his balls.
I held up a hand. "That's enough. Get some clothes on. There's only so much boy I can take."
"Lead the way." As we walked back into the house, he said, "What's this play about."
"I have no idea."
"Let me get some pants on and we'll see what I come up with. It's a good thing you have me. Do we have anymore wine?"

A Real Job

I went out and got a real job. I leave my home wearing clean pants and go somewhere specific, where I sit at a desk with a computer and do work that other people tell me to do. For doing this, they give me money. This is called a "real job." It has a schedule. A paycheck. Duties. It does not involve talking to imaginary people to create stories, nor does it include my muse. Since I've been working this job, she's been home drinking wine in the back yard. All that sitting around is making her lazy and sunburned. I'm a little worried about her. I'm a little worried about me. After work, my brain is too tired to create anything, so I lounge on the couch with a peanut butter sandwich and watch TV. I need the job. No, I need the paycheck. I need to keep the electricity turned on and unfortunately, the agent said no.

She was very nice about it. She scribbled a handwritten note at the bottom of the agency's "Dear Author..." form letter and told me she enjoyed reading my book but had to pass. She also told me not to give up because the field is "so subjective" and the next agent I send it to will probably snatch it up. My muse was very quiet. Instead of saying "I told you so," she went to the refrigerator, pulled out the bottle of Savignon Blanc kept there for emergencies, poured us both a glass, then walked outside to sun-bathe in the nude. She's been there ever sense.

I went outside and got a job. I'm not giving up, I'm simply trying to pay the bills. The hope that I would sell my book and therefore earn some money to keep writing vanished, at least this year. Until it sells, I need to work at a real job for real money. My muse demands wine, but refuses sunscreen.

Medusa

Right now, Medusa is looking over my shoulder and laughing at me. Every letter I string together makes her giggle and when I come to the end of a sentence, she rolls her eyes and sighs deeply, as if she is ashamed of me. I hear her say, "That is the stupidest thing I've ever read. Who on Earth is going to read that?" I could stop typing and insist she's wrong, but I know it's pointless to argue. She'll just keep laughing and I'll lose my train of thought. There's no winning with her, especially because if I meet her eyes, I'll be frozen.

She looks like Angelina Jolie, with perfect skin and a mouth that makes people pucker, but her dark hair is filled with snakes. They hiss and slither, spitting with their fangs drawn. When she leans against me for a better look, I feel the snakes cold skin shiver against my neck. They are waiting for the moment I stare at her directly, because that's when they're allowed to bite me. They like frozen blood.

I keep writing. As long as I keep writing, she is powerless. All she can do is mock and tease, threaten and laugh, but nothing else. Even her snakes can only lick me with their eager tongues. I don't want to give her the satisfaction of making me doubt myself, so I move my fingers across the key board in a desperate attempt to get the words out before her voice gets too loud and I become lost in fear. The urge to create is greater than my fear of failure. She knows this. That's why she tries so hard.

I think she secretly likes me, but she'd never admit that. It's her job to make me doubt myself and quite writing, but the fact that we've been playing this game for twenty years without rest has made her respect me. No matter what, no matter how many more snakes she adds to her collection or what vision of perfection she morfs into (five years ago she looked like Uma Thurman), I haven't stopped writing. She's wounded me a few times, though. I used to argue, and now and then I'd turn around to challenge her and would instantly be turned to stone. It would take weeks to get the feeling back into my hands and heal from all the snake bites, but I would heal, and I would write again. Now days, she's more of an annoyance.

Except right now. I've written my novel, and she's just finished reading it. Her laughter is the only thing audible. "Do you really think the agent is going to take this piece of pooh?" I keep my eyes averted, put the novel in a box, write the agent's name and address on it, and walk out of the room. She yells, "I'll bet you ten bucks you don't mail it." I feel the weight of those 315 pages in my arms and long to turn around and fling it at her. Maybe I could take out a few snakes. But I won't take the bait. I'm smarter now. I smile and say, "Where'd I leave my car keys?"

Polish

Here it is. My novel. All written. Complete with characters, a plot, sub-plot, climax, a point, numbered pages and half decent prose. It's all here, everything I need to tell this story. Now to make it shine.

Every time I hold this 330 page monster and feel the weight of all those pages, my heart starts pounding and I feel dizzy. Polish. That's all I need to do. After reading it, a friend told me to "polish and send." Right. Polish. I can do that. If my hands would stop sweating I could actually try typing. What does Anne Lamott say? "Bird by Bird." I pick up page one, stare at the opening line, and smile, because it's good. Then I read the whole paragraph. Not bad. This novel could be good. I plow on, finish page one with only a couple of minor adjustments, and begin to feel better. I focus on page two, and my heart starts pounding even louder because I wrote the wrong "there." It should be "their." I know that's not right! I know the proper use of "there," "their," and "they're," so how could I make such a ridiculous mistake? An amateur mistake. I try to breath and fix the problem, but every page shows me more: commas where there should be periods, "your" instead of "you're," too many sentences beginning with "But...," or "Then...," and horrible verbs, like "pleaded," "snapped," and "soothed." I've obviously overdone this no adverbs thing. Panic makes my vision blur, and then that critic, the one who lives in my head and looks like Angelina Jolie, starts laughing and telling me what a terrible writer I am. "Who's going to read this?" she asks. "You can't even spell terrified. It doesn't have a 'y'."

I take a walk, because it's either that or weep. I wish I'd paid more attention in my high school English class, rather than doodling or flirting with the guy sitting at the desk across from me. I might have learned how to use a comma properly. How did I get a B.A. and not learn how to use an elipse? Come to think of it, I didn't know that's what those dots are called until a week ago.

I know how to tell a story. I don't know how to polish it. I've never done this before, and I'm feeling like a four legged animal trying to wrap a present with transparent tape, wishing for thumbs. I dread going back to my novel and striking out the unnecessery words and adding better sensory details. I can't do it. I can't think of a way to say "She was happy," in a stronger way. Or perhaps I'm being too hard on myself?

Bird by bird, page by page, that's the only way to get it done. I've come too far and given up too many movie dates to stop now. Besides, my characters would never forgive me. They'll keep me up all night demanding attention until this novel is complete.

I go back to my desk, decide it's okay to sweat and type at the same time, and turn to page 3.

Adverbs

I'm close to finishing my novel, which means I'm having panic attacks every time I look at the pages and doubting my ability to craft a decent sentence. Obviously I can't spell, I forget the rules for comma's, and my characters speak a stilted, forced, uptight language with lots of exclamation points. What's a girl to do? I pick up my thesaurus and hunt for similies.

quietly: silently, soundlessly, noiselessly, inaudibly, softly, peacefully, serenely, calmly, tranquilly.
quickly: rapidly, swiftly, speedily.
sadly: unhappily, lamentably,regrettably, deplorably.

Before long my novel is filled with adverbs and my characters are saying their speeches "wearily," "happily," "angrily," and with a lot of flaring nostrils and raised eyebrows. I'm picking up speed as I revise, and the edited pages are flying by. I'm feeling like a pro, like maybe I know what I'm doing, like maybe I just might get this novel done and it will be great and I'll win a prize and get a fat advance. Advance... That sounds a lot like... Adverb.

Horror stricken (there's a great cliche), I look at all the pages covered in blue ink and realize I've just broken one of the gospel rules of writing. No adverbs. Great! There's the proof. I'm an amateur. I am a terrible writer and will never sell my book, never even finish it, and that's probably a good thing, because no one should read this piece of pooh anyway. I walk away from my desk, crying and longing for a cigarette (I stopped smoking 9 years ago).

What's the big deal with adverbs anyway? Don't people walk "quickly" or "rapidly" sometimes? Wouldn't a character say her lines "wearily"? Why aren't' we allowed a few short cuts. I mean really, what can it hurt? It sure picks up the pace, and no one wants to write a book that lags. I should just keep writing and not worry about it. I'm sure lots of writers use adverbs. I'll bet Anne Lamott and Alice Hoffman use them all the time.

No they don't, and they write excellently (there's another one!). So what do I want to do, write, or write my best?

I go back to my desk and pick up the pen, ignoring the pages I've already worked on. I'll get to those later. I'll keep moving forward, tweaking the language and avoiding adverbs like the plague (cliche). When I'm done, I'll start over at page one and keep working the language until it sings. (is that a cliche?) While I'm at it, I'll cut cliches and the thousand exclamation points I love to use because they make the dialogue flow by forcefully. Ugh! Another one... No adverbs, no cliches, no boring adjectives. If I stick with it, maybe the whole thing will turn out alright. Maybe I'll finish this novel.

If not, there's always lion taming.

Writing a Monster

First you dig up the body; the past, the skeletons in the closet, the buried truths, all those stories and overheard conversations you've been waiting to use. Then you put the pieces into some kind of order by writing a rough draft. Next, you pump it full of energy, electricity, hope and terror, until it begins to breath. This is the first, second and third drafts. Once your monster is moving, you get it under control quickly, before it tears up all the paper in the house and destroys your lap top. Only then can you teach it to speak. That's the final draft.

There will always be problems. Editors may demand your monster learn to dance so you'll need to spend hours in the studio forcing it to waltz in steel toed boots. Or maybe the publisher really wanted a translucent, blond female and you've built a giant, drooling male with bad body odor. Your agent may love the monster, but thinks it would do better in a red suit rather than the black one you found, so you will have to strip him down, which he won't like, and force the new suit on. Be careful not to tear it.

When at last your monster is released into the world, will it be met with applause, or pitchforks and torches? Will it be happy on its own, or return to its master, beaten and desperate. Perhaps it will come home angry and try to kill you, its creator. Maybe the Monster will ask you for a bride and you'll have to go back to the graveyard and dig up more bodies to write about. Because once you build one monster, you usually wind up with a whole family of them, living in you cellar, demanding attention.

Here's my monster.