Coaxing the Muse: A Day in the Life of a Novel

Once upon a time, I worked as a divorce litigator. I spent my days in a courtroom, witness to people who once swore undying love battle each other over money and children. I chugged Mylanta straight from the bottle while I drove to the battle arena, fantasizing about spending my days writing instead.

Ah, blissful days writing. I pictured myself grabbing a cup of coffee or tea, sitting down to the computer, and spinning out page-turning stories with ease. It would be blissful. Just me, my thoughts, and the pliant keys under my nimble fingers.

While any writing day is better than a day as a litigation warrior in the divorce court, my writing days are far from what I dreamt they would be. It turns out that being alone with yourself all day – well, you’re alone – with yourself! And it also turns out that that sly minx of a muse doesn’t just appear on command like a pimp’s bitch, eager to obey and please. At least not my muse. No, mine is more like an irritable, temperamental child that I have to coax and bribe.

Here, then, is a peek into my writing day:

8:30 a.m.:  Each writing day starts with the blank page (to some extent or another). Ah, the promise of the page. Anything can happen. Everything can happen. The empty, white screen that contains the potential for genius.

9:00 a.m.:  The blank page still there. Better check Twitter and see what’s going on in my Facebook world. Hey, that’s a great article on writing. This is just the thing I need to get me going today. Wonder what’s new on Wattpad?

10:30 a.m.:  Laptop ready. Tunes going. Waiting for inspiration.

I know what I need – coffee. A strong cup of jo will get that blasted muse to work!

11:00 a.m.: You know what goes great with a cup of coffee? How about some of this -

12:00 p.m.:  All that net surfing, coffee slurping and chocolate nibbling sure did work up a hunger. Better go grab some lunch. That’s what I need – food. That’s sure to spark an idea.

1:00 p.m.: Wow, lunch sure was exhausting. I need a nap. Maybe I’ll dream the next plot step. Okay characters, tell me what’s next for you while I sleep.

2:00 p.m.: Yawn! Great nap. Back to work. Okay, muse. I’m listening. Really. Come on. I’m waiting. Where’s that *#%@ muse?!

3:00 p.m.: Crap – it’s time to pick up my offspring. I didn’t get much writing done today. (Looks at blank computer screen.) Okay, I didn’t get any writing done today. I’ll get some words banged out later.

8:30 p.m.: Best time of the day – dinner and T.V. and laughing with the fam. Got the kiddo tucked in. Hubby’s watching football (or insert game with a ball that’s in season). Dog is napping. It’s dark outside, quiet inside. Maybe I’ll try this –

11:00 p.m.: Apparently that’s what my cranky muse needed. Quiet. Relaxation. Who knew? I got two chapters written. I’m not sure I’ll stick with where the plot’s going, and I need to add more details about the setting – oh, and some inner dialogue. But words were written. That page is no longer blank. If I do this about fifty more times, I’ll have the first draft of a novel written ;-)

Please God Help Him - He's Married to a Writer

My hubby of twenty-four years is away on business this week. The evening time alone, unfettered by the obligation to socialize with the person I share my life and house with should be a good thing. When he's away, I can put my daughter to bed and then write into the wee hours without feeling guilty that I'm ignoring my hubby. Instead I find myself watching banal television while eating Cheez-its, unmoored by his absence.


Perhaps it is because we have been together for so long. Perhaps it is because he is, above all else, my best friend. Or maybe it's because he's a rock of a person and without him around, I float off into space, untethered without his solid presence.

I was fortunate enough to meet my hubby when I was still in high school. It turns out that when I was seventeen I fell in love with  one of the kindest people I've ever met and one that  loves me for who I am. And that is no small thing.


It turns out that I'm not always all that loveable. I know, I know. You're saying, "No way, you're very lovable Natalie. I've never met you but you look nice enough from your picture and you don't spout negativity and vitriol (not that often anyway). Of course you're lovable!"


But the truth is, my husband is married to an emotional, sensitive, passionate, opinionated and slightly eccentric writer. Oh, and did I mention that I was born stocked with a larger than required amount of that wonderful hormone estrogen? If you are a woman, I need say no more. You understand. 


My kind, even-keeled rock of a husband stays put - a monolith of a man - despite the fact that he never knows from day to day which wife he'll be living with that day. One morning he wakes to a mellow woman, moving quietly and calmly through her day. Receptive and open is that woman. When he wakes to that wife, he can expect convivial conversation full of give and take, likely a lovely dinner into which she has poured her passion for good food, a lovely evening in which she listens to him talk about his day with interest and attention.


He must really love those days!

The next day though, he may wake to a tearful woman seemingly in mourning for the loss of her greatest friend. "What's the matter?" he'll ask. He will usually hear her reply something like, "I dreamed that you left me. How could you?" 
"So I'm getting in trouble and you're sad over something that I did in a dream?" The wife that greets him that day merely nods her head yes and tears continue to pour from her eyes and onto his shoulder as he draws her head to his chest, patiently comforting her as she cries out tears for the horrible thing that occurred in a dream fueled by fear.


Another day he may wake to a woman whose eyes are filled with the fire of an anger that knows no bounds. The fury could be over an injustice done to a person or persons many thousands of miles away, or could be fanned by the flames of concern from a news story she heard over the cruelty done to a dog by its owner. The inferno of her anger may have been lit by the latest political drama trending or a memo about the bullying policy that she received from the school.

It doesn't matter what has her ire up that day. There is no abating the thirsty flames of her passion over the issue. He listens patiently and most of the time says little. He has learned that arguing the other side of the issue will only lead to the fiery read head turning her anger on him. His motto: "At all costs, avoid the Wrath of Nat."


The next day he awakes to a woman that is withdrawn into herself, her eyes glassy with the look of someone far away. A simple question such as "Are you busy today" while she's combing her hair will likely get him the death stare and a curt reponse. He should know by now that that vacant, far off look means that she is far away - in her fantasy world with the real people that live only in her head, living a life in true places that exist only in the mind. Dialogue is being spoken. Dreams are being hatched. Betrayals are learned. Tragedies strike. 


That day he is living with his writer wife engaged in story building. He knows better by now than to expect a hot dinner that night (she is passionate about cooking but even her passion for food will be laid waste by the passion for the story). She'll be "gone" all day and likely a surly bear if anyone interrupts the story that is taking place in her head.


That night he know that once the kiddo is in bed, she'll rush to her office and close the door. He'll hear her music playing and maybe smell the pungeant but sweet smell of the incense smoke snaking out under the door. He won't see her again that night and knows better than to interrupt her when her fingers are flying across the keys.


He's a patient man. He'll wait. Who knows, tomorrow may be that day he gets to wake to the woman whose hormones are in check, whose passion for the story was spent the night before, and who is restocking her emotional supplies while the inner fire stokes, ready to ignite again.


Pray for him. He is married to a writer.

Dear Lover: Show Don't Tell Applies in Real Life as well as Fiction

This is a fictional letter to a fictional lover and not (totally) autobiographical.


Dear Lover,
     Editors tell writers to "show" not "tell" their story.  Lover, I want you to show me your love, not dribble out empty words.
     Don't get me wrong lover, I enjoy hearing you say "I love you."  But if you tell me "I love you" then proceed to ignore me while I try to talk to you about a difficult time I had at work then all I remember is how you were insensitive to my pain, not the beautiful words you said.
     They say a picture is worth a thousand words.  A look, a hug, a listen or a gesture to show you care can be worth a thousand I love yous.
Words can be cheap, but actions go deep.  Lover, don't just tell me, show me.
     And by the way, doing a load of laundry or washing the dishes counts as a whole lot of show.
     Oh, and I love you.


What is your favorite way of being shown that your lover cares?  (Please, nothing explicit or raunchy - this is a PG-13 blog!)

Sometimes Life Hands You a Floater

You're swimming in the aqua-blue pool.  Birds are singing.  Sun is shining.  Butterflies flit from the red throated salvia to the periwinkle blue pincushion flower.  You're at summer camp laughing with your friends.  All is right with the world, until . . .

There's something in the corner of the pool.  Something that doesn't belong.  Something horrific.

It's a floater, right there in the pool, ruining a perfectly happy moment.  Everyone out of the pool!

The other day my eight-year-old came home from summer camp and told me this story about the errant turd floating in the camp's pool.

Me:  There was a floater in the pool?

Daughter:  Yes and it was disgusting!

Me:  [Laughs]

Daughter:  Don't laugh! It's not funny.  Now I can't go in the pool ever again.

Me:  Sorry, it's just kind of funny, don't you think?  Like the cheese touch in the Wimpy Kid books.  Besides, it's like a metaphor for life.

Daughter:  It's not funny and I don't know why you're talking about meteors!

The next day she went back to camp and swore she wouldn't swim in the pool.  To her it was forever tainted by the piece of floating shit she'd found there the day before.  Never mind that it was going to be over 100 degrees that day and without swimming she'd melt like an orange push-pop in the sun.  The poop she'd experienced the day before, still fresh in her mind, threatened to ruin the rest of the summer.

When I picked her up at the end of the day she had her swimsuit on.

Me:  So you did swim today?

Daughter:  Yep.  They put a bunch of chemicals in the pool and didn't let us swim this morning, but we got in this afternoon.

Me:  So you're not still worried about the poop in the pool?

Daughter:  Nah.  But no one's going in that corner of the pool anymore!

If only the shit life hands us were as simple to take care of.  If only we could scoop the poop out, dump some chemicals on the festering problem and in a few hours we're swimming again, happy as if it had never happened.

I've been swimming in a pool of poop lately - at least that's what it feels like.  Aging parents taking ill.  Technology failures.  Getting sick on vacation in a foreign country (where you can't read the language and don't know if you've just purchased an antihistamine or a suppository).  Sometimes when it rains it rains a shit storm.

How do we get through it?  What to do when the pool feels like it's full of turds?

For me, I turn to comedy and writing.  Humor can lift me up out of the funk and get me back to a place where I can see the bright side.  Maybe not a bright sunny day, but at least out of the dark cave of gloom.  My daughter's floater in the pool did that for me that day.  I needed it.

Then I use my imagination and I write.  For instance, that floater has become epic in my mind.  I imagine the "Summer of the Floater" will be passed from kid to kid and that even long after the offending piece of detritus was removed, no kid will ever go in that corner again.

In the immortal words of Jim Morrison:

"I'll tell you this man, I don't know what's going to happen man, but I want to have my kicks before the whole shit house goes up in flames."

What do you do when life hands you a pile of poop?  How do you get through it?

When the Muse is Distracted

I know that writing daily is the best way to get the work done.  Even when you don't feel like it.  Even when the muse isn't calling.  Even when you've got fourteen zillion other things to do.

I recently spent a day in a writing workshop and the lesson I took away from it was that I could produce a lot of words in as little as 15 minutes.  Even writing with a pen on paper I can bang out about 5-7 pages of stuff in 15 minutes.  Not that it's all good!  But hey, you've got some material to work with.  You can't sell a blank screen.

So why have I been sitting here for three hours and I haven't written a single word on my current novel?

Today my excuse is that my husband is working at home.  Just having another person in my physical space - something I'm not used to during the day - is enough to upend my routine (not to mention he keeps coming in to my office to see me!).

But I'll get in my writing time today, even if it's later in the day after all are in bed.  I think I write my best stuff at night anyway, when the world is more quiet, the sunshine not beckoning me to go out and explore the outer world rather than the inner world of my imagination.