Scene and Heard

Had a wild nightmare last night.  Woke up fresh at 5:07am, and proved it by falling asleep again for 20 minutes.  Then while I made coffee in the still-dark apartment, I heard a stranger’s phone ringing in my living room.

I froze for a second, and then melted back into pouring the brew and stirring it.  I’d simply set a different ring to my alarm, that’s all.

But these two things worked wonders.  The scene I thought I’d work on disappeared; another took its place and how!  First really good scene day in a while.  The inspiration was up, the atmosphere there, the characters invested…  Awesome scene day, all because of something heard… 

There’s No Such Thing as a Muse. (Did ya know?)

Established writers tell newbies that all talk of “muses” must cease and desist, for by relying on “our muse” we handicap ourselves.  We risk forgetting the muse is really our own subconscious, our very own selves.  Likewise we must take care not to form rituals, for these may cripple our agility as writers.

And so I am here to tell you today that my muse:

*  does not need coffee
*  certainly does not need more coffee
*  does not need air conditioning
*  does not need music
*  does not need solitude
*  most certainly is not sparked powerfully in the lovely, rumbling, rollicking subways of New York City

HOWEVER, full disclaimer alert:

My muse subconscious does greedily appreciate attempts to bribe her.  She is truly unprincipled that way, much in contrast with her conscious self.  *cough*

Subway Strike (of inspiration)

This afternoon, after leaving work, feet aching from hours standing and being “on” since 11:30, I got on the A train only to find no seats were available.  I was drained, and felt like there wasn’t a word ready to be wrung out of me in my tiny writing window this afternoon/evening.  Of course, I still planned on writing, regardless.

I leaned against the pole and turned on my iPod.  The train began to move, shaking to and fro, and the pole between my shoulder blades banged painfully against me.  I adjusted my position, relaxing into the bar, hooking one foot around it for stability, and then closed my eyes and got into my song.  I’ve lived here long enough.  I know how to hold my bag so I know it’s safe.  I can sense when my stop’s far from close, and when I ought reawaken.  I let myself move with the train’s jostle and stretched into it, enjoying my music.

And I thought, why the hell am I setting my book in Somewhereistan, USA (not the real location name), when New York is what I know and love?  When New York is the city I feel like a character in my life?  Where I know what it’s like at 2am and 2 pm and at 5am and 5pm, and exactly what’s true and not true about the mythos that the city never sleeps?

But that’s not all.  Remember how I’ve been complaining about how I can’t grasp my heroes properly yet?  How I’m all over my antagonists, how I love them and feel them viscerally, but my accursed heroes are just. not. there?

No longer.  S is here.  I found him in the subway.  Rumble, brumble, tumble, said the train, and I suddenly got it.  I understood S. I’d given him the wrong family.  The wrong financial situation.  The wrong reasons to be who he is.  No wonder I couldn’t grab him later in the book.

Now it all works.  Inner tension, character relationships, the stakes.   Yay!

Who needs a muse, when I’ve got the NYC subway system?  :)

*she hurriedly fed her muse adoring eyes and promises of iced coffee, not that it mattered in the least*

Random Courtyard, Old Tbilisi

There’s something I love about Old Town, Tbilisi…

Perfect Morning for a Scribbler

I woke up at 5:02 this morning, made myself a cuppa delicious cappuccino and settled in to write.  Yes, only an hour in before rushing off to get ready for what the rest of the world considers “real life,” aka my job, but how fabulous I feel.  As buoyant, exercised and energized as if I’d just finished a great workout.  1,200 words.

And now I know when I return this afternoon, I’m at a new point in the novel.  Definitely at the last third, plot-wise.  Almost everyone is revealed, and I stopped just before the last person.  I love writing to the next twist.  It’s a natural ending point, and yet it’s so full of juice to be squeezed when I turn back to my work.

God, I love writing.  :)

I am reminded I read somewhere that writing a book is like having a romantic relationship.  In the beginning, we’re all enamored and can’t bear to be away from our “significant other.”  Then we start having rough patches.  Then we think of all the time we’ve invested in this imperfect being and keep working at our problems, etc.

Oh lordy!  Yes, I’m still in my honeymoon stage, which takes work too but which is so consuming and fulfilling and even euphoric from time to time.

La, la, by the time I get to work I’ll have already had a wonderful day.  I love being a morning person…  :)

Between Mount Kazbegi and the Closed Russian Border