DEATH TO MUSES

I got a question the other day that needs an answer. I’ve gotten this question in many, many forms from many, many people—so clearly, YOU need to know.

Suvi said . . .
I'd love to write things like stories and novels, but every time I try, some sort of invisible force stops me. I simply can't write. I've tried simply ignoring that force and keep writing, but it never works. No matter how awesome idea I have, no matter how far I've planned the plot, I can't write about it. I've sometimes noticed that after writing fifteen pages to a notebook, still nothing has happened in my story, and that's not good. Do you have any advice for me? How can writing be rehearsed, if the invisible force keeps bullying you?

It’s a very good question, Suvi, and one I have been asking myself as I write the hard bits of Suite Scarlett 2. Don’t get me wrong . . . I love Suite Scarlett 2. I am very happy about writing it. But even the best books like to REPEATEDLY PUNCH YOU IN THE FACE while you are working on them. I believe the technical term for this is “work.”

Writing is fun. I love what I do, and I would do it no matter what, even if I had to scrawl my little stories on tiny slips of paper and leave them under your door at night. (I may do that anyway.) But it is ALSO work. If you are considering writing as a career (and bless you if you are), you should know this. Because I know that sometimes there is this misconception that writers spend most of their time picking olives out of the bottoms of martini glasses and waiting for the muse to strike.

I hate muses . . . I mean, with the obvious exception of Olivia Newton-John in Xanadu. This idea that all you have to do is sit around and a muse lands on your head, dances around your desk, and whispers in your ear and BANG! BOOK!

Forget that. Get yourself a can of anti-muse spray. The things are credit-stealing parasites.

I mean, if you opened your oven and found a loaf of homemade bread, you wouldn’t say, “THE BREAD FAIRY HAS COME!”* Because you would know that you spent the morning buying ingredients, kneading the dough, letting it rise, and baking it properly. You also took the time to learn how to bake, and probably burned a loaf or two in the effort.

When writing goes well, it feels magical . . . but there is no magic to it. Writing goes well because you have done some work. You have spent MANY MANY MANY HOURS sitting at your desk, written pages and pages and pages of useless crap, read piles of books, done a lot more wrong than you have right, questioned your sanity and talent . . . and just kept going. No muse involved.

I am getting to your question, Suvi. This is all relevant. Because I have two answers to your question—but first we have to dismiss the muse idea. The story idea may droppeth like a gentle rain from heaven, but the execution is all about work.

I say this as someone sitting here writing a book that I had ALL PLANNED OUT. All during the writing of Suite Scarlett, I was keeping a running file of book two. I never had so much at the start of writing before! I thought the book would write itself while I sewed sequins on my outfit for the ABBA museum opening. Nope.

Sooner or later, no matter how lucky and talented and wonderful you are (whoever YOU are in this particular case) . . . you are going to hit the Great Wall of Sucktitude. You’re just motoring along with your story, blue skies above you and clear roads ahead, so you step on the gas and . . . . BANG. The invisible force field.

You can’t see it. You don’t know why it’s there. You don’t know what it wants. But there it is . . . the thing that is keeping you from going forward and it’s all “none shall pass” for no particular reason except to GET IN YOUR WAY. The job now is to figure out how to get over/under/through/around/other prepositions this invisible barrier.

So what to do? Well, here are my two answers, finally. Oh wait . . . hold on. I have to finish eating this mango. (I am eating a mango.)

OK . . . here are my two answers.

ONE ANSWER

Okay, the truth is I don’t know what you should do in particular. I can only tell you that you certainly aren’t alone. Sometimes, just knowing that you are not the only person who has had a certain problem, and that other people have gotten through it . . . sometimes that is enough. This is the reason I went on and on about muses, because I think some people may have the idea in their heads that if they can’t immediately finish a book or story the very first time they try they should go and eat worms and die because they don’t have “it.” I just wanted to dispel that notion in a big way.

I have hit the wall more times than I could possibly count, and I am pretty sure it has flattened my face in the process. I have a small arsenal of tactics I employ in this situation, to varying degrees of success. They include:

- Sending long, rambling notes to friends, saying how I have failed completely (again) and am going die of writing mange (again) and how my brain is stalled never to restart (again). This is a pleasant time-waster. Also, my friends LOVE it!

- Going and doing some other, totally unconnected task, something I know I can complete. The book may not get done today—but the DISHES will! Turning off your brain and focusing on a completely automatic task seems to help. I once entirely repainted my apartment in a dizzying array of colors while “writing a book.”

- Physical activity works well too. I tend to find that while I am attempting some position in yoga class that I am certain will snap my spine in two . . . this is when I solve the problem that has been eating my brain for hours or days.

- Reading something in a style or with a tone and pace that I’d really like to emulate, to try to jumpstart the brain and crack the secret.

- Reading books about other writers and finding what they did when their brains died.

But the plainest, most annoying answer is . . . a lot of times you just have to sit there and keep throwing rocks at the problem. If you can master the art of just staying there, planted in front of the screen/notebook . . . then you’re getting somewhere.

You can also talk to your editor. Maybe you will have a conversation like this:



ANOTHER ANSWER, THIS TIME WITH SOME SCIENCE

In this particular case, it sounds like you might be lacking an inciting incident. I don’t know this for certain . . . it’s just a possibility as you say you are 15 pages in and nothing has happened.

Under every story, there is some kind of structure to get you from the starting point to the ending point.

Stories generally have a protagonist (main character) who faces a series of challenges in an attempt to achieve some sort of goal. The rising action takes the character to the climax, where he/she/it battles it out somehow and either wins or loses. Not every story has the same exact structure, but you can find many common elements at work. (This is not the same as being “formulaic.” No one would say to an architect, “You’re putting a ROOF on your building? HOW FORMULAIC!”)

The inciting incident is the moment in which the character really gets on the story path. Before the inciting incident, the character is presumably just noodling along, pressing flowers and updating his or her Facebook page, when all of a sudden life zooms in and takes him/her for a spin.

Let’s make up the opening of a story. Let’s say a girl . . . we’ll call her mj just to make things simple . . . is a poor orphan living with her hateful aunt and uncle, who force her to sleep in the space under the stairs. Her life is hopeless. Then one day, a sparkly letter arrives from HSH Princess Anni-Frid Reuss, Countess of Plauen, otherwise known as Anni-Frid, the dark-haired lead singer from ABBA . . . telling her that she has been admitted to Snogwarts, school of disco princessry. And then, in the next moment, Ana Matronic of the Scissor Sisters comes for her on a big silver Vespa to take her away.

The arrival of the letter marks a change of status for our little mj. She is not the poor orphan she has always thought she was—she is a disco princess. Her life has now changed course, and now she’s on the path.

So, Suvi, you may know where you want the character to end up (at Snogwarts, where she will do battle with P.K. Trowling, who is trying to steal the magic disco ball) but have no idea how to get her there.

Maybe take a moment and look over the openings of some of your favorite books. At what moment do things completely change for the main character? What sets the story in motion? What changes the conditions under which he/she/it is living? There are all kinds of tricks and devices authors use. A letter of invitation, moving to a new town, meeting a new person, a murder, a disappearance . . . something sets things off.

This incident could happen on page 2, or 15, or 20, or 40 (I’ve just noticed that Suite Scarlett’s is on page 40) . . . you may have to look around. It won’t be too far in.

If that fails, listen to “Dancing Queen” fifty times in a row and spin around a lot.

DEPARTMENT OF INDEPENDENCE

As I missed posting on July 4th, I thought I should make a gesture to show my patriotic spirit. I know that many of you are reading from places OTHER than the United States—but no matter where you are, have a little American History.

Here’s a little something about the 4th of July. It is a bit of a gross and biased oversimplification of an incredibly nuanced political situation, but what exactly do you want from a cartoon with a jaunty song? (And, despite the bias . . . the Continental Congress was full of mad geniuses, and signing the Declaration of Independence was a pretty bold act. We still love the British. Oh, and apparently it wasn't even signed on July 4th . . . but who cares? There is a lot of license taken with holidays anyway.)




And here is something about founding father Alexander Hamilton. (WARNING: there is a little profanity in this. Not a lot. There is also a lot of drunkenness. I wanted you to know. I consider it part of the service around here.)



DEPARTMENT OF GIVING OUT SUITE SCARLETT

You may or may not have noticed that I am running a tiny contest on the forum. A prize to anyone who can guess the title of SUITE SCARLETT 2. No one has gotten it yet. I will announce the title in the next post!

In the meantime, today’s book (signed by Spencer Martin) goes to Olivia. And, as ever, another book will go to another random commenter. What do YOU think the title of the next Scarlett is? What do YOU do when you can’t write? Would YOU like a mango?



* Unless you are a character in How To Ditch Your Fairy.

THE REAL XANADU

Today, it is about time we talked about muses. We have avoided the subject long enough.

In mythology, there were nine sisters—the nine goddesses who inspired creative endeavor. When you had a poem to write, or a play to put on, or a painting to paint, you called the muses. They came tripping along in their long robes and danced around you, and your head filled up with ideas . . . or something like that. No one really knows what exactly happened when they showed up, but if the muses liked you, you were good to go.

The muses have been portrayed in film on several occasions, most notably (to me) in the 1980 roller skating epic Xanadu, starring Olivia Newton-John as Terpsichore, the muse of dance. By the time of the movie, she is a roller disco queen who leaps out of wall murals and inspires a guy to open a roller disco, all with the aid of Gene Kelly, who plays a rich clarinetist. Xanadu is the closest you can get to being high without actually being high, but if you like roller skating and think Mount Olympus looks like an old school video game, this is the movie for you.



You should watch this all the way through. At first, you will probably be confused and disoriented, but it only gets better as it goes along. Don’t stop with the two people wobbling on the tightrope. The muses all appear at the end, on a giant glowing Frisbee. Terpsichore rises an entire two feet in the air before they are all vaporized. This is what having a muse is supposed to be like.

I should also point out that the main character of Girl At Sea, Clio Ford, is named after the muse of history. Her muse status plays a part in the book. You’ll certainly be hearing more about this the closer it gets to June.

I realize that most people think that the muses are imaginary creatures, and when writers talk about their muses, they are just being poetic and pretentious. I am breaking the unspoken code by telling you this, but the muses are, in fact, completely real. All writers have one. There are a lot more than nine of them.

The thing is . . . they’re not at all like the description in the history books and annals of mythology. This is why most writers won’t talk about their muse. But I like to be honest with you and tell you what the writing life is really like, muse and all. And I must tell you this . . . it is not like Xanadu.

My muse’s name is Scruffy. At least, that’s what I call him. His real name is something like Scrufistorimachus. Not even he can pronounce it. He came to me one day one I was writing my first book, The Key to the Golden Firebird, and I was stuck on a scene that involved some very awkward making out in the back of an RV.

“#&$^#*&$,” I opined, smacking my keyboard. “I can’t write this #&$*(&#*(#*$(^#($^#&*$^ scene. I wish I had a muse.”

And with that, there was a knock on my door. I answered it to find a tall, very lanky guy in a blue corduroy suit. He was pale, with sandy hair and a washed out complexion. He smelled like cooked cabbage and looked like he had recently been weeping.

“I’m Scrufistorim . . .” he began. “Call me Scruffy. I’m your muse.”

He pushed past me and went into my living room, where he dropped on my couch.

“You don’t look like a muse,” I said, shutting the door.

“Like you’ve ever seen one. Do you want help or not?”

I did want help.

“Yes!” I said. “I’ve seen Xanadu! I know how this works! I’ve waited for this all my life!”

“Okay,” he said. “The first thing I’m going to need is some Cool Ranch Doritos. They’re my brain food.”

Scruffy did almost nothing but eat Cool Ranch Doritos for the first six hours I knew him. I got him every bag in the store. He sat on the couch and munched away while I continued to try to write the scene. I had just managed to write in a bit about a very dusty Operation board game box that I thought was a nice touch, when the Cool Ranchiness finally hit Scruffy’s brain.

“’kay,” he said, licking the dust from his fingers. “’kay. So. In your book? You know what you should do?”

I turned.

“You should put in a shopping scene. Like a montage. Of shopping. For shoes. And, it could be that your main character is like, really unpopular, but then, she gets these shoes . . .”

“No,” I said.

“Listen! Listen! So, she gets these shoes, right? And, like, everyone suddenly sees her in a new light, because she’s wearing these really cool shoes. And everyone thinks she’s cool.”

He waited for my reply. When I said nothing, he felt compelled to explain further.

“Because of the shoes,” he said.

“This is a book about three girls coping with the death of their father,” I said. “I don’t think shoe shopping really goes, do you?”

“Well,” he said, reaching for my remote control. “If you’re going to be like that . . . do you have cable?”

It turns out, when you get a muse, they never leave. They just sit there and nag you until you do what they want. For hours, I resisted Scruffy’s shoe shopping montage idea.

“Shoe brands say so much about a person,” he said, when I woke up in the middle of the night to find him going through my closet. “For example, I would say that you are . . . wow, your feet are huge! I thought you were like, a six. These things are like boats. I could sail around in these.”

“I’m not doing it,” I said.

“Suit yourself,” he said. He sat on the edge of my bed and ate Doritos until dawn, keeping me away with the crumpling of the bag and the constant, open-mouthed chewing.

Over a breakfast of Cool Ranch Doritos and milk, he explained his theory of character development.

“When a character walks into a scene,” he said. “First thing, I’m looking at the feet. Some people think the mouth does the talking. I say, it’s the feet.”

“Don’t you have any other ideas?” I finally screamed. “What about death? Love? Loss?”

“You can lose a shoe,” he said.

Scruffy passed out in the afternoon while watching a Buffy marathon. He came to a few hours later with a jerk and a snort. I had managed to write a chapter while he was out.

“I got another one,” he said, sitting up and pulling his jacket back on. “’kay. What if . . . what if . . . your character really likes someone, but that someone turns out to be a robot wearing a suit of human flesh? And then they go shopping together?”

“Did you escape from some kind of a home?” I asked. “Where are my leaping skaters? Where are my unsteady tightrope walkers? Or my adorable mime-breakdancing guys in suspenders and hats? You . . . are no Xanadu.”

With that, Scruffy burst into tears and locked himself in the bathroom. This provided me with another chance to get some writing done. I began to notice a pattern . . . when Scruffy left me alone, suddenly, words were pouring from my fingers. I started taking Scruffy into the city, where I would push him out of moving cabs. I would rush home and write until he found his way back. I took him to the airport and left him at an arrivals gate. I pushed him off the Staten Island Ferry.

Over time, it’s gotten harder and harder to shake him, but I’m constantly thinking up strategies. That’s how it works. If you plan on being a writer, you better get used to the fact that you are going to spend your life constantly on the run from your muse . . . because from what I’ve heard, they’re all like Scruffy. Some are worse.

The truth is, my Xanadu looks a lot more like this . . .