Encouraging Your Muse

 Catherine Dilts

Waiting passively for “the muse” to whisper in your ear is like sitting in a dark room waiting for someone to turn on the lights. There’s a point at which you need to stand up, walk across the room, and flip on the light switch.

There are periods when writing fiction can feel like slogging through a murky bog. Other times, the ideas rush like a clear mountain stream drawn downhill by gravity. There’s an undeniable ebb and flow to creativity.

What happens when a writer has gone days, weeks, or months without a visit from their muse?

Creativity can’t be forced, you might say. To which I counter: people do all kinds of things to trick their brains into being in the right state to perform various tasks. I recall finding my younger daughter sitting in her room with a text book and a candle. She explained that she was training herself to be focused to study whenever that scented candle was burning.

Ah, a physical cue. Like brewing coffee in the morning as you get ready for work. The smell of the coffee, even more than the caffeine, is a signal for your brain to switch gears.

Routines and triggers can cause you to anticipate an activity, but can they make you feel creative? Yes. I believe you can trick your muse into showing up, just as you can steer your brain, if you consistently use the same techniques.

All of the techniques. Because your brain is a crafty creature, and dull routine can sap creativity. So change things up.

Routine: Yes, I just said dull routine can sap creativity. But a routine is essential for convincing your brain that it’s that time of day. Time to write! Use scent, sound, and scenery cues. Like my daughter’s scented candle, smell is a powerful trigger. Some authors need the sounds of a coffee shop, while others need noise-cancelling headsets, or certain types of music. While writing an as-yet unpublished novel, I played late sixties to early seventies music constantly, to set my mind in the time period. 

Confidence: Believe in yourself, your message, and your skillset. There’s no greater drag on creativity than self-doubt. If you falter, “fake it ‘til you make it.”

Keep going: When you think you’re stuck, or become bored with a project, push just a little bit longer. You might make it past that speed bump and get rolling again.

Step away: The polar opposite of the above advice? Not exactly. The step away technique doesn’t simply mean quit writing. Work on a different story, writing-related social media, promotion, or research.

Touch grass: the youngsters use this phrase to mean “step away from your electronics.” Get off social media, peel your face off your computer/TV/phone screen, and go outdoors. Sunshine and fresh air have wonderful healing properties. Get grounded in nature. Or focus on a different type of creativity. Crocheting, painting, tying flies, or cooking, like making a batch of my annual gingerbread dinosaur cookies shown in the photo above.

Lately, I’ve been experiencing an upswing in creativity and energy. I know this feeling isn’t permanent. There will be times when my desire to hammer away on my keyboard flags. This time of year, there’s no grass to touch. But if I hit a slump, maybe I can touch snow to jumpstart my creativity.

Let That WIP Rest

 When I was in the hospital, I had a lot of time to think.  It’s either that or watch a ton of FRIENDS reruns.

Before going to the Galapagos, I’d sent a manuscript to my agent to read.  When I hit the send button, I thought it was a pretty good story. But as I said, while recuperating, I had a chance to think about it and knew that I was wrong. 

I could make that sucker better.

I needed to let the manuscript rest first, and then go back and look at it, rewrite it…reedit it.  

What do I mean when I say, “Let it rest?”  I mean put that story in a drawer and leave it alone for a few weeks or even longer.  Take some time to read books, visit friends, travel, or maybe even start a new project.  

Then revisit your Work in Progress.  You’ll see it with fresh eyes, getting a new perspective. You’ll be better able to spot plot holes, character inconsistencies, and other issues you may have missed. You’ll come back to your manuscript with a more objective and critical mindset.

It’ll help you gain clarity on both your story and your characters.  It may help you find new ideas or answers to problems that you couldn’t see before.  

Coming back to your Work in Progress will help you polish your manuscript. It’ll also give you a chance to renew your creative juices.  

Guaranteed, it will help you catch a ton of typos.  

As luck would have it, my agent hadn’t had a chance to read the manuscript, and I asked her not to.  Not until I had a chance to take another look at it.

By spending time reediting the work, I’m able to put more “flesh on the bones’ of the characters I’ve written.  You want them to be as three dimensional as you can possibly make them. 

I hope to be finished with the edits before the end of the month and get the manuscript back into my agent’s hands by the first of the year.  I think it will be a much better product.  I've even retitled it. Fingers crossed, we can find it a home.

Creative Longings

By Shelley Burbank

I was chatting with an artist friend of mine, Sharon, about creativity.* Sharon once wrote a novel. She always wanted to be a writer, or thought she did. She’s very talented. She can write a beautiful sentence, build a story, and conjure characters from thin air.  

Writing, however, made her unhappy. By her own account, writing took her to dark places, made her miserable. Dealing with the publishing landscape multiplied that misery by a hundred-fold. After much soul searching, Sharon realized she and writing needed to break up. Instead, she turned back to her first love, art. It is as if the sun burst forth from the clouds.

Since taking up sketching, painting, and other visual art again (plus interior design, to boot), she’s light, happy, fulfilled, and practically blazing with joy. It’s been wondrous to behold. 

Here’s a not-so-secret secret: I wish I could draw. Draw, paint, all kinds of visual art. I’ve practiced. I can sometimes do a passable facsimile of the thing, but drawing doesn’t come naturally. The urge to create something in visual media comes naturally. The act–the muscle memory and the eye–not so much. (Collage is satisfying, and I’ll do that for myself when the mood strikes. For my own enjoyment.) 

I love illustrated books and stories. I envision these illustrations and want them for my stories and think I want to make them. If I’m being totally honest, though, I think what I really want is the finished product. I’m not that interested in the process, and we all know that process is the good part when the art’s real inside. When the art’s part of you. 

An illustration by me

Today I told Sharon, “I’m jealous of artists. But I remind myself I can enjoy it without having to DO it.”

“That’s where I’ve gotten to with writing!”

“Why do I think I have to DO everything????”

“Girl, if I had that answer for myself, I’d share. We both have the ‘I bet I could do that’ gene.”

“Right,” I said. “I bet creative people just get urges to create. Maybe it’s that simple. So do the one you’re best at. Support the rest.”

That last bit hit me, even as I typed it. Creative people are often drawn to multiple disciplines, hobbies, arts. Piano lessons in grades 1-5 taught me I’d never be a musician, even though I enjoyed playing my favorite songs well into my college years. Sometimes I suspect I’d be good at sculpture. Or pottery. Or weaving. But I’m old and wise enough now to know that’s ridiculous. 

I learned to knit and tried spinning yarn for a while, loving the idea of fiber art. I had fun playing around with the spinning wheel and drop spindle, looking at fiber art magazines, day-dreaming about natural dye processes. I carded, rolled, spun yarn, and knit a scarf from mohair roving…

Reader, it didn’t stick. 

My one true passion has always been books and writing. Writing is where I’ve put my energy and my ten-thousand hours. Writing is my art form. 

I can appreciate all the arts. I can listen to Mozart’s Queen of the Night aria and sing it at the top of my lungs in the car all alone, but I’ll never sing opera in public. I love theater, but find me in the audience on opening night clapping my hands off. I’ll pick out beautiful handspun yarn at the Fryeburg Fair and admire the woman spinning directly from her angora bunny in the corner. I’ll follow visual artists on social media and sigh with admiration over the designs, but my collages and art journals will be for myself and for sharing on social media as amateur-at-best pieces, not for professional purposes. I’ll buy hand-thrown pottery, art prints, handmade quilts, and fabulously concocted desserts. Yes, my heart will ache a little to do all these things, but I can resist.   

I don’t have to do it all. Writing is my medium. I can support the rest.

_________

* Names of people in my essays are changed and sometimes the characters are amalgams. The conversations are real. 

Head Scratching

I sold my first book when I was in my twenties, which seems like a lifetime ago. That makes sense since the publishing industry ages in dog years. It was 1999. I wrote a cover letter, submitted to the University Press of New England (I was a teacher and thought selling a novel to a university press would be a feather in my academic cap). I received a letter back requesting the manuscript, and then negotiated (who am I kidding? I took what was offered) the contract myself (getting them to kick in to fly me to Bouchercon each year) and wrote five books in my first series for UPNE. Having “proven myself,” an agent took me on and sold my next series. Pretty typical.

(Photo: Corrigan Family Curling Excursion)  

That was then. This is now.

So much has changed. There are a variety of avenues one can traverse to publication now: self-publishing, hybrid publishing (different from vanity; the author shares production costs for higher royalties and retaining more rights than is typical with a traditional contract), traditional publishing with the “big five,” and traditional publishing with small houses.

Financially, the landscape has gotten confusing. It’s harder than ever to break in with a major house, which, of course, pays the largest advances. Many small publishers stopped giving advances at all but in a perfect world they still treat you like family. And hybrid publishing, if you can afford it and can hustle, might end up paying more than the other options.

Everyone seems to have a story or an opinion on the best route forward. I’d love to hear from the Type M community on all of this.

Rereading Your Past AKA I Wrote That?

 by Sybil Johnson

While I’m proud of all the stories I’ve written over the years, I’m not fond of rereading them. Whether it’s a short story or a novel, I cringe every time I think about it. The older the story is the more resistant I become to reading it.

I don’t even like listening to an audio version of my books. The first 3 in my Aurora Anderson series are available in audio format and have been for a while now. I’ve only listened to the first one, Fatal Brushstroke, on a driving trip up the West Coast. I even found myself gasping once and briefly wondering what would happen next! Yes, I really wrote the book. I had to laugh at myself. In my defense, I’d written a couple books in the series since then and pretty much as soon as I start on a new book, I’ve forgotten what happened in the previous one. Even though the narrator did a fine job, I don’t think I can bring myself to listen to the other two.

I have no problem rereading and rereading and rereading a story that I’m currently working on. I rather enjoy editing it. But, once it’s been published somewhere, I have no desire to read it again. There has to be a good reason for it.

I’m not sure why this is, but I suspect it’s a case of what if. What if I reread it and the writing is just awful? What if the plot is bad? What if the characters aren’t interesting? I suspect it can’t be that bad since someone else liked it enough to publish it, but these thoughts still go through my head. 

Recently, I found the need to reread a couple of short stories that were published in Mysteryical-e in 2009 (“Cemetery Plot”) and 2011 (“Some Like It Raw”) These stories were published several years before my first book came out. I’m currently working on a short story that featured the same characters. I remembered them reasonably well, but I couldn’t remember all of the details.

So I braced myself and started reading. I was surprised at how much I enjoyed the stories. I’m sure they could be improved, but I was happy with the versions that were published.

Felix, my first crochet project. Not perfect, but I'm still proud of him.

 

I find it much easier to forgive mistakes in my craft projects. I don’t have this same reaction to what I’ve painted or crocheted or embroidered or macramed... I know I did the best I could at the time and am proud of the result. I’m striving to feel that way about my writing.

What about you? Do you cringe at the thought of rereading something you’ve written? Do you think there’s value in rereading an old story to see what could be improved?

Is snow a blessing

 by Steve Pease writing as Michael Chandos

     My To-Do list is huge. I have house tasks, cars, lawn, filing, all the stuff that occupies life. The weather is bad. What to do, what to do.

     My Writing To-Do list is also huge. I'm a former intelligence officer and private investigator. I like facts, analysis, photos, and articles on subjects that "one-day" might be relevant. I have videos from Youtube about point of view, plotting, pace, marketing, idea generation, various plot structures, and the Hero Cycle. Since I also write hard-ish science fiction, I have articles on warp theories, dark energy, gravity, and trajectories to Mars. I have materials on the courts, the police and Private Eyes. You can never tell when that article about hollowing out asteroids to use as a generation ship might suggest a story.

     I have terabytes of photos of gnarly urban buildings and alleys, futuristic cities and alleys. and Spaceships. The astro engineer in me loves spaceships. Photos of interesting faces. men with the scars of life written in every line, women with piercing eyes, clothing, transportation, house and office interiors, airports and spaceports.

     I saved many photos from the online archives of the now-defunct Herald Examiner newspaper in LA. The murder mystery novel I'm working on takes place in 1963. The archives are full of photos from the newspaper from the 50s and 60s. The Examiner never shied away from a lurid story, a nasty murder, a dock worker riot, or Zoot Suiters. I captured hundreds. My 1963 novel, "Shade of Brown", is located in real places with, I hope, genuine descriptions of 1963 LA, thanks to these photographs.

     One of my best resources are my ten years of private investigation case files. Rest assured I don't use real names and places. People treat each other horribly. If you like the noir films post-WW2, you'll appreciate these real-life happenings. Obsessives, liars, cheaters, back-stabbers. A 70 yo woman in obsessive love with a guy in jail in Kansas who is selling her home to bail him out of jail. My research showed him to be a multiple-State felon, a liar and cheater since he was twelve, convicted of robbery in two States, convicted on a confidence game in Texas with open warrants there still. Her grown children were in a panic. I gave them his background papers. She didn't believe them, sold the house, disappeared. 

     That's what I'm doing this week. Organizing, filing, and changing file names to reflect the actual content. This stuff is all gold, IF I can find it when I need it. It is 16 degrees out, 6 inches of snow today, a week of high 30s to come. No open story deadlines. No better time to straighten out a few things.

Grateful

My husband just made a delicious batch of molasses bread. I love it. It makes the whole day better.

I hope you had a great Thanksgiving. I’m more grateful for small things these days than I used to be. I used to have big expectations and was disappointed when they didn’t materialize. I’m seldom disappointed by anything now, since I no longer have expectations. Is this a bad thing?

For forty years, a swami lived in a cave high in the Himalayas, seeking enlightenment. For forty years he sat meditating in complete isolation, naked except for a blanket, never seeing another living soul, eating only rice and drinking plain water.

When the forty years were over, the swami’s mind was as clear and still as a mountain lake, at peace at last. “I have achieved enlightenment,” he said to himself. He decided to come down off the mountain and attend the Maha Kumbh Mela, the great Hindu pilgrimage to the Ganges, which only occurs once every 144 years.

The crowd was so great that the swami was caught in the tide of humanity and swept along as though he had fallen in a river. The noise deafened him, the colors blinded him, the press of people took his breath away, but he was at peace. Until a beggar stepped on his foot and he yelled, “OW, get the #$%*& off my foot, you *%^@_!”

Richard Alpert, better known as Ram Dass, spiritual seeker, teacher, and author of Be Here Now, suffered a stroke in 1997 that nearly killed him and left him barely able to speak. He reports that when the stroke happened and he realized that he was probably dying, his entire lifetime of faith and understanding flew out the window and he became a whimpering coward. What courage it takes to be able to admit something like that.

I think of both those stories often, especially when someone tries to convince me of the rightness of his philosophy. Or when I think I have it all figured out myself.

I used to know stuff, but no more. In fact, in most ways I used to be a better person than I am now. I used to have prescient dreams. I meditated. I played music, painted, and believed things. I read everything and wrote what I wanted. I loved and had passion, and even when I was sad, and afraid, and grief stricken — and I often was — I was basically a cheerful little person.

Now I know nothing, nor do I understand anything. Yet I’m not pessimistic,or optimistic either. It’s more like I am whatever tide or emotion or event is happening in this moment.

And this moment I am very happy for molasses bread.

Shy authors and the promotional game

 Catherine's post on Persistence, and the struggle of introverted authors to toot our own horn, made me smile. How I can relate! It's twenty-five years since my first book came out, but with 21 (soon to be 22 books out), I still have to force myself not only to praise my own work on social media and at parties but also to initiate conversations with (AKA waylay) perfect strangers in mall bookstores and public events. I'm proud of my work. I think I've written some pretty good books, which have even been nominated for awards over the years. But I absolutely suck at saying that. As a psychologist, I was much more adept at listening than talking and much better at letting the other person lead the conversation where they wanted it to go. But no doubt I chose that profession in part because it fit my introverted style.

I've gotten better at this socializing and promoting business over the years and have developed some "patter" I can trot out. In structured situations like doing presentations, interviews, and panels, I am now at ease, but in unstructured conversational settings, it still does not come easily. Yesterday evening I attended the annual Christmas dinner of Capital Crime Writers, a local Ottawa crime writers association founded over thirty-five years ago and still going strong. I was one of the earliest members, one of twelve, none of whom were published (yet) but we wanted to learn the craft and support one another. Over the years members came and went, but the organization grew and many of us went on to successful publishing careers. I remember one of the earliest dinners I attended. I don't recall whether I'd had any short stories out by then, but one of the members had had two works published. They might have been screenplays. The only thing I remember was that I was in awe of her and shy to talk to her. Who was I, after all, to presume to occupy her time! 

Good grief.

My debut baby, Sept 2000

The organization has quite a few published authors now, especially with the recent increase in indie publishing and micro-presses, but at last night's dinner I was one of the longest-published and most recognized authors there. The shoe felt as if it was on the other foot! I wondered if some of the new and aspiring writers would be reluctant to approach me or wait for me to talk first? That turned out not to be the case, but it was a relief not to have to worry about promotion or exposure. I had no pitch to sell, no bookmarks to offer. I could relax and enjoy the dinner and the chance to connect with old friends, commiserate about the book industry, and enjoy the book talk. But I remember that shy little me who didn't know what to say to a real published author and now that I experience it from the other side, I realize it was all in my head.

The glass of wine was nice too.

Persistence

 Catherine Dilts

In the day job from which I recently retired, I outlasted many employees who had much more flash and verve. Merely showing up and doing the work contributed to my longevity at the company.

So far, my writing career seems destined for more of the same. Persistence. Refusing to give up despite obstacles and difficulties. There’s no glitz or glamour involved. Just plain hard work. The path to becoming a published author wasn’t easy.

In the 1985 dark comedy movie Better Off Dead, starring John Cusack, the main character persistently pursues attempting suicide. I saw it years ago, before exposure to real-life tragedy made this theme not funny to me in the least, so this is not a recommendation to watch the movie. The reason I mention it is due to a persistent paperboy that serves as a running gag.

The kid pursues the main character through ridiculous scenarios, demanding he pay the two dollars owed for newspaper delivery. This boy is not going to give up until he receives what is due.

I could never see myself in that paperboy’s role. I struggle with promoting myself as an author. I don’t want to be that annoying person, chasing down strangers at parties or popping up incessantly on social media, demanding attention. Becoming a running gag.

However, if you don’t let people know you wrote a book, you’re robbing them of the opportunity to support your creative endeavor (I realize how silly that sounds). My husband has prodded me out of my shell. He introduces me as his author wife, then suggests I give them my promotional book mark, which they can’t refuse without being rude.

Yes, I am that shy. When I do push myself to mention my work to strangers, I get one of four reactions.

1)     The blank stare. Perhaps a nod and a bland “that’s interesting.” But no reaction encouraging further conversation. Awkward.

2)   The negative Nellie. “I don’t read books that aren’t true.” Yes, someone said that to me, in a snide tone, instead of an apologetic, “I only read non-fiction.” People can be adept at crushing your dream with a facial expression or cutting words. This type of human is inspiration for sweet revenge. My first short story sale was based on fictionally murdering this person.

3)      The I’ve Got A Story To Tell, Too. You mention you’re an author. Two things can happen. Either this opens wide the floodgate to a dissertation on their career or hobby, all shared without taking a single breath, or expressing a shred of curiosity about your writing. A conversation is supposed to have reciprocity, right? Or, the absolute worst happens when they say, “I have a great idea for a book,” which segues into variations on, “You can write my book for me.” Implying you can't possibly have an idea interesting enough upon which to base an entire novel. But they're willing to share their brilliant inspiration.

4)      The enthusiastic fan. This person smiles and asks questions. What type of fiction do you write? They might mention their own favorite author or genre. They patiently listen to your log line or blurb. And they promise to purchase your book or request it at the library. Whether they eventually do or not hardly matters. In this moment, the fan is a shining angel to the struggling author.

Ironically, my experience as an introverted author attempting to toot my own horn has made me a better listener. I feel for people who just need an audience, for whatever brief space of time. Honestly, wouldn’t the world be a better place if we all exhibited a little more conversational patience? Less me me me and more how is your life going?

But back to promotion, in most ways the antithesis of listening.

The rejections don’t bother me. Much. I recall the story told by a famous author during a writing conference (of course I don’t recall who) going into a bookstore and offering to sign copies of their recent release. The shop attendant gleefully brought out a stack of books – by a different author. Oops.

Whether a famous bestseller or their polar opposite, all authors struggle with achieving recognition for their work. The only thing you really have control over is to keep writing. Do what you love. Be persistent.

AWOL

  I’m afraid I haven’t contributed to our Type M for Murder blogs in much too long.  My initial excuse was a once-in-a-lifetime trip to the Galapagos Islands.  That alone will be its own blog somewhere down the line.  While I was aboard the National Geographic ship exploring and hiking the volcanic islands with my wife, I was making notes about a locked door murder.  

It’s a delicious location for a fictional homicide. 

Before flying to the Galapagos, we spent a day exploring Quito, Ecuador.  It’s a colorful, beautiful country.  That in itself is worth a story. 

It was on our trip back, on crowded planes out of Ecuador and Miami that something happened. Something snuck up on me.  Arriving in Raleigh, where we spent the night before driving back to the coast of North Carolina where we live, I developed a cough. 

Worried that I might have contracted something exotic, I saw my health care provider the next day.  Tests came back.  I had bronchitis caused by a rhinovirus…a cold. Heck, that shouldn’t be a problem.  I took the medicine prescribed.

But it got worse.

Here’s where I made a mistake.  I didn’t realize it, but it had gotten so bad that I was suffering from hypoxia, a lack of oxygen.  I thought I was getting better.  I didn’t realize how sick I was getting.  By the time I saw my health care provider again, my oxygen level was at 79 percent.  

They called the EMTs and rushed my butt into the ER. When I got there, my heartbeat was irregular, struggling to find oxygen to send to the rest of my body.  They brought in the crash cart.

One of the people working on me in the ER said, “The crash cart must have scared him.  His heart returned to a normal rhythm.”

At least that’s what I thought I heard.  

I spent the next seven hours undergoing tests and being pumped with oxygen.  The diagnosis was double pneumonia.  Then I spent two days in critical care and five more recuperating slowly in the hospital.  

So, I’m home, thirteen pounds lighter and moving slowly.  But I went to my first writing critique group last Monday.  The first in over a month and I’m going to the grocery store and running errands on my own, so…progress.  

I’m re-editing a manuscript that I’d finished before our Galapagos trip.  While in the hospital, I had some time to think about a lot of things, including my mortality.  This has given me a new perspective and I want to use it to make my manuscript better.  

It’s a chance to look at a lot things with fresh eyes. 

Please accept my apologies for being AWOL and I look forward to joining our Type M family again, hopefully on a more regular schedule.