Tempting a Muse

As much as I'd like to think I understand life, with all it's twists and turns, more often than not, I don't. Questions I cannot answer, actions I cannot begin to comprehend, all make for a shrugging of the shoulders. In order to remedy this, I make things up and write them down.

I am an avid people watcher, have been ever since I was a little girl. I often find myself staring at people, sometimes slipping into their 'get the fuck outta here' look when I've hung around their person too long. Can't help it, always been the same. It's mostly unconscious and it's not until the person turns to me and engages in eye contact, the trance is broken. But people watching is fun. Transporting yourself into someone else's life for a while can be an engaging albeit daunting experience.

Christmas 2011 I was seated on a bus, gazing out of the window and looking forward to getting home from work. The bus stopped to let a passenger disembark and it was there I noticed a house. Standard roses lined the pathway to the door, a paint flaking racing green, and my mind was invited in.  The curtains were open and a single light bulb cast shadows over the nicotine faded flowers wallpaper, barely lighting the room. Cheap ornaments adorned the fireplace, I assumed complete with a light sprinkling of dust. Family gifts perhaps?

It struck me that whilst I was sitting there, in my santa hat, laden down with booze and christmas goodies, that maybe this person would be spending christmas alone. No fancy stuff. A couple of cards on the sideboard from old friends who still happened to be shuffling about, the only constant reminder that they were still thought of from time to time. A single tinsel affair. A frozen turkey dinner for one. A merry christmas indeed. My heart sank, my christmas spirit evaporating quicker than I could think. I busied myself by rummaging through my shopping to shake off the gloom.

When I got home, I thought about it again. I quickly began to realise that what I had seen and what I had imagined had merged without me even being aware of it. Imagination. A marvelous thing. So then, envisaging a miser who stashed rolls of notes under the mattress and dodged buying 'a round' at the local, I began to feel a little less troubled.

Stories are born from these 'visions' or daydreams. They are treasured when they arrive although I have to say, can be quite alarming at times.

Looking for inspiration doesn't always work. Sometimes you just have to let it happen, and if it doesn't...going after your Muse with a hammer will cause you nothing but stress and a blank sheet of A4. Let her be, she will return in her own time.

'The Muse must have shape. You will write a thousand words a day for ten or twenty years in order to try and give it shape, to learn about grammar and story construction so that these become part of the Subconscious, without restraining or distorting the Muse.

By living well, by observing as you live, by reading well and observing as you read, you have fed Your Most Original Self. By training yourself in writing, by repetitious exercise, imitation, good example, you have made a clean, well-lighted place to keep the Muse'. Ray Bradbury ~ 'How To Feed and Keep a Muse'

BUT, having said that, why not give yourself a break? Allow yourself room to breathe, go for a walk. Feel free. Forgive yourself if you haven't reached the ridiculous word count you set yourself for the day. Go jump in some puddles and stare down some drains...after all, that is where Charlie Bucket found the treasure to buy his golden ticket. Ray Bradbury may very well be a genius, but he isn't the one sitting in your chair.