Mazzy Adams
The Muse can be a fickle
and cantankerous beast. Give it a deadline and it will run away and hide behind
any number of obstacles and excuses, be it a flu virus, a family crisis, or the
sudden need to binge watch six seasons of a thirty-year-old television series
because, you know, you can never experience too much historic authenticity in
research mode … (a worthy cause according to The Right Honourable Idle Pro
Crastination). Yet that same Muse will shove its stubborn creativity under your
nose when you’re trying to grocery shop, work the 9 to 5, drive a car, cook
dinner, shower, catch up on desperately needed sleep, or during any number of awkward
and inappropriate moments.
Despite her unpredictable
(and unreliable) nature, I’ve learned to truly appreciate my creative writing muse.
Her weird, wild, wasteful, wistful, and wonderful moods have actually inspired
some worthwhile words over the years—not to mention several truly wacky ideas.
But hey, I love her
anyway.
When we first met,
I thought my muse was amazing—funny, clever, sophisticated—and with my typing
prowess, surely we were a match made in heaven. First love …
is blind.
(Image by 139904 from Pixabay)
Truly great relationships don’t just happen. Ours was no exception. Our relationship needed nurturing. It took time and effort for us to discover each other and to develop an understanding of each other’s hopes and dreams. It demanded tolerance, patience, persistence, perseverance and mutual respect (we agreed Alliterers Anonymous meetings didn’t work for either of us).
We spent our
courtship hours creating quick responses to writing prompts for uni,
socialising with other writers (and their muses), dreaming and scribbling
together, chatting about all the wonderful places we could visit, all the
friends we’d make along the way, arguing over which of us would take the rap
for the characters we planned to kill off, choosing cream and white sheets to
make up our literary bed, picking out names for our book babies …
Though I speak
tongue-in-cheek, for a writer, the relationship between inspiration and actual,
useful text on a page requires active encouragement, engagement, and frequently,
some outside assistance (like education and counselling). Poems, flash fiction,
memoirs, novels, informative and/or inspirational works of non-fiction don’t
magically arrive perfect and mature on the first draft. It takes informed effort
to transform ideas into useful and entertaining literature. For this reason, I
say kudos to every writer who perseveres to improve their craft.
But today, I don’t
want to focus on the hard slog of editing and perfecting. I simply want to
rejoice in that crazy, delightful ‘something’ that calls and inspires people to
write—that’s calling you to write. I want to celebrate the huge variety of
writing styles, voices, forms and expressions arising from the relationship
between muse and writer. I want to sing and splash around in the bubbling flow
that springs to life when the muse turns on the faucet. I want to thank God for
it. Thank him for the fun and the frustration alike. Thank him for the solid,
worthy ideas that translate into powerful text. And thank him for the absurd,
quirky ideas that remind me to embrace the momentum of words and enjoy
the ride.
Speaking of quirky
ideas, 10% of the marks for some of my creative writing uni subjects were
earned by completing ‘Quick Writing Exercises’. Students were required to read
the prompt, write for ten minutes by the clock, post the piece to the forum and
engage in mutual feedback and discussion. I found the challenge daunting at
first, but also very fruitful, because it taught me to think beyond the
obvious, to stretch my imagination, to get words on the page without stressing
about their initial quality (big ask for a pedant and perfectionist) and,
ultimately, to not only discover my ‘voice’ but to trust and treasure it. Like
all good relationships, I believe our connection to the writing craft grows in
quality as we invest in it and strengthen it through engagement.
If your
relationship with the muse is a tad stale, if you’ve been neglecting it
(willingly or reluctantly) of late and it needs a bit of a jump start, or if
your muse has been persnickety, hiding behind excuses when it should be making
you a cup of tea, perhaps it’s time to try a quick writing exercise or two. All
it takes is a prompt not unlike the example* I’ve posted below (or a word, an
image, the poke of an umbrella …) and ten minutes of your time. It’s a small
but invaluable investment for such an important relationship don't you think?
One of my favourite
uni prompts was this:
*Write a piece that
begins with the words, ‘I write this sitting in the kitchen sink …’
The variety of responses
posted to the forum ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous, but it was a
great deal of fun. Here’s what I wrote way back then. Why not give it a go? If
you’re game, post your piece in the comments.
Sitting in the Kitchen Sink
‘I write this sitting in the kitchen sink’ is an
intriguing opening to a story. It raises so many questions at so many levels.
At level one, I consider the grammatical structure
and its implications; if the absence of a full stop and capital letter is
intentional and not accidental, the introduction proposes several truly
mind-boggling possibilities. For example, I can envisage a scenario which quite
reasonably puts me in the sink. I’ve cleaned the gable windows above my kitchen
sink before and very nearly come a cropper. A landing in the kitchen sink would
be a more viable option for survival than a continuance of movement downwards
to the floor.
If, however, my comfortably large posterior is
actually lodged in my kitchen sink, I doubt that I would have the peace of mind
or inclination, given the unlikely and clearly uncomfortable circumstances, to
engage myself with pen and paper and wile away several minutes, hours or days
in creative composition. I suspect my first, and only, priority would be to
dislodge myself from my constricted circumstances with as much haste and as
little pain as possible.
At level two, conditional upon the previous
assumption of grammatical correctness of course, another possible scenario
involves my accidental exposure to some strange beam of light which has transformed
me instantly into a midget. Or a tea-cup. But tea-cups don’t have hands, so the
‘writing’ part of the opening becomes problematic in this instance also. Perhaps
the beam allows me special new skills, such as the ability to project an image
across the room onto a piece of paper or onto an interactive whiteboard using
purely the power of thought. That could be cool.
(Image by haidi2002 from Pixabay)
Of course, there’s level three where I might not actually be me. I could be someone else. Or something else. That raises even more mind-boggling options. I could be a cockroach in search of a tasty morsel left dangling on a dirty dinner plate. If so, I am not only intelligent, but extremely skillful and I have access to miniature writing implements, unless I intend to cocky-poo my message on the illicit bacon rind which should be residing in the bin.
I could be the mouse that I once clobbered with a
rolling pin and then drowned in the kitchen sink. (Ick! Disgusting, right?) I
doubt that in the midst of all that violence, with the threat of imminent death
looming, I would have the presence of mind to write, not even my last will and
testament. Hmm … Imagine that –
‘To my darling great-great-grand-nephew, Horatio
Mousling, I hereby bequeath my summer nest in the pile of left-over roofing
insulation in the rear right-hand corner of the Brown’s garage. To my cousin,
Katrina Ratspring, I leave the directions to the dog-bowl at 57 Evinrude Avenue,
St. Kilda …’
Sadly, given my current predicament, the creative
juices just aren’t flowing as swiftly as they should. Perhaps I should play it
safe, and punctuate. Therefore:
I write this. Sitting in the kitchen sink are the
questionably salubrious leftovers of my husband’s first adventurous exploration
into the world of gastronomic creation. I have to say, for a first effort, the
dinner didn’t taste too bad. Even the after-taste was reasonable. After the
third and fourth regurgitations however, I have begun to suspect that something
was not altogether kosher.
I would rise from my chair at the kitchen table and
call an ambulance, but the slightest movement results in another violent altercation
with my digestive system. Thus I write this, just in case I don’t survive, so
that any investigation of my demise will be straightforward.
I write this so you will know there was absolutely
no ill or harm present in my husband’s intent. He’s just never tried to cook
anything more adventurous than a fried egg before!
As for the lengthy verbosity of my report, I simply
offer, in my defence, that I never do my best writing when I’m throwing up.
© Mazzy Adams
Mazzy Adams is a published author of poetry, fiction and creative non-fiction. She has a passion for words, pictures and the positive potential in people.
Website: www.mazzyadams.com
Email: maz@mazzyadams.com
