For the recent Ozark Creative Writers conference, one of the writing contests (the Grand Prize Showcase), the entry required one to write about “how they met their muse.” Sure, I had a fictional tale ready to go, but an essay? About something so personal? Well, being me, I gave it a shot. I had no expectations, but at least I tried.
It came in second place. I’ll share it here.
The Mistress of Words
In the movies or in classic romance novels, the two spirits meet, merge, and then live happily-ever-after… hopefully. Relationships don’t typically work out that way off-screen, yet it’s hard not to hope for the perfect soulmate with which to share an amazing existence. Reality very rarely measures up to fiction, but in my case, I think I’m winning.
I suffered from severe asthma as a lad, and my condition kept me from being able to fully enjoy the outdoors as my peers did. Pollen counts, humidity, and heat meant nothing to them, but to me they were akin to a judge sentencing me to spend all of my time indoors. It was during one of my “incarcerations,” that I first met the spirit which would change the course of my life, thoughts, and daydreams.
My mother taught me to read when I was three, as if she knew I would be spending a lot of time indoors. Television never held as much appeal as books, especially since back then, we could only get six channels. During the times when I was forced to stay in the house, I escaped with the help of written words. I started with one picture book, but soon moved on to the classics of E.B. White and others, but even with those wonderful tales, I’d always wish the author would have added just a bit more to the story.
I began thinking about ‘what-if’ scenarios and adding my own spin to how stories should have played out. What if Charlotte had not died at the State Fair? I made the best of my time indoors by planning out different directions a story could have gone, and words became friends with whom to build new foundations. I could not say where the ideas came from, because I didn’t know at the time that my own personal muse had begun whispering to me.
My first efforts as a writer were simple poems and stories, each one influenced by something I saw or heard. They were the scribblings of a child and unless they were for a school assignment, I kept them mostly to myself, showing only my mother my attempts at writing. Until one day, while in sixth grade, my teacher wrote a prompt on the board which read “The man’s hat blew away.” Those few words changed the course of my life and ignited the fire inside of me, inspiring my muse. I guess that was only a happenstance introduction because it would be years before I really knew ‘her.’
At home, we’d received the Time-Life book series about World War II and that was in my head as I read the words on the chalkboard. I used that history in the story I wrote, about a man’s hat blowing away on Sunday morning, December 7th, 1941, caused by a low-flying Japanese plane. I wrote it in class and turned it in, unaware of what would happen as a result of me writing that story.
I was given an ‘A’ by my sixth-grade teacher for that story, but unbeknownst to me, she had shared it with others, including the Creative Writing teacher. A week later, I was informed that one day a week, I would be attending a different school not too far away, for the Gifted Writing Program. I didn’t know what to make of that, but my mom was thrilled. As was my muse.
The first day at the new school was beyond anything I’d experienced before. The first task of the day was to learn about haiku. The second task was to write one. I didn’t know anything about Japanese poetry and I was nervous about attempting to write one. But an inner voice which would become more recognizable as time went by, whispered to me “Go for it, you have nothing to lose, and I have an idea.” I followed that lead and wrote a structured poem about my sneakers. It was a start. I’d overcome fear that day, and from then on, I went with what I thought of as my gut, not knowing it was my muse I was listening to.
I attended the Gifted Writing Program for three years, ending with my eighth-grade graduation. I learned how to write short stories, poetry, and I was taught about the classics in both genres, and I revered Shirley Jackson and O. Henry. I wrote in both of them, and I did not limit myself, or my muse, to only writing romance, crime, coming-of-age, or horror. I tried them all on, and I like to think that I did alright in all of them. Or rather, we did.
I made it through high school while my muse mostly slept, because I was writing essays and book reports, which aren’t really creative, just a regurgitation and acknowledgement of facts and opinions. I went through puberty, teen-aged angst, and didn’t have much of an opportunity to use what lay inside of me. I grew up, without thinking that each experience I had was noted by my muse, to be filed away for later use.
Years went by and other than occasional attempts at poetry (to woo women), I did not allow my muse out of the cage where she slept. I’d read Greek mythology of course, but I’d never associated what was inside of me with the Muses, none of whom were specifically labeled fiction. I was in my mid-thirties when she woke up.
One of my favorite television shows was about the happenings at a fictional bar. The storylines were often comical, as was the intent, but what if the lessons of life were featured? What if otherworldly figures showed up? Those thoughts woke up what was sleeping inside of me and I wrote a story about Death walking into a bar to collect a soul. It was a good story with a twist, and I was proud of it. I vowed to write something every day, not for public consumption at the time, but just to give in to my wide-awake muse, who was greedy for something to sink her teeth into.
I found time on a daily basis to write something. Maybe it was only a few paragraphs in a story, or a short poem, or an essay based on my opinions, as long as it was something creative. My inner voice, my muse, absolutely loved it, and sometimes, she refused to take a nap, meaning I would type away furiously until whatever I was working on was complete. I’d move quickly to something else because she was still hungry. Some nights I stayed up until dawn trying to finish. These periods might last for days or weeks, and then, at some point, she would take a nap, and I could return again to my regular life.
It was like a faucet being shut off after continuous use, and the pressure in the pipes would swell again when she woke up from her nap. I didn’t know then or now when she would be hungry and that’s how I thought of her, as a demi-goddess inside of me who would feast on creative words and ideas until she was stuffed, then she’d slumber anew. My stockpile of poems and stories grew.
One day my wife remarked that the home computer was going very slow, and it was probably due to the stockpile of creative projects I’d inundated it with. She requested that I find something to do with all of it, whether storing it on a flash drive or five, or finding a way to get it out to the world. I promised to do something, I just didn’t know what it would be. When she exited the room, I tried thinking about her suggestions. I did not have writer friends or any creative acquaintances. I only had me… and my muse.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” my inner voice whispered. “Either folks will like it or they won’t. But at least the computer will run faster.”
I began doing research on self-publishing, magazines and anthologies which were looking for short stories and poetry, and contests where I might have something to contribute. It was worth a shot, right? An idea began to come about putting together a book, a collage of poetry and short stories based on the supposed colors of human emotion. Red is for passion, green is envy, black is for dark thoughts, and white is for victory. Maybe I might have something.
Not only did I (with the help of my muse) cobble together a book, I published it. I was so proud of myself. Looking back now, I can see all of the things I didn’t do, such as use line or developmental editors, a professional book cover designer, or any of the other essential people needed to create a project. My muse did not immediately go back to sleep at the completion of the project. Instead, I was given a new idea by her. What if a person knew the exact moment when they would die? She clearly was still hungry. So, instead of typing away on the home computer, I began writing in a spiral notebook. I thought it would be a short story. I was wrong.
I banged away at that story every day and then when it was at fifteen thousand words, I realized I was in unfamiliar territory. I was writing a novel. My anxiety level went up and instead of the usual “we can do it” attitude from my muse, she went to sleep, and nothing I could do woke her up.
I struggled at the beginning of that summer to write anything worth reading. Everything sounded stale to my ears and I thought maybe I didn’t have what it takes to be a writer. I considered giving up on my daydream, putting down my pen, and going about my business like almost everyone else. I mentioned my dilemma to a social media friend, who suggested I try a different genre, just to give myself something new to try my hand at.
“Like what?” I asked. “I write everything under the sun, from suspense to Westerns, and right now, none of them are worth pursuing.”
“Have you ever tried steamy romance?” she asked. It might help.”
I listened, but I had no desire to write anything in that genre, as my mind naturally recoiled at such a thing. But… her words had the power to wake my sleeping muse, and she immediately gave me an idea for a short story about a woman with a secret crush on a man. I wrote it in a couple of days, and… my muse stayed awake that entire summer.
By Labor Day weekend, we had written over a hundred poems and short stories in all genres, and I completed the first draft of my novel. There were enough projects created during that season for three short story collections, a poetry book, and when she went back to sleep, I did not try to wake her, because she had done more than enough.
I do not have a name for my muse, nor would I attempt to try one. I know who she is, where she is, and how hungry she will be when she wakes. And when she’s alert and ready, the world disappears as we dive headfirst into whatever creative project she wants to try. In the years since she first fully revealed herself to me, we have written nine novels, nine collections, and have accrued more than one hundred and fifty writing credits, with more coming every month. When she’s asleep, I go about my normal life of being a father, husband, son, friend, mentor, and I like those periods. They’re refreshing and my own batteries recharge.
But… when she wakes up, we both go into the void together, creating whatever will satisfy her hunger. And I am a willing accomplice, because the adventures and quests never stop, and I love every aspect of it. Folks talk about meeting the love of their lives, or finding a soulmate, and I nod politely, because my own special someone, the one with whom I am completely immersed, is not my wife. Sorry. It’s the Mistress of Words (I guess that works) who resides within me, and wherever she takes me, I will willingly follow… forever.
