Inspiration and The Muse…

I am now a blogger (and she helped me via a chat bubble). Thanks Court. I’d still be…well…not here if not for her knowledge.

Now on to my muse. I find inspiration in everything: A word, a look from a stranger, a single song lyric. Hell, I wrote a 160k word manuscript based on two lines from a song.

But.

Ever have those days when the sceen mocks you, stares back at you with that same vacant expression you get from the pimpled teen who bags your groceries? Me, too. But that never lasts very long, my friend. During times like that, I reach into my magic bag of lame and pull out my one-fingered response to the contemptuous little cursive line that connects all (and preceeds THE WORD by a hair).

You wanna brainstorm? Start on your desk. On it, you’ll find that used tissue (not yours), hardened and wrapped into a lopsided badminton birdie–waiting only for you to toss it the rest of the way to the trash can. Beside that–or, stuck to it–you’ll find three spent rifle rounds…um. You’ll find a blank disc that you have never seen before, and wonder from where it came, who placed it there, and why they hadn’t taken it along with them. As your eyes wander across the desk, you see several copied pages of some forgotten Web site with a walkthru for some Poke-what’s-it that one of your kids downloaded and read, didn’t understand, then left discarded–one foot away from that trash can. A puddle of staples, left for you like the nail clippings of some rude robot (who obviously didn’t see the trash can right over there). 

You lift your coffee mug and see more rings than a four-thousand year old tree.

Under the desk, you find yesterday’s feeble attempt to hit said garbage can…

And it’s right then you realise that your desk is such a mess that you should probably put that chapter off until you’ve had a chance to tidy things up a bit.

Sound familiar?

The Muse hates a mess. She won’t come home with some slob who shoves his pizza boxes under the cushions of his couch, or hides the dirty dishes in the front hall closet. Fill the trash can, empty it, and then come back.

Now take a look at your desk. Nice and clean? Good, now when you stare at the top your desk–as the reflection of the overhead pot-light glares back at you with the radiance of a dwarf-star–there is nothing there to distract you from the nothing you’re trying to find. It is right here in this moment, when there is nothing of the outside world there to press its snotty nose up against your reality, and say, “Whatcha doing?”

All canvases start as a blank white cloth. They do not begin as something you need to scrape algae from before commencing to lay down a work of art that will tremble the very foundations of the known Universe.

I probably could’ve told you to stare at a wall until being goosed by the Muse, but where’s the fun in that? Just be bored–it works for me.