“My muse is angry at me,” she said.

Then we began to discuss why she felt that way and, better yet, how to remedy it. For some writers, there is a ritual, routine, and rhythm associated to their writing.  She is one of those writers.  When she finds her rhythm, though, it’s magical.

I’ve been having problems connecting with my muse myself.  It’s why I understood what she was trying to tell me.  Lately, when I sit to write, all I see before me is a blank canvas that I’m afraid to paint upon.  Now to figure out how the hell to overcome the fear and reconnect myself.

(bolded words are my magnetic words for the last three days)

I couldn’t exactly not think about it, though. The word echoed in my heard throughout the day and I went to bed with it ringing in my ears:  Sculpture.   it followed me into my dreams as my dreams were filled with marble  and paintings and sculpture and a monastery.  I think it was Philadelphia.

This morning, I pulled my word, and was laughing before I had my first sip of coffee: angel.  Now I knew why I had procrastinating a day: The Angel Sculpture.

This sculpture is in my parent’s back yard.  I can’t recall if it was a gift for my mother’s birthday or Mother’s Day, but I do know that I purchased it in 1988.  My mother is far from perfect, but she introduced me to a love of books and from that grew my love of words.

I love this little angel.  I wish I could find another one for my yard.  In the meantime, I’m happy to gaze upon her sweet little face on my computer.

How does a story unfold?  How did a character get through a sticky situation?  Why is my grandmother crying in the only family photo of her family when she was a child? Why does this person have an obession?  Where are we in the world?

I think it’s my innate curiosity.

I want to know.

Maybe it’s time I dabble back in poetry a bit.

Several months back, I was suffering from a severe case of writer’s block.  When The Boy asked why I hadn’t written in weeks, I told him I couldn’t think of a thing to say.  He suggested I baby step back into writing and describe my morning walk.  The sky that day was a beautiful Robin Egg Blue.  I baby stepped into writing again after that.

And Cerulean.  I love the way the word rolls off my tongue when I say it.

I had wondered what a simple color would say to me when it came to writing and I immediately knew when the simple blue appeared on my refrigerator door.   Words are another form of art, and getting a reader to see through a writer’s eyes depends upon descriptive words.  Blue is the parent to a whole rainbow of blues.  It’s an angel’s azure eyes, an officer’s navy uniform, a teenager’s teal prom dress, and my cotton cornflower nightgown.

From  Breena Clarke author of River, Cross My Heart and Stand the Storm:

There is balance as a writer. It is a solitary profession in many respects. One thing that has been fortunate for me is that before my first book was published, I worked full time in an office and part time at my writing. After River, Cross My Heart, I was able to write full time. I do have a lot of buddies and friends, I’m married and I have my dogs. I have a nice little social circle, and when I was working full time, I used public transportation. Having contact with people, just looking at them and watching them, is a great asset. It’s interesting to try and read what they are thinking, seeing their faces and bodies and attitudes and being sketch out them as characters. I have continued to do that when I can. Now that writing full time, one thing that was most difficult was (took an early retirement) was the thought I could write all day. I thought how fabulous it would be, but it doesn’t work that way. No one works twenty-four-hours a day. It took me quite awhile to achieve a schedule. For the first time, I was in charge of my whole schedule.

From an interview with author, screenwriter, and television producer George Pelecanos:

It was at a point that many hardboiled detective novels were more about the WHY rather than the WHO. I had gone down there (with the police) and hung out and done the street work, and I saw a different possibility and changed direction. I look at it as a form of reporting and you have to feel the dirt between your fingers. I talk to people, and I listen. An afternoon of work can consist of walking into a bar and ordering a beer and listening to people talk, riding the bus down the avenue, or just getting outside and hanging out with people. What I try to do is to front load all my research – spend a couple of months being out there – with police, prison, parole officer, humane society officers. It’s part of the job. You have to get enough ammunition to write a book, then come home and lock yourself in for five or six months – day and night – and everything (due to my research) is there at my feet.

When you are researching, I keep it all in my head. It intimidates people when you pull out a pad or a tape recorder. Then, when you get home, you make your notes.

The trick now, is to take those observations and write them down into something substantial and cohesive.

I held them in my hand. I could feel the heat of the words; it was as if they would burn through my fingers if I didn’t look at them. But I couldn’t. Look, that is. It was against the rules of the game as the word of the day cannot be seen until the morning when it is placed on the refrigerator door do the right of the handle. And even though I am the one making the rules, I can’t break them.

At least not yet.

The kitchen still dark, I open my hand and gently place the words – one by one – on the side. These would be my words for the work week. My hand was still warm from the words as I climbed into bed for the night. I could hear them whispering to me in my dreams, begging me to “pick me” in the morning.

***********************************************

Pre-coffee, I reached around the side of the fridge and chose a word. I could feel the heat emanating from all of them, but I can only choose one. I slide it into its space for the day and allow myself to finally gaze upon it. Today, the word is from The Boy.

I could hear this word roll off his tongue and into my ear. It’s whispered to me with his growly bear voice, the one reserved for mornings and intimate moments. When I try the word upon my own tongue, it sounds foreign. So I will keep it in my ear all day. And when I think it or type it, it it comes out only in his voice, a gift to me.

“Glorious,” he says to me. “You, my baby, are glorious. Now be a good girl, and write.”

I look at the word and listen to my heart as the voice whispers in my ear my word for today: “Compose.”

“Create,” says the voice. “And while you are at it, pull yourself together.”

This morning, I found a single word on the refrigerator door: GRACE

From Webster’s:

2 a: approval, favor barchaic : mercy, pardon c: a special favor : privilege d: disposition to or an act or instance of kindness, courtesy, or clemency e: a temporary exemption : reprieve

I took “grace” to heart this morning as the words played through my head: mercy – kindness – pardon – reprieve. It was the perfect word to find as I struggled to wake and began to prepare my first cup of coffee.

I’ve been off the last month or so. Nothing most of you around here would notice, unless you knew me pre-Tumblr. Know on days when I am reblogging a photo someone posted or sending you to interesting news pieces from around the globe, I am doing it because I care about the world around me and I care about what you care about – because it’s important enough to you to make you laugh or make you cry.

When asked what I am, for years I have said I am a writer. It isn’t about a want, it is a need. Words play in my head from the moment I wake and often haunt me when I sleep. One of my biggest problems is that I allow reality to creep in too much and lose sight of my inner child. Needing to be in touch with that inner child is critical, but you cannot behave as a child when it comes to craft. I am too undisciplined and too emotional – and that has got to change. I must find the way to corral the child’s enthusiasm and love into a disciplined practice.

I know that it may start slowly. Discipline isn’t something you can just strap on and wear as you would a new pair of shoes. It is something that has to be cultivated and tended. And in some ways, it begins with grace.

green angry purple who

soft stroke drunk instrument

grace nude white free

death give art canvas

I used to arrange them in little phrases on the dry erase board that hung next to the desk. But then they became relegated to a few phrases on an old food tin with the balance of the words gathering dust in a coffee cup.

While I was at work yesterday, my daughter found them and joyfully pulled them out of their dusty home. And rearranged the phrases on the tin container. Laughing, she showed me how the words “hard” and “on” had become stuck together. She showed me the words she put inside a compartment of the tin “so empty”.

The words above were in the pile, but to the left, all alone, is the word “approach”. As much as the pile is mocking me, the word to the side is reminding me that the words are still there. They are just waiting for me to get away from some of my fear of stringing them together to once again form phrases and sentences and paragraphs.  Fear is a powerful thing and I must master it and overcome it.

I need to focus on the new phrases that my daughter set out for me

I can feel the joy

live life

create music

passion

I see why you write

imagine

shimmer

impression

they demand it

passion

from me to you

glorious experiment

Here is to overcoming fear. Finding my words. And focus on the new word that I’ve pulled aside: “soon”.  Time for this girl to head to my client’s office. I hope ya’ll have a great morning.