(A possibly too-transparent writing process post that may end up with a phone call to the Couch Lady. Or from the Couch Lady.)
I’m in the middle of a Novel Dare with a couple of fellow writers. After the last couple of years have kicked me in the teeth more than once, perhaps a fun, low-key, externally motivated challenge may do the trick. Get the writing muscle moving again and remove one stagnant project off the desk, out of my head, and into some tangible form.
So, come November 1, I sit down at my desk to write, all excited, and… nope. No sparkle.
Or I curl up on the couch with the laptop, cats all around, and… nope. No magic.
Oh, I’m getting scenes down, and chapters are marching by. A stretch of words that wouldn’t exist without the Novel Dare.
But it all feels… off. And despite lots of encouragement (which is greatly appreciated), something’s missing.
I’ve eaten. At least there are enough dirty dishes to make me think I’ve eaten.
Sleep happens sometimes. At least there are enough unsettling dreams to make me think I’ve slept.
Fresh air happens daily. Even for a little bit.
Chocolate is within arm’s reach. Hot tea.
I’m physically okay-ish, but the writing feels wrong.
So I must entice myself toward a slightly higher word count somehow.
My friend gifted me a set of magnets a couple of years ago. They’re stuck under my monitor. Six black cats. From France.
I’ve employed a tactic with these fun little magnets that I’ve used before. I move one cat from the left of the monitor to the right of the monitor for every so many chunks of words. The math changes daily based on mental capacity. Sometimes it's two hundred words per kitty. Sometimes five hundred.
Then I play this little game in my head. We can’t have just one cat on the right side. He’ll get lonely. So we must continue, and by the time I’m on to Cat #2, I’ve got some rhythm.
When I feel like quitting for the day, and I see Cat #5 and Cat #6 on the left side, well, we must push through, right? Can’t leave them hanging there. Get the gang all back together.
(And right here, if my Couch Lady is reading this, she has opened my file and is making notes for our next session.)
Little Miss Muse lands on my lap and scans the post so far. She spins around, tilts my head, and looks in one ear, then the other. She puts a sticky, chubby finger on my forehead and declares with a whine, “Your mind is a mess and I’ve no room to wiggle.”
She hits a few keys on the laptop and pulls up a file and mutters, “You made an outline.” She grabs my face with both hands. “An OUTLINE!”
I thought it was a good idea at the time, but my muse hates—and I do mean hates—outlines.
“And you’re playing with magnets.”
I’m not in the mood for a scolding, but I feel one coming anyway.
“You’re massively distracted and I can’t wiggle. I feel unseen, unloved, and unheard.” She flops onto the desk in a withered purple puddle, her wings are wilted, and her tutu is askew. She hasn’t even bothered to don her lavender stilettos today.
“Okay. What do we do about this?”
She raises up on one elbow and thinks. “Well, you could start by wooing me a little.” She sits up the rest of the way. The whine has turned to a fake pout. I know it’s fake because her eyes are sparkling. “You could pretend we’re on a date.”
“A date?”
“Yeah. You could take me someplace nice. Like the cemetery. After dark. We could light candles and stuff.”
“Okay...” I gotta feeling this is gonna cost me more than money.
She inches forward. “You could notice that I need new nail polish.” She stretches her fingers in front of my face.
“Okay. And then?”
“You could show me a little love by buying me a new pair of shoes.” She swings her bare feet off the edge of the desk, wiggling her toes for good measure.
“And?”
“You could listen to me tell stories all night. No typing. No notes. We’ll do that later. Just… hear me.”
Okay.
“And here’s the most important part of all.”
Now I’m leaning in. I think my muse is wooing me instead of the other way around.
“DELETE THE OUTLINE!” She shrieks and stomps out of the office, grumbling words she’ll need to apologize to Jesus for later. Her tutu is still askew, but her wings have gone from wilted to warrior pose, and I know I’m in trouble.
I pull up the outline and look at it. It was a nice idea at the time, but this isn’t how I work. I know this.
This isn’t how Little Miss Muse works.
My brain and her magic don’t cooperate with so much structure. At least not for fiction.
So, I yell down the hall after her. “I’m deleting the outline.”
She pops her head back in so quickly, she must’ve been waiting right outside the door. She wiggles her phone at me. “I was about to call the Couch Lady.”
(And at this point in the blog, Couch Lady is shaking her head and running her hands down her face in exasperation because now her week will be filled with specialist consults and more notetaking.)
“No need. But I’m keeping the magnets on board.”
“Of course you are. Everything’s better with magnets.”
Six black cat ones. From France!
