As my Whimsy takes me

which is the motto of Lord Peter Wimsey's family. And this is a quote I love from Lord Peter's creator, Dorothy L. Sayers -

"Nothing goes so well with a hot fire and buttered crumpets as a wet day without and a good dose of comfortable horrors within."

I doubt I'll have the hot fire and buttered crumpets, but it is a wet(ish) day and I have not one, but two comfortable mysteries to keep me occupied while waiting on my husband's knee replacement surgery. I'll also have a pad of paper and pen so I can work on crafting comfortable horrors for my own mystery novel. And maybe a few chocolates to keep my energy level up. Alas, no crumpets.

How to work your Muse

Begin by choosing a muse. Calliope, perhaps, if you’re into the Greeks, or a more current writer you admire. Maybe you think Margaret Atwood with her Canadian mystique is the be-all end-all of writers and her short story, Happy Endings, is the greatest piece of writing ever and that you could never write as well as she does. If this is true, take my advice and don’t choose Atwood as your muse or you will forever be in shadow instead of light. What about Hemingway? Do you aspire to write alone... in the rain? Then Hemingway might be your choice. What about Stephen Hoffenfeffer? What, you’ve never heard of him? This brings us to one of the few rules. Your muse should not be an unknown struggling along the path toward their goal. Your muse needs to be worthy of the greatness to which you aspire, but a muse does not need to be human or even alive though I do not recommend choosing drink. You may get a great story about your struggle toward recovery to share with the others in rehab, but probably not a lot more than that. Chocolate, on the other hand, is acceptable.

Once you’ve decided upon a worthy muse, you can begin hitting them up for support. Tell them your story or character woes. Do you need to figure out why four sets of identical twins were involved in a multiple car collision? Ask your muse for help, then listen, for the answer may come in the form of a snippet from a news story or the juxtaposition of two cover stories at the magazine stand. Worried about why a character cannot find happiness after winning the lottery and being crowned Miss USA? Your muse may direct you to a child swinging alone on a playground. You realize your character was abandoned while a youth and this explains everything you’ve been trying to say. Or you may think your protagonist needs some grief, then your muse nudges you into grabbing your significant other’s coat for a run out to the mailbox to check for acceptance letters from the New Yorker. Reaching into the pockets, you find a few wrapped chocolates and you realize your character is involved with an addict. It is perfectly acceptable to eat the chocolate while mulling this over.

Certainly, the main purpose of your muse is to stand at your shoulder ready to be called, but they can also serve a greater function. If you take that nagging little voice of criticism that lives inside you, the one that insists your writing is crap, and hand it to your muse, they will subdue it in a stranglehold. They will not allow the critic to speak. They will not even allow the critic to catch a glimpse of what you put down on the page. Your muse will allow you the freedom to let the thoughts spill free even if they seem to have no bearing on the story. Especially if they seem to have no bearing on the story.

Choose and then use your muse wisely and one day you’ll say, “I left the window open and rain dappled the pages of my first draft. I looked at the spots and realized my heroine needed to die. It was like Hemingway was in the room with me.”

Armchair Adventures

I can do things. I can read a map held upside down if I have to and I don't get lost. I can pick out the tune on a piano. I don't panic in the kitchen and my three-chip chocolate chip cookies are the talk of the block, but from my armchair, I dream of what else I might do. I dream of what else I could do.

A bowl of ice cream, scoop piled upon scoop, reminds me that I could climb Everest. I could master the vernacular of pitons and belaying ropes, and I could master their use, too, but my hand is a little cold holding the bowl of ice cream. Perhaps something warmer would be more to my liking.

What if I biked across the United States? Nothing Tour de France-style, but at a steady pace, bent over the handlebars, tucked into one position the entire way across Iowa or Nebraska. Hmmm, this cushion I sitting on feels awfully soft as I type this. I think I'll ponder something else.

I could sail around the world. I can imagine the feel of the wind on my face as the sails fill and the boat sweeps along atop the water. As long as the boat stayed atop the water, I'd be fine. I wonder how long a person can dog paddle?

My cat is stretched out along the back of my chair. He's looking right at me. Maybe I should try lion taming? I stare back at my cat, but he yawns, his kibble breath making my eyes water. Sadly, I realize there is no way I could stick my head in a lion's mouth.

However, I think I have everything in the house to make those three-chip chocolate chip cookies. Thank goodness I don't panic in the kitchen.

Four Hundred Word Autobiography

I have known my life since the beginning. I knew the circus that set up in the field across from the house in which I grew up. A nighttime deluge of colors and lights, sounds and smells though gaudy and forced during the day. I have known people who were the same.

I’ve been a rustler and a card shark. I’ve created old shops that would not be out of place on a Dickensian street. I’ve been a flapper with a flask tucked into my rolled stocking and I’ve danced with Al Capone. I’ve been in lovely pine-paneled studies with fires crackling on the hearths and the lingering smells of tobacco and leather in the air. I’ve been courted and wooed. I’ve seen fall colors on East Coast weekends. I’ve developed a new rose. I’ve trod the boards as the ghost of Hamlet’s father. I’ve opened old trunks in dusty attics and found both treasures and empty spaces with only the lingering hint of perfume left behind.

I have no favorite day in my life, no day I would live over again. The best day of my life is today with tomorrow the runner-up. I rarely look back for memories wander too far from where I want to be. The rough edges of old recollections have been smoothed though the sharpest peaks still jut through, inhospitable islands or gorgeous snow-covered peaks.

I’ve learned few lessons except for the importance of allowing neither mistake nor ego to get in my way. I’ve seen good and bad examples and not always taken either to heart. I’ve been frightened by the nonsensical, taken figurative blows for a friend and competed with Shaharazade in spinning tales to stay alive.

I know others would make little sense of the world I see through my eyes, but this is the tale of my life not theirs. For me, whatever I’ve imagined, I’ve also done. Life, as defined by the one I’m living, is clouded by memory and cheered by visions, prodded by goals and dreams and illuminated by the flickering light of an old movie palace projector. I am a queen, a slave, a teacher, a student, a mountain, a gully, sunshine and shadows, gently falling rain and fierce blizzards. I can swing on a trapeze above the crowd and wave or hide from everything. I am the unreliable narrator of my life.

Coming Attractions

I'm taking a creative writing class. This week's assignment is to do one of the following:

1. Write a six word story

2. Write a 400 word autobiography

3. Begin a story with the prompt "Give me back--"

I managed to think of two six word stories before I got home from the class and I didn't have much interest in 3 so I took the challenge of writing the 400 word autobiography. I'll post the result tomorrow. It's been an interesting exercise.

Oh, the six word stories are ---

I remembered too late. Faulty brakes.

Tried to kill me. Marriage over.