It’s easy to write creatively when your muse shows up and fills your head with elegant verse and provocative prose. But what do you do when your muse decides to call in sick, or worse, goes on a week-long booze cruise in Cancun?
A serious writer should try to keep a cache of ideas to survive these creative droughts. I tend to be more creative at night, so I dedicate a half hour per night to brainstorming ideas. I don’t have a specific time – it just has to be dark outside. The ideas are usually very raw – sometimes just a single word, sometimes a phrase, sometimes a sentence complete with a subject and predicate.
I isolate the ideas that seem to have potential, and I expand them into content for this blog, or into poems, or short fiction. I do this by dedicating 90 minute blocks of time to my actual writing, or as I call it, No B.S. Writing Sessions. I schedule two or three of these writing sessions per week, and I try to sneak in another one or two on weekends. Believe it or not, I wrote a 90,000 word Sci Fi manuscript in just under a year by sticking to my formula. Of course, getting the manuscript to complete the metamorphosis into a full-fledged novel is a whole other thing. If that ever happens, you’ll be sure to hear about it.
The point is this: The seconds, and minutes, and hours you need to be a productive writer are there for the taking. Don’t believe me? Here’s something I scribbled down while I was on hold with tech support –Time bleeds out of me into the thirsty sand.
Now, I was on hold for about three minutes, and I could have killed that time by playing Solitaire, or Candy Crush, or twiddling my thumbs, but I elected to brainstorm a little bit.
During my next 90 minute writing session, I looked at my cache of ideas and there it was: Time bleeds out of me into the thirsty sand. I thought it sounded kind of poetic, so I elaborated on it. Eventually, I completed the poem.
It’s about a guy who lost his Muse. I kind of like it, and I feel like it’s good enough to share with you. By the way, it was the inspiration for this week’s blog. And to think, it all started while I was on hold with tech support.
Keep writing, keep revising, and be kind.
The blank page has swelled into some forsaken
wasteland where words cannot grow,
where morning never comes, but I can feel Time bleeding
out of me into the thirsty sand beneath my feet.
I have stumbled upon the skeleton of my Muse,
half buried in a windswept dune, still clutching her lyre.
I crack open the long bones and suck out the marrow;
these are all the words she had left in her.