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I don’t have a muse. I have a basement. I throw things into the basement, and when I hear something thumping around I open the door. Then I run all over the house trying to capture whatever crawled out. Usually it’s either Romantic Suspense or Science Fiction. Sometimes it’s an Historical Romance. Sometimes it’s a total surprise – a painting or part of a song.
In the case of Suzie’s House, I don’t wait for thumping, I just stand in front of the door and pray there will be something there for me. To my amazement, there have only been two or three times since I started writing it in 2006 that there really wasn’t anything there.
It’s not a case of having a muse in the basement. There is no direct interaction, no one to talk to, no one to hear my pleas or begging. Negotiation isn’t just useless, it’s pathetic. It’s just a basement. I can’t sweet talk it into providing me with material.
What I can do is throw more junk down there. Reading, talking to people, watching movies, observing things as I walk around, listening to music, just about anything is food for the basement.
If I want a direction, I can kind of pick what I throw in. Reading Romantic Suspense is more likely to produce Romantic Suspense ideas, though there have been times I really wanted to come up with something and ended up with something completely different, and frankly, I’m sick and tired of reading about serial killers.
Keeping the door propped open helps provide more ideas that can be melded with whatever else is flying around the room, but the door to the basement closes itself when I’m not looking, and it’s not good to have it open too much anyway. Ever hear of plot bunnies?
So, you all can talk about muses all you want, but you wont hear a peep about them out of me. I’ll just take your comments and throw them into my basement.
Walking down those steps to the basement is like traveling back in time to recall instances in my life to trigger a memory of observations or conversations long ago. Often I correct my mistakes from back then to achieve another outcome. These make better reading!
You actually go down there? Not me! Uh-uh, no way. Too scary.
Okay, this is an alien process to me, so I’m going to take your word for it.
(You can throw this comment in the basement – maybe an alien will turn up in your writing at some point!)
I thought for sure you’d have something to say about the id and what not.
Can’t say that I’ve had a muse, either. Most ideas come to me out of dreams, overheard conversations or local news.
Dreams are a good source. Daydreams in particular work well for me. Two of my books came directly from dreams I woke up with.
My ideas tend to come as what-ifs from the outside, then I dig through my basement to flesh them out.
That makes sense.
nice…i really like your perspective on this…throwing more things in the basement and for those that do believe in a muse, they have to feed it as well…a constant diet of life and reading to make sure its ready to give back as well…
Seems like some writers don’t realize that. They think if they just ask, it’ll be given.
I am at lost here…I understand a bit of it. What do you mean by muse?
If I recall correctly, the muses are from the Greek pantheon (as opposed to Roman). They were three females who were in charge of inspiration, creativity, and the arts. The idea is that a muse will come along and whisper ideas into the ear of an artist or writer who will then go on to create something.
that’s a nice tale.
So muse is same with idea, right? or wrong?
Hehe – I think I have a basement full of junk, too.
I read somewhere of a method of having a story sort of generate itself when the writer got three separate ideas that kind of connected themselves – and I’ve had that happen. Three seems to be the minimum for cross-fertilization to occur.
Your method guarantees you’re going to have at least three: you keep throwing stuff in on purpose. I like it.
Actually, it kind of turned into a personality defect. It seriously got in my way during those years when I so desperately tried to stop being a writer. I kept taking note of things, then reminding myself I didn’t have any reason to do that anymore. It was torture.