Overlapping Muses

Some days I can’t seem to find the groove. I wake up a couple hours before heading to work so that I can write, and some days I just stare blankly at the screen. As if my mind were allergic to ideas.

Then there are the times the Muses trip over each other, trying to crowd into that limited space I call my mind. I’ll start one story, then an idea for another will come and crowd out the first. That which seemed so damned urgent can now wait until I get these words down. But then another idea bursts in, unannounced.

I wonder if other writers experience this. I once knew a media professor who smoked a pipe. He once said that if he couldn’t find the tobacco he liked he could resort to cigars. “Or even cigarettes.” I’ve never smoked. I don’t see the need to, but his words reminded me of the behavior of my Muses.

Some days I work on my novels (my pipe). I prefer to write long, and I have completed six novels over the years. Other days I write short stories. I’ve got dozens of these lying around, mostly unpublished. Or poems. I wrote a lot of poetry as a young man, and I still think in poems from time to time.

Blog posts will suffice if none of my other writing forms suggest themselves. Or a letter to a fellow writer. Words, no matter what, will find a way out of me.

I’ve been experiencing a surfeit of ideas lately. I can’t seem to get one story finished without another intruding onto its territory. Not that I’m complaining. Stories, like fine wine, can sit on the shelf for a long while and age with dignity. I try to keep a register so that I don’t forget they’re there. Their draw is irresistible.

Ironically, the Muses overlap when workaday life gets busy. It’s as if they know you’ll barely have time to kiss them before rushing off to work. Nothing causes the death of creativity more effectively than business.

Gather round, my Muses. Just try not to speak all at once.

Comments

Dusty

My, this thing is dusty. My fans—hi, Mom!—perhaps believe me to have perished in the pandemic. No, it was nonfiction’s fault. Since the pandemic began I’ve had two nonfiction books published and have written a third. With a nine-to-five job something’s got to give. Unfortunately it’s been fiction. Well, the groundhog didn’t see his shadow yesterday, so it must be safe to come out. I shuffled away the rejection notes and began submitting again. I’ve got a backlog of weird stories and maybe some new publishers have emerged? The thing is, don’t you just hate it when you’re in the mood to submit and some lit journal has its window for submissions firmly shut? My last story, “ The Hput, ” was published about three years ago. Oh, I’ve submitted since then, but with no traction. Well, it is winter. I’ve got a lot of stories lined up. I’ve been sending them out again, dreaming of making a dime at what I love doing best. When you’ve been writing for half a century, you l

Too Much Writing?

Has this ever happened to you? Have you written a story that you’ve completely forgot? Not only completely forgotten, but made unfindable? I play games with my stories and sometimes the joke’s on me. Okay, I suffer from graphomania. I write constantly. I do try to keep organized—I use a spreadsheet that has all my submissions on it. It has rejection/acceptance dates (mostly rejection). Lots of information. I decided to list on it every story, whether finished or in process. There are far too many (mostly in process). When I finish a story I often submit it. If I get burned, I’m shy about resubmitting. I often rewrite at this stage. Then, when I feel brave enough, I try again. The spreadsheet is color-coded. There, in the color that indicates finished and ready to submit is a story cryptically titled “The Password.” I don’t remember this story. I can’t recall what it was about or why I thought it was ready to publish. Looking through my electronic files,

The Same Old Story

After a story is rejected from a literary magazine—a rather frequent occurrence—I always revise it. For stories rejected half a dozen or more times—a rather frequent occurrence—the stories can shift substantially. In a version of the old saw that “this is the axe used by George Washington to chop down the cherry tree; it has had five new handles and three new heads,” I wonder if the story is the same after such revision. I write in the flush of inspiration. The story comes to me roughly complete. The literati say “no,” and I assume the fault must be my own. I knuckle down and start trying to revise to their liking. The action changes. The ending changes. The characters change. Is it the same story? Is the fault that my addled brain seems to have trouble telling a story someone wants to read? Is it the curse of an internet that makes writers of anyone with fingers to type? I started writing fiction four decades ago. If I’d tried to start publishing then, perhap

K. Marvin Bruce

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