Searchlights & Signal Flares 

How Do You Welcome Your Muse?

June 2006

                        Featured Writer: Ken Rodgers 

     The relevant question for me is, do I believe in a muse?

     In the 1980s I drilled a couple of $13,000.00 dry water wells in New Mexico and on the next well, despite my reluctance, I contacted a water witch, figuring it couldn't cost me that much more to get his opinion.

     He told me, “Everybody has the power. Some more than others.”

     I'm sure I smirked.

     He told me, “Before I was a witch, I couldn't sleep. When I recognized my power, I discovered I'd been sleeping over an underground river for thirty years.”

     He was either lucky or good, because everywhere he told me to drill, I hit water.

     Once, he handed me a forked willow switch and told me to start witching. I laughed but he nodded at me confidently. So I held the stick in my hands and started walking. After about twenty paces, the stick turned point down to the ground. I swear I didn't help it.

     He smiled and said, “There's water there.” I thought, there has to be a scientific explanation.

     I didn't change careers and become a dowser. The notion of that kind of power makes me uneasy, as does the notion of a muse that exists outside me but has the power to direct my writing.

     Part of my unease relates to the fact that I've spent my life trying to understand the world in rational terms: chemistry, physics, and biology. In my opinion the notion of mystical or spiritual powers ties in with other words not as chic or acceptable, like superstition and religion.

     I want rational things to win out, to defeat the notion of otherworld. Why? Crusades, Thirty Years War, Salem Witch Trials, Osama bin Laden's anger because Charles Martel defeated Arabs at Poitiers, France in 732, Hindu ultranationalists with nuclear bombs, Jerry Falwell's disputations. The power of spirituality can be bad or good, unlike the rational, which is neither.

     Even educated people I know are afflicted with the superstitious, which by the way, seems to be making an alarming comeback worldwide. I ran into a well-known Sonoma County peace activist the day the U.S. invaded Afghanistan. His glee at the opportunity to fight a battle against American globalism was startling. He used words like “apocalyptic” and “reverent,” the same kind of words I hear from environmentalists. The same kind of words I hear from Christian evangelists. Spiritual words related to righteous causes and superstition, words to confront those who don't agree with us. The use of religious buzzwords to verbally frame the end we hope for, that we foresee—an apocalyptic end.

     I'm leery of spiritual things—notions like apocalypse and reverence and muses that float around feeding me great writing when they decide I'm worthy.

     But sometimes when I'm composing, words pour out and I don't know where they come from and they are GOOD. When that happens, I get the hell out of the way and let the muse take control.                      

 

Ken Rodgers lives and writes in Boise, ID. Ken teaches writing classes onsite and online. Sonoma County writers, don't miss a chance to work with Ken and Guy Biederman on Sept. 16 in Sebastopol. More on that and more on Ken at www.kennethrodgers.com.

How do I meet my muse? By Jordan E. Rosenfeld

     I've got good reason to believe that at least a few times a week, my muse goes back to the muse pub, or the muse reading room, or wherever it is that muses gather, slumps down into her chair, flips back her long red hair (the kind I've always wanted), pulls out her own personal, portable bar, throws back a jigger of philosophy and a couple fingers of liquid mythology and begins to kvetch. “My person—a writer,” she begins, and all the other muses groan sympathetically, “she thinks that I'm just sitting around waiting for her precious little self at some appointed hour. She thinks she can control me!”

     My muse keeps drinking, taking a shot of sexuality, then a third, a sludgy dark liquid that is my shadow, and now the other muses, diaphanous and bedazzled as they are, start to look at each other worriedly. Muses shouldn't drink; everyone knows this. My muse presses on with a bit of a slur to her voice—she's a cheap drunk, just like me-- “Doesn't she get it yet? I come when and where I please. If I feel like turning up in the middle of that two and a half hour movie when she doesn't have a pen, screw it! She doesn't own me! What's she going to do to me if I got a great idea when she's a few minutes from sleep? Cry?! Huh. I'll give her something to cry about. Worse, I'll give her the best damn idea of her life when she's in the middle of an interview or right before her mom calls! Yeah, I'll teach her. Nobody fences me in!” says my muse, who throws back another shot, a sparkling purple liquid the other muses know all too well, and blacks out. The artists' muses now have to call in a scientist's muse—these guys meet down the hall in an anti-gravity chamber. A gleaming tall fellow in gray who emits spikes of blue-green light when touched is ushered in by the pretty muses in all their fairy-wings and taffeta.

     He takes a look at my muse, sizes up the black leather pants, the elegant silk blouse, the thick-toed boots and elegant gold necklace—such a conundrum this muse. “She been drinking?” he asks the other muses. They nod, frowning and chattering disconsolately. He leans forward and sniffs her breath. “Oh dear,” he says. “Idealism.”

     To their surprise, the scientist's muse leans even closer and plants a thin-lipped kiss on my muse's lips. Indigo sparks travel from his lips to hers, jolting her to consciousness. “Woah, pardner,” she says, coming awake. “I don't even know you.” He just smiles and walks away. To the other artists' muses she says, rubbing her head, “I was having a terrible dream! My person was threatening to become a lawyer!”

     Then she stands, swaggers out of the muse clubhouse and the other muses start to gossip about that one, how she was never quite right in the head.

 

Jordan Rosenfeld Pedersen is a writer, editor and radio host. Her book, "Master the Scene" will be published by Writer's Digest Books in 2007. Her book with Rebecca Lawton, "Creating Space: The Law of Attraction for Writers & Other Inspired Souls," will be published in Summer, 2007. Jordan is the host of "Word by Word: Conversation with Writers" on KRCB Radio 91 FM, and a book reviewer for KQED's California Report. She is at work on yet another novel.

Jordan's blog: www.jordansmuse.blogspot.com.   

How Do You Welcome Your Muse?

     I don't throw open the door, a tray of hors d'oeuvres in my hand. I don't drop everything and leave it all for later when my muse comes to call. Sometimes – yes, I'll admit it – I'm downright rude. I've even attempted to close the door in my muse's face as if she were an uninvited guest who was in the neighborhood and just happened to stop by. I hate uninvited guests.

     Usually, my muse has to keep at me, tickling my nose with a feather, especially if it's the middle of the night – and often, it is. For some reason, she won't take offense to my rudeness. She's rather like a bulldog, my muse. Once she has a hold of me, she won't let go. She'll lead me by the hand to the computer screen, gently sit me in my chair and stand patiently with an air of satisfaction behind me as I tap, tap, tap the square keys of my keyboard late into the night.

     Sometimes I sit like I sat as a child, waiting for my mother, who was chronically late, to pick me up from school or from a friend's birthday party. (I was always the last kid to go. Parents would even ask in a worried tone, “Are you sure she knows to pick you up? Why don't you try calling again?) I sit, worried and doubtful that my muse will show. Sometimes she does. Sometimes she doesn't. She's not the kind of girl to come when she's called. She does as she pleases.

     I think I'll make it a point to start inviting her over more often, to pull out the chair and offer her a cold drink. I'll make an effort to act pleasantly surprised when she turns up on my doorstep instead of shooing her away. Maybe then she'll make her visits more regular.

Searchlights columnist Christine Falcone's fiction, nonfiction and poetry have appeared in various print and online publications. Her work has also aired locally on public radio and nationally on public television. She recently completed her first novel entitled, This Is What I Know. 

     I welcome my muse (Who is also my Lord and Father) whenever I pray to
Him, whenever I ask Him for help, whenever I seek to know what He wants me
to  write next and for whom. I am fortunate - my muse has promised He will  never leave me or forsake me. This is a mixed blessing, though, because  it means that when I have nothing to write about, no inspiration, no reason to sit down and write, I have no one else to blame. It is my own fault, because when I welcome my muse, He comes in with an armload of work for me and another armload of ability to pull it off. Then, all I  need to do is start writing!

 

 Betty Winslow, waiting for the next armload in Bowling Green, Ohio

     Opening the door: that's how I start another journey with the word-warbling goddess within. I'm not talking about having the muse come into the kitchen for a cozy cup of tea, but getting myself outside to revive my senses. Waking up, setting forth, going home to mama. Mother Earth—who else?

     Wendell Berry said, “We need consciousness, judgment, presence of mind. If we truly know what we have, we will change what we do.” That's from his afterward to Missing Mountains: We Went to the Mountaintop But It Wasn't There. (Wind Publications, 2005.) When I was a kid, my family always used to sing “The Bear Went Over the Mountain” on our way to whatever outdoor destination was waiting for our tent and campstove. It seemed like those Sierra campsites were always just there, always available for us, and like in the song, when we got to the other side of the mountain, we would see what we would see. It was what we had. But I'm not sure we were fully conscious.

     Now when I go outside, I'm always afraid I'm missing something. This has got to be the muse, pestering me. Write this down, she says. It might not be here next time. She has an apocalyptic imagination. Those oak trees: bait for beetles or sudden death disease. That hillside: sure to be covered with yuppie palaces within a year. That lone butterfly floating above the invading Scotch broom: could be the last of its kind. Sometimes she can be such a nag. I want to tend my own garden and leave the dire prognostications to the professionals.

     But the singularity of this view, these trees, this light-filled day seduces me, makes it impossible for me to do anything else but pour libations to the goddess of wordsmiths, this muse that demands my consciousness, to calculate, judge, ponder, how much time do I have, and how much of this world can I capture in mere words before I'm called away from her side?

 

Catherine Montague, a Sebastopol, CA writer, is preparing to take her muse on vacation and seek writing inspiration in natural (or unnatural!) wonders found in Philadelphia, PA, Wells, ME, and Franconia, NH.

   How do you welcome your muse?

     I'm so practical, I have a hard time welcoming something I can't see.

     However, I know when to listen.

     My muses, or my angels, as I prefer to think of them, have been incredibly noisy this past year.

     I acknowledge and honor them.

     I delight when they sit on my shoulders, guide me and keep me company.

Marlene Cullen sits in her garden and enjoys musing about her angels.   

How do you welcome your muse? 

     On Christmas Eves past, Mom used to remind me and my brother to leave a cookie and a glass of milk for Santa. It wasn't a bribe, exactly, more of a thank you gesture, kind of like the toothpick dispensers or bowls of peppermints you sometimes see next to the cash registers of family-style restaurants. 

     As with all sacrificial offerings, this gift was an important matter. During those years when Santa was my most eagerly awaited visitor, I conducted serious debates with my playmates regarding the most effective treats. Some of my friends were of the cookie-and-milk school, while others adhered to the theory that it was better to reward the reindeer with carrots and a handful of oatmeal. When my own kids were small, I was often tempted to suggest chocolates and a snifter of Remy Martin. These days, I think I'd vote for a bran muffin and a bottle of Smart Water. 

     Unlike the Jolly Old Elf, my muse is not impressed with snacks and beverages, although she did go through a period when she was hooked on M & Ms and cigarettes. Really, we're both better off a little hungry. It helps us both feel things more deeply.  

     I have tried to cajole my muse into visiting with promises and pleas, but what she really requires is my silence. My willingness to disconnect from my social antics and hold my own self-lacerating tongue creates an island of quiet that allows her to step out of the shadows and speak. The times I've had the patience and faith to relax into that silence, I have sometimes heard her sing.   

 

Susan Bono is trying to keep herself quiet in Petaluma, CA.

Thanks to all who participated this month. It's good to know you're out there! We're looking forward to hearing from you and those you inspired sometime soon! Check this column each month to see what's new. Return to Searchlights & Signal Flares menu for future topics and guidelines.

 

Searchlights Editor: Susan Bono

Associate Editor; Marlene Cullen

Columnists: Christine Falcone, Betty Winslow

Susan Bono is a writing coach, editor and freelance writer whose work appears in newspapers, anthologies and the Internet. She has published Tiny Lights, a journal of personal essay, since 1995, along with its online counterpart at www.tiny-lights.com. From 2000—2005 she helped coordinate the Writer's Sampler series for the Sebastopol Center for the Arts. She is a contributing editor for the Pushcart awards, Word by Word on KRCB radio, and the second edition of Sheila Bender's Writing Personal Essays: How to Shape Your Life Experiences for the Page (Silver Threads, 2005). Her short essays and columns have appeared in various anthologies and newspapers. Her most recent credits include Red Hills Review, the St. Petersburg Times, the Petaluma Argus Courier, the Anderson Valley Advertiser and KRCB radio's Word by Word.

Christine Falcone's fiction, non fiction and poetry have appeared in several anthologies, print and online publications including Women's Voices, Artists' Dialogue, Wordriot.com, and Tiny-lights.com. Her work has also aired on KRCB's Word by Word: Conversations with Writers, which was the recipient of a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts.  Aside from writing, Christine has also worked in documentary film production and is an associate producer of The Last Stand, an award-winning documentary. Christine lives in Novato, California, with her husband and their 3-year-old daughter and is currently working on her first novel.

Betty Winslow is a freelance writer from Ohio with 28+ years' experience and a day job as a K-8 school media center director. She's a columnist for Teacher-Librarian Magazine and Midwest Book Review, a staff writer for Absolute Write, and has been published in a number of locations, including eight anthologies. She and her husband of 33 years are the proud parents of four great kids and the grandparents of one gorgeous little girl. She agrees with Charles de Lint, when he says, "I'm an optimistic writer. I don't want to ignore the ills of the world; I want to offer workable alternatives to those ills. I want to remind people of the wonders that do exist, and those that might."

 

Submissions and feedback welcome at editor@tiny-lights.com