There are times when creativity overwhelms other considerations. Hence this bit of poetry with image.               

Turning Off Alarm Bells, Building Structure, and Fulfilling Dreams

When I left teaching, my life drifted for quite a while, not because I couldn't think of something for which to use my time. On the contrary, I could think of dozens of uses for time, but to what purpose. The idea of purpose kept nagging at me. I didn't seem to have any, and the realization ticked me off.

No longer stranded on a foggy, deserted beach, I took up writing again where I’d left off years before. Oh, there were no screenplays or commercials. There was no research for PBS documentaries on spec. I no longer did corporate writing. Instead, I began slowly by learning to write specifically for children.

What does this have to do with alarms, structured lives, and fulfilling one’s life dreams? Everything!

My first desire as a child was to write. I came to a place where my need to fulfill that purpose, held so long within a tiny corner of my being, refused to remain in the shadows. My life was worth more than early retirement, disability, or relaxation.

My writing brought me here, to this new cosmos of cyber energy and virtual reality, completely peopled and conveniently housed. I made an interesting personal discovery the other day; one which I intend to do something about.

I’ve watched my day skewered by bits of life’s battle with time. Errands, email, writing prompts, publication submissions, social media networks, you name it. This goes on each day as I run to catch up. I stopped running today. I took a nap when I was tired.

I got three poems out to, for me, a new market. I singled out a new submission to another market for tomorrow. I didn’t work any further my author’s page. That will happen some other time. I did get two other blog posts done. I didn’t complete a guest post that I need soon.

Yesterday these unfinished items would have nagged with the voice of guilt as I went to bed; today, not so much. I made a decision to stop battling with time. I can do what I can do. That reality is the only one that matters. I don’t have to apologize to anyone for not working 18 hours at my desk each day to complete goals I set for myself. I only have to move the goals to eliminate the guilt.

Each problem has both a solution and an opportunity; a solution to correct the problem or minimize it; an opportunity to take something unexpected from the problem and create a new project, attitude, viewpoint, or blessing.

So much of our day is taken up with the business of others. Some of us choose to take up the business of ourselves and what’s good for us. When we live at the behest of others, we only exist for ourselves. Existence isn’t the same as living. Living takes energy, gives energy, and creates beauty.

Restructuring life takes time and effort, but it pays for itself in the end. Lately, I've had little real time to write as I want to, dreamed about, and planned for. That situation is about to change.

I’ll still blog, but my blogging will have morphed into something new. I’ll be writing more poetry, more guest blogs for other sites, and working far harder on my own books. And I’m looking forward to this new avenue of endeavor.

The world is changing as am I. It’s my hope that each of you will be along for the ride, however long I stay in the saddle. Stay tuned for my announcement of things to come and places to go.

Until then,

Claudsy

One More Silver Lining

For the past two weeks I’ve been dealing with pneumonia and its many twists and turns. Antibiotics make me sleepy, among other things, and this time being sleepy didn’t help matters since coughing and shortness of breath were my main symptoms.

I don’t tell you this for sympathy but, rather, to set the stage for what comes next. If you’ve ever had a respiratory infection or pneumonia to any degree, you know that sleeping on the horizontal isn’t going to happen. The lungs won’t allow for it. Throw in a slight sinus infection, and you’ll really not sleep much.

So, there I was, not sleeping in an upright and locked position, cradled on the corner of my bed, back against three pillows, one of which actually did hold my head up and allow me to turn it from side to side.

While I sat there for hours in the darkness, not sleeping but wallowing in that twilight state of antibiotic-drugged drowsiness, my mind was free to run wild, without destination, purpose, or forethought. The hors d'oeuvres of primitive thought kept floating in front of the mind’s eye, offering up delicacies of unlimited scope in the creative sense.

Entire novels rolled by, pulled onward down an ever-lengthening road by a team of amusing characters that were fit to assemble into something miraculous if I could just hold onto them to write down enough during the day to remember them. Unfortunately, such was not the case. They drove away on their wagonload of plotline and interesting twists before I could fully grasp enough details to hang onto the storyline.

Dragged behind that wagon came another book; I called it “The Book of Notions.” This one stuck with me and expanded with each new consideration. A vision flashed across my inner movie screen; a man dressed in period costume—late nineteenth century—carrying  under one arm a large book, bound in black, thin and mysterious. The title, embossed in gold, was “The Book of Notions.” I never saw the man’s face. It didn’t matter. The title stuck in my mind.

Now I had something to hold onto. Substance couldn’t be too far away. Suddenly that great little story that I’d just written for a competition took on a whole new meaning. It was the first of the “Notions” and would anchor all of the rest. There would be between 15 and 20 Notion stories and they would use the same narrator and all would be slightly quirky, sad or amazing, funny or chilling. I could see the entire project; a project I could do over time and look for just the right subjects to fill the book.

The whole project resided within that black binding with gold lettering. I knew where I’d look for the stories. I knew the approach I would take. I knew it would work.

It isn’t often when I come across something like this that has such a feel of rightness to it. I always hang onto those with both hands, and they’re always worthwhile. And it isn’t as if I don’t have enough projects already on my plate. I have five that I’m working on now. This one, though, is one that haunts, but in a good way; a way that forces me to keep it in mind, forces me to keep thinking about what the stories will be. I won’t neglect this one for long between story installments.

Perhaps this is a true example of inspiration. Perhaps it’s only an example of hallucinations and fevered dreams. Either way, I have a long-term project that will hold my interest in easy installments and that’s something worthwhile.

Here’s hoping that all of you are so fortunate to find a silver lining for yourself. Until later,

Claudsy

Scoring the Right Music

Much has been written of late about music and the writer. I’d never put my mind to the question before this past couple of months. Suddenly everyone wants to know what others listen to when they’re writing. 

Some prefer to hear nothing while their minds struggle to put precise words onto the screen or the paper. I could not do that on a regular basis. I have specific music that I listen to when I need to shut out the world while composing whatever prose or poetry is destined to flow from my fingertips. 

Kitaro's or Deuter's fabulous CDs work well when in that dreamy, contemplative phase of creation strikes. For those lively stories that demand lots of movement, Andes Manta fills the headphones with Ecuadorian life and celebration. I highly recommend this group or ones like them for fast paced writing. For op-ed work, pipes and drums come to mind or something very martial in attitude—one of the classical works, perhaps. Mannheim Steamroller is an impressive incentive type music, too.

I’ve tried music with voices raised in song. I can’t do it—too distracting. I want music, but only instrumentals. Relaxation, meditation, or sound effects CDs will work as well--for poetry, especially. 

When I think about those writers of centuries ago, I wonder what filled their ears while their fingers were busy with quill and parchment or vellum. Did they come to the point of screaming at the distraction of rowdy children squealing and running below their window? I tend to doubt they hired minstrels to come play for them during working hours. 

What did Homer hear while penning his masterpieces? Was it only the surf pounding against the rocky shoreline, or splashing against the sides of ships at anchor? Did Tennyson or Bryon, Melville or Hawthorne wait for the appropriate strains of music before risking their brilliance to the permanence of ink on paper?  

Somehow I doubt it. 

Our times dictate most of what we do and how we do it. Many of us can no longer envision a life without a ready connection to others thousands of miles away that takes less than the flick of a thought to bring into your space. We’re spoiled by our now. 

And yet, I wonder if we recognize our now when we’re in it. How many of us are actually aware of an instant of thought or inspiration? How many take the opportunity to breathe deeply of a rose’s perfume before strolling off to our next encounter? And how many are aware of what they missed today because their chosen writing instruments and music have kept them prisoner behind a screen.

You tell me.

Until later,

Claudsy

A Sighing Do-over

In that pre-dawn hour, just after the early morning bathroom run and crawling back into bed, comes a time when Muse takes her dipper of brilliance and sprinkles profound and inspired thoughts through the near-slumbering mind. The mind pursues these wisps of creative wonder along pathways destined to come to naught.  Sleep again overtakes thought, and morning finds only hints of earlier mental journeys.

Why do so many of us never learn from our frustration? Why can’t we allow ourselves to get out of bed and use that hour to write down all of those magnificent ideas and ponderings? It’s not as if we’re going to forget that we had them; we only forget what “they” were about.

This morning I had half an essay written in my head—a nice lyrical piece on this subject. When I woke, it was all gone, except for the initial idea for the piece. Frustration, directed at myself, ensued.

Dr. Wayne Dyer postulates that when a person wakes for unknown reasons early in the morning, it is due to higher powers speaking to the sleeper. Dr. Dyer never identifies the higher power but allows the individual to make a personal interpretation of the term. He goes on to say that the best and most inspired writing, painting, or whatever creative outlet the person uses, comes during that time just after the pre-dawn wake-up call.

I must agree with him, for that is when my mind is the most free from daily concerns, sees the world in the least cluttered way, and has the most fluid writing ability. I agree and would like to accommodate that axiom of taking that free-thought time for writing.

The problem is that sleep tempts me too well. There is always a dream to finish so that I have an ending to that particular storyline. Or, I didn’t get into bed until the wee hours of the night and haven’t had enough sleep to keep me awake to do more than make that bathroom run.

Sleep and its many guises will become an issue again after tonight. BJ and I are beginning the last leg of our tour just after dawn tomorrow. Neither of us sleeps well nor long while on the road. We’ve learned all about that already.

There will be many very early mornings in the coming month, some far earlier than we’d wish. My wish is that with all the new sights and adventures, inspiration will become more delegated to regular working hours and not to those frequently interrupted ones devoted to sleep. There are times when only a sigh and a do-over will suffice.

One question haunts me sometimes. I wonder how many Pulitzers, Nobel’s, Oscars, etc. have been left at Muse’s doorstep because the sleeper couldn’t be bothered to write down the words on the calling card?

Until later,

Claudsy

Riding That Mental Train

For the past few days I’ve been using my creativity in other ways than writing. Most of all, I crocheted. That doesn’t seem like much on the surface. In a very real sense it was time well spent.

Not only did I end up with a beautiful, hand-made gift for a writer friend of mine, but during those hours with yarn and hook, I worked out the primary outline for an adult novel. I learned the complete backstory of the main character, some of the secrets held by secondary characters, decided whether the book would be a mystery, romance, basic mainstream effort, or something else. That's a good couple of days.

Letting the Juices Flow

I consider that working. Others may disagree. When characters come calling, though, I tend to listen to their pitches at least. I can always say “yay” or “nay” later to any proposed project.

This one kept my interest without even trying. A woman trained to be subservient and expected to remain in her role is old hat, I know. What if that woman leads a separate and secret life? That’s the premise of the novel. Add a death and the writer—me—has something that can go in several directions.

That’s why I crocheted. That singular activity allows my mind freedom to roam the prospects of plotting, character development, etc. while still producing something else at the same time. Sewing can’t do the job; too much concentration and focus required.

Crocheting, on the other hand, can be as mindless or focused as a person wants to make it. It equates to plotting in the shower for me. And every writer knows that the best ideas come while your head is under water.

Don’t You Already Have a Project?

Why, yes, I do Thank you for remembering.

How many writers do you know who only work on one thing at a time? Not many, I’d wager.

Since this project is a total change from the others on my current list of projects, I can use it for a focus breaker. When I need a complete mental shift in gears from working on a short story, queries, articles, or the camping book, I’ll use this project. The focus is different, the characters unique and engaging, and the storyline, for now, remains close to my surface thoughts.

This novel can act as a trampoline of sorts. I hope it will act as a springboard of ideas for use in auxiliary projects that are already on my list. That’s how my creative mind works most of the time. Working on one story triggers ideas for bits of business on others.

What Now?

I’ve already begun the characters studies. Most of them are finished and waiting for use. Putting together chapter outlines comes next. I wish I knew exactly what was going to happen in the middle. Since I haven’t figured out that part yet, I’ll just have to wing that section for the moment. It will come clear soon.

I will use this creative time to get done what is already flowing on this novel. In a week or so my Muse will return to the travel book, a few queries, some submissions, and scheduling for the rest of our time here in Oklahoma. I have quite a bit planned for the next several weeks.

There you have it. That’s how things work for me on occasion. I’ll start one thing and something entirely different will pull me away from it for an indefinite period. The odd part is that when I do return to the original project, I have renewed vigor to work with it, new ideas or insights, and a tighter focus.

It’s almost as if my mind needed that vacation to rid itself of a niggling distraction so that it could concentrate on the big WIP. I could try to control it. The problem lies in the fact that when I do that, it takes over my dream life and I don’t get restful sleep. And I need all the restful type sleep I can get.

So when that steaming mental train of yours decides to take a spur line for a hitherto unknown destination, go with it for s while and see where it takes you. You might just find yourself in marvelous new territory.

Until we come together again, enjoy your life and write to your heart’s content.

Claudsy

Finding Inspiration Wherever You Are

During our trip Sister Jo and I have learned many things and had good and not so good experiences. The interesting aspect of every day so far is that no matter where we've been there has been more than enough to use as inspiration.

The most profound understanding that I've come to is that regardless of where one is inspiration abounds. Whether one seeks it out or not, it arrives on silent feet to rattle one's sensibilities and leave reflection in its wake.

Inspiration comes in many guises and waits only for recognition.

Types of Inspiration

According to the dictionary there are seven different definitions of "inspiration."  Like all concepts, inspiration can only be defined by itself. The current definitions are:

1. an inspiring influence--action, etc.
2. an idea
3. a result of inspired activity
4. a thing or person that inspires
5. theological--a devine influence directly and immediately exerted upon the mind/soul. The devine quality of the writings or words of a person so influenced.
6. inhalation
7. act of inspiration, quality or state of being inspried.

Synonyms: stimulus, incitement

The Muse deals specifically with inspiration for the writer, musician, poet, artist, even engineer. But what inspires the Muse?

I may not be a typical writer, but I'm inspired by more things than I can ever use. Spectacular sunset colors can bring lines of poetry to mind, unbidden and spotaneous.

Overhearing a snippet of conversation in the local convenience store can create the basis for an entire scene of dialogue for a story.

Seeing how a group of old friends or older relatives interact can give me both characters and plot aspects. It can also give me glorious realistic regional dialogue.

Watching the signs along the freeway gives me place names for stories or ideas for historical pieces in both non-fiction and fiction.

The world has so much to offer by way of inspiration. All a person has to do is keep mind, eyes, and ears open and ideas will flow. The fun thing is that no one has to go far from home to find such inspiration.

For instance, take a walk through the yellow pages. It's remarkable what you can learn about a town through that simple act. I'd be willing to bet that you'll find businesses you didn't know existed in places totally unexpected.

If you find fifteen different computer stores, ask yourself if enough people live in the area to warrant that many computer stores. Perhaps your community has grown more than you thought. Perhaps one of the stores has exclusive contracts with the school districts in the area. There are questions that will come to mind.

What about the Doll Hospital downtown? How long has it been there? Who owns it and why did they begin the business in the first place? What kinds of stories does the owner have about the store and its customers? And what kind of customers frequent the place?

See what I mean? So many questions about one small business in one town can lead you in so many directions, each of them inspired.

You know that old barn down the road? Who built it and was it a dairy barn? How long ago was it abandoned and why?

Sit at the local hangout for the WWII generation and listen to the guys talking about when they were younger. Listen to the subjects they talk about and the emotions that surface. A world of characters, plots, and description resides at those tables. Living history sits in front of the watcher waiting to be absorbed.

Inspiration walks the earth each day to be absorbed, activated, and utilized. It's up to each person to recognize it. I'm hoping that you all can find your inspiration today and each day. Whether it's a highway sign, a want ad in the local paper, a commercial on the tele, or something one of the kids said at Sunday School, keep those senses open to possibilities.

Until we talk again,

Claudsy