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Release the Muse!

I wasn’t one of those novelists who was writing in the womb. Acting was my thing. I’ve done plays since I was cast in the title role of Alice in Wonderland. During my last performance I limped on stage because I tucked a pencil in my shoe for post-show autographs.

Afterwards I begged my mom to take me to Hollywood. She said she’d better stay home with my father and two younger brothers. Jodi Foster, that upstart, got all the parts that rightfully belonged to me.

I acted in dozens of plays until I turned twenty-six and gave birth to a son. No longer able to attend evening rehearsals, I cast around in my mind for another creative outlet. In fifth grade I’d penned a personal essay called “The Blood-Curdling Experience.” One of my classmates had accidentally hit me on the back of the head with a small rock. My wound trickled about a teaspoon of blood, hence the title.

I embellished every detail of the incident and read it aloud to the class. My peers shrieked with laugher. I was the Shecky Greene of Winston Churchill Elementary School.

“The Blood Curdling Experience” was the only piece in my oeuvre. Still I was convinced I’d be a published writer in no time. Witty and fresh ideas constantly cavorted in my mind. It was simply a matter of taking dictation.

I put on a gossamer ensemble ala Barbara Cartland and poised my fingers on the keyboard. Words did not rain down from the Heavens. In fact my fingers were paralyzed. After staring at a blinking cursor for an hour, I finally thought of something to say. But transferring my thoughts to paper was like doing calligraphy with a fat crayon.

Obviously I wasn’t cut out to be a writer. Real writers didn’t have to open a vein just to eek out a few driblets of words. I decided to think of some other creative pastimes, like basket-weaving or painting the Mona Lisa on the head of a pin.

The muse, however, wouldn’t leave me in peace. It was as if Id opened a portal and was being continually sucked into a writing vortex. Someone bought me a book called The Artists Way by Julia Cameron. Ms. Cameron recommended several activities, including morning pages, designed to release a person’s inner artist.

Warning. Do not read The Artists Way if you want to keep your inner artist locked up inside, placidly cutting out paper dolls. When I released my inner artist she emerged in head-to-toe black leather, cracking a whip.

“We need a laptop,” she said. “And one of those pricey laser printers too. ASAP!”

“We can’t afford it!” I protested.

CRACK! “I’m calling the shots from now on!”

All of the sudden I was skipping must-see TV programs to chain myself to a desk and write. I sat there for hours, even when I didn’t feel like it. She dragged me to writers’ conferences and made me join a novel critique group. Whenever I protested she’d snarl and say, “Don’t make me get out my riding crop.”

After several months, she didn’t have to make threats anymore. When she handcuffed me to my desk, she used the pink. fuzzy variety instead of the metal ones. Sometimes she even patted my head and brought me hot cocoa.

Recently someone asked me if I wanted to audition for a new theater troupe. My son’s an adult now so I’m free to attend rehearsals. I imagined myself in the spotlight, the roar of applause washing over me.

Then I heard the familiar whistle of a whip. “There’s just one problem,” I said, quickly. “It would take too much time away from my writing.”

Karin Gillespie is the author of three books in the Bottom Dollar Girl series and the co-author of Sweet Potato Queen’s First Big-Ass Novel. She’s written a novel called Earthly Pleasures (Simon and Schuster, February 2008) under the pen name Karen Neches. Visit her on the web at http://www.karenneches.com/ or http://www.karingillespie.com/