Monday’s Wandering Thought

I watched a young woman walking past the coffee shop. Wearing light-toned blue jeans and a dark blue sweatshirt, a dark blue ball cap let dark hair escape but was pulled low, like she was some manner of gunslinger from wild west days. It was her walk which struck me; her white shoes seemed to slap the concrete and she kept her head down, as though she had to concentrate like the Newman song, left foot, right foot, left foot, and so on.

That walk and style reminded me of someone I knew but no names came to mind. I’ve always been bad with names and faces.

Saturday’s Wandering Thoughts

They were a couple, with those socks. Skin-tight, displaying every angle and curve of their ankles and feet — they both wore sandals on this warmish winter day — his socks were as golden as a Trump Towers sign, while hers were hot pink. Though he wore loose trousers and she wore capris, both garmets displayed a good six inches of their interesting socks.

They raised some questions, they did.

Friday’s Wandering Thoughts

“Let’s go,” I urged myself this morning. “Time is ticking away. Time to go write. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.

“Well, first I’ll dress. Of course. And shave. Okay, let’s go. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.

“I should clean the kitchen first. And exercise before I do that. Okay, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.

“But I think I’ll have more coffee first. Okay, let’s go. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”

Wednesday’s Wandering Thoughts

One woman at the table beside me in the coffee shop said to her companion, “I wish the Dairy Queen would re-open soon. I’ve been eating healthy all year, and I need a break.”

* Our local DQ closed after a kitchen fire in September of 2023.

Tuesday’s Wandering Thoughts

She entered with a confident stride, scoped the coffee shop and selected a seat. Little was special about her: about five two or three, slender build, upper twenties for age, disheveled crown of golden curls, average clothing. But those shoes, those bright mango-colored running shoes.

You can write a lot of stories about a woman in mango shoes.

Monday’s Wandering Thoughts

It’s a first for me. Today’s coffee shop crew is all male. I’ve seen all-female crews several times. As I wrote, this is a first. Wondered if it was planned, a response to females noting that there’s often all-female crews, or just happenstance of the schedule. I suspect the last one.

Saturday’s Wandering Thoughts

One of the baristas seemed angry with him. He didn’t know why, but she appeared to act colder toward him, like he’d offended her. Searching his memories, he didn’t find a triggering episode. It could be other things, he told himself, like he’d imagined her being nicer and friendlier before, or he was imagining now that she was angry with him. Or, she might be upset with something happening in her life, and he’s just reading her interaction with him and misinterpreting it.

Really, though, while all of those were logically possible, it felt to him like she was angry with him, and that bothered him.

Wednesday’s Wandering Thoughts

He was busy typing at the coffee shop when a young woman approached. He’d been observing her as part of everyone in his orbit, just tracking people and their behavior, wary of anyone becoming a threat. Call it habit or training, it remained as a leftover from his military career.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but I have what probably will sound like a strange question.”

“Why are you bothering me?” he bellowed. No, not really; instead, he said, still typing, “Yes?”

“I need to go back out to my car because I forgot something, but I want to save this table.”

“So?” he roared. “What’s this to do with me, you puny human?” But he didn’t do that. He just tilted his head and typed.

“So I was wondering if I might borrow your hat to put on this table to save it.”

“How dare you disturb me with such insolence. No, you may not have my hat,” he retorted. “Don’t touch it.”

In reality, he kept typing, nodded once, and answered, “Yes, go ahead.”

He was still typing when she returned ten minutes later. Moving his hat from the saved table to his location, she said, “Thank you.”

Continuing to type, he replied, “You’re welcome.”

Then she went off to a different table.

He stopped table and watched, wondering, why did she change tables?

Was it something he said?

The Writing Moment

One important matter that many new writers overlook is, what does their muse want?

The muse can fill a critical function in the fiction writin’ process, so identifying them and learning what they like — and DISLIKE — can be a significant component of your personal process. Sometimes, as it is for me, it’s more than one muse, so the aspiring writer must pay attention to who the muses are and what they do. Fer ‘nstance, my muses love coffee. Don’t try to pawn tea or chai off on ‘em; they’ll inform you with seething disgust that they’re not the same. However, some of the muses are more impatient and arrogant than the others. Some of them read someone else’s fiction and immediately scream into my ear, “Write something like that!” I’m always coping with them doing that. The way I do so, with more patience and caution that touching a sleeping cat’s belly, is to gently promise I will write something like that after I finish this (whatever this is) and hope they accept and quiet down.

BTW, don’t try to overlook the grammar and punctuation muses. They can be wrong but they will push and push for a decision about a comma, period, tense, noun, verb, and so on, until they’re satisfied (at least for the moment).

My muses are not fond of writing at home, cuz cats, spouse, phone – well, environmental distractions. (Yeah, we still have a home phone, althought it’s VOIP.) My muses like it in a noisy coffee shop where nobody pays attention to them and they can write in peace surrounded by people bustling around on their business. As I have multiple muses (sometimes called musi in the more traditional plural spelling) (yeah, just kiddin’ ‘bout that), I need to ensure the right one shows up on time. Little is worse for me than entering a revision session only to have a ‘new project’ muse enter to help, suggesting the concept for a new novel, novella, short story, movie, song, play, or essay.

Last, my musi demand time and focus on them everyday. If they don’t get it, they spoon crankiness, exasperation, and irritation into my mood. So, every day, no matter what’s happenin’, they want me to sit and write or edit. They don’t care if zombies are overrunning the neighborhood, a blizzard is underway, or nukes are falling. Nor is being hungry, sick, or social engagements a concern for ’em. They want their writing or editing time. And don’t think that research is good enough for the muse. I’ve tried mollifying them with research; my muses don’t buy it and will sometimes go off and sulk, leaving me without a muse to write. I can do it, but it’s a bit like having problems with a bowel movement.

Now, back to writing. So sayeth the muse what’s in charge.

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