I’ve been pursuing another novel’s completion. Been writing that puppy as I can while navigating the usual life interruptions. They don’t need counted down on two hands for you to understand all the life junk happening, right? Employ memory and imagination, and you’ll probably get it.
I’ve been sort of stymied. I’m not a plotter. I don’t outline a jot. I’m a solid pantser, leaping from slippery point to slippery point, following whims and impulses like they’re magic winds carrying me toward my destination. Except, suddenly the winds dropped me into a place I didn’t recognize. Not sure where to go, I did some editing, revising, and rewriting while muttering darkly to myself about being misled by mean muses and wondering what the hell had happened to the Writing Neurons. Besides those activities, I made some assumptions and conclusions about what I thought was wrong, how some things lacked enough substance and understanding to build upon, and conducted some writing exercises to stimulate me, myself, and I. I refer to these exercises as snapshots. They’re all just focus exercises to help me have greater understanding of whatever needs more understanding: setting, history, concept, characters, motivations, relationships, whatever you might find in a novel.
After four days of that, grappling with where I was, unsure where I was to go, I said to myself, “Come on, man. Pitter patter. Get ‘er at ‘er.” And miraculously, the muses and the Writing Neurons emerged today and ordered, “Start typing.” And then they guided me through story twists which I never saw. Well, I partly saw some of ’em. But some of the twists involved twists I’d come up with but didn’t know how to put into the story. Suddenly, click, yea! All came together.
Most satisfying writing day, it was. Sometimes it does pay just to sit down and write like crazy. Who do I need to bribe to get more of these?
I begin my Sunda with the summer morning ritual. I step out to rebalance my circadian rhythm, feel the air temp, and give it a sniff test. How hot is it now and how much smoke is polluting the air are the dual concerns. Today it’s now 80 F, up from the 71 F holding when I first went out. We’ll be at 103 F today, a few degrees above yesterday’s 99.8 F. The smoke isn’t bad. I water things and close windows, sealing us against whatever nature is plotting against us today. I have learned that by closing the blinds and windows and keeping everything shut, we’ll be 13-15 degrees cooler than outside. We like to use fans to move the air when it warms, as the air conditioning, while cooling, makes our noses run. My wife is one who needs heat anyway.
This is Sunda, July 13, 2025. It’s a cousin’s birthday, but she passed away. Cancer. Cheery morning thought. Then I ate a lucious moderate-sized fig, savoring the experience with a slow chew, trying to be mindful. I don’t think I’m mindful enough. At 69 yo, can I become more mindful?
I jogged yesterday morning. It was a whim and I wasn’t prepared, just testing myself to see how far I could go before my body rebelled. The Fitbit says that was 2.5 miles, surprising me. It felt good. I jog walked home, thinking that I should combine those words and create a word: jolk. Yes, I jolked home, letting my sweat drip dry. No aftereffects strike this morning, knock wood. I thought I’d hurt somewhere.
ICE and wildfires dominates our news feed. Nextdoor reports an ICE vehicle was spotted in Ashlandia yesterday morning about 9:30 on Ashland Street by the cemetery. People advise others to report it on the app. A judge blocked random ICE raids in LA. We’ll see if this is appealed to the Roberts Court and swatted away. A man died from a fall during a chaotic ICE raid.
Getting news of the local fire plaguing us, the Neil Creek fire, is problematic. Something like 72 fires are burning in southern Oregon and northern California. The Neil Creek fire is closest to us but isn’t threatening anything (last heard) and is not large. Media focus is on the big burners. I understand that but my understanding doesn’t alleviate my frustration over lack of Neil Creek fire information. The last updates were days ago. Also, I haven’t seen or heard tankers since yesterday morning. Surely all this must mean good news, right? I finally find a Neil Creek fire update on Watchduty from fourteen hours ago. It’s five percent contained. Then there’s a summary:
Despite increased fire behavior, crews held fire lines with the help of helicopter water drops. Firefighters continue to strengthen lines and expand mop-up around the fire. Along the south end of the fire, crews removed hazardous standing dead trees to allow firefighters to access the southern perimeter safely.
There was an incident in the night. The neighbor’s dog erupted with furious barking. Bear or cougar, my wife thought, hurrying to the back door. She flicked on the lights and opens the door but stays in, leaning out to look around. I get a flashlight. By then the dog’s owner has talked the dog down and quiet has reclaimed the world.
“Overkill” by Men At Work is in the morning mental music stream. It’s all about the line, “I can’t get to sleep.” I awoke sometime in the night a few hours after the barking dog, mulled and dissected a dream and then the writing muses took over. I wrote for a while in my head before I managed to shut them down with a meditation process I use to induce sleep in myself. But the song remains in the morning mental music stream. While looking for a video to use, I found this accoustic version by Colin Hay, the band’s vocalist, where he’s backed by a choir. I thought it a cool difference maker and offer it to you.
Coffee has been sucked up. Time to press on. Hope your day answers your needs. Cheers
I finished my writing session yesterday and headed off to shop with my wife.
Well, that’s the story. In truth, I continued writing in my head. I’d been editing the novel in progress. After finishing for the day, my mind stayed on tht treadmill. Sentences to add came to me as I studied cat food offerings, strolled along bulk offerings, selected green onions.
I made mental notes to myself. Remember this and that. Would it hold?
Settling in today, I remembered that I’d continue writing in my head. Were they still there?
Yes, they all returned. I pressed into the manuscript to make the changes. Even as I did, I reflected, would I really know if I remembered them all, or is that just another trick of mind?
That’s how writing often seems to be to me: a trick of the mind.
I’ve re-written the last 20% of the current novel in progress. Again, I guess. Guided by muses, and getting out of my own way, I added a whole other first section. Started it on Dec 26, 2024. Finished that section yesterday. How well it fit in really surprised me. I sweated and cringed as I wrote, wondering with clenched teeth, where is this all going? How does it tie together? But while I fretted over those things and tried my hardest to step up in front of myself and squirm and overanalyze, something inside me managed to push me aside again and again, and keep writing.
Then, suddenly, OMG, plot twist. And another one. And another.
I’ll tell you, all these plot twists make me nervous.
Am I close to writing a final ‘the end’? Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps… I can’t seem to really say. There’s a writer in me who took over, and he/she/they don’t let on about what they’re doing. I’m just going to sit down, gulp up coffee, write like crazy, and see what’s delivered.
Melfloofmene(floofinition) – One of nine Floouses who acts as a patron of arts, music, and creativity. Origins: Floofo-Roman floofthology, circa 8th century Common Floof (CF).
In Use: “When she began writing her novel, Sherman, her big dog, acted like Melfloofmene, going on long walks with her to think through her plot and characters, remaining by her side in her small home office as she wrote and edited, and forcing her to take breaks to feed him.”
It’s hard to stop writing when it’s blistering along but the allocated time has skidded to an end. Difficult to push the pause button while editing and revising the other project when the timing bell rings to announce, move on to the next matter.
Doesn’t help that the muses are especially active, like they’ve been gorging on chocolate cake and chugging coffee. They just don’t want to stop and it pains me to tell them that I am.
I need a longer day or the means to carve time out of everything else going on. How much sleep is really needed anyway?
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.
It’s just one of those days, unpredictable to me, when the writing effort gains sharper clarity and focus. I think the bottom line is that after weeks of thinking and writing and editing and revising, my understanding of the story as originally written crystallized and is now much higher. This feeds to greater focus and concentration, because I’m more certain about where I’m going. Which then generates greater writing energy and enthusiasm, pressing me to keep writing and editing, keep going, keep going.
But, writer’s butt is setting in. The cheeks are compaining about the chair’s hard surface. And though I’d go on, my stomach is querying, “Hey, are we going to eat anytime soon? Very hungry here. Hello? Anyone feel me?”
And my brain is harping, “You need to run errands. Go shopping and get needed supplies for yourself, the house, the wife, and the cats, and add gas to the car because it’s almost on empty.”
Moments like this are always bittersweet. So much was accomplished, leaving me feeling joyous over my progress. But I must stop. There will be other days. Some will be like a slog through knee deep mud, but there will be others like this, when I feel like I’m soaring.
Every day for the last seven, I’ve sat down to write thinking, is this the day this novel’s first rough draft is finished? Then I write like crazy, and no, ‘The End’, is not found. I know the end but I’m a pantser. The territory between the beginning and end is a dark continent. I work my way across it to ‘The End’ with only vague navigational markers about where I need to go to get there. I set down ground rules but the characters and muses drive the novel.
Going well. He crossed his fingers and sacrificed a cup of coffee and a pen to ward off jinxing himself. One book was still being revised, the fourth go-around. Another novel, Yum, was being written. Spoon fed by the muses, he was tearing through the story. He envisioned a short novel, and so far, it was going to plan.
Michael Seidel, writer 