

Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not

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.
Let me in let me in let me in let me in!
This is not how the day should begin!
I shouldn’t be out there while you’re within.
And closing the door on me is a mighty sin.
How do I know that you’re well?
What would I do if you fell?
I’ve said it before, must I say it again?
Let me in let me in let me in let me in!
A small floof,
Who liked to goof,
Was such a funny one.
She liked her people’s bed,
And being scratched on the head,
But really loved the sun.
Kibble was tasty.
And she never ate hasty,
Nor was other food shunned.
Then it was off to sleep,
Another day to keep,
And dreams about all that she’d done.
I never liked you, the cat said with a smile.
I was trying to kill you when I slept on your head.
It wasn’t by coincidence that I tripped you again and again.
Nor were those love bites like you always said.
And the claws weren’t a whim when I scratched till you bled.
And if you believe that, you’ll believe this, too.
I never liked the kibble or any of the other food.
Your treats made me sick though I begged for more.
I didn’t like the tuna which you gave off a spoon.
It was all faked when chicken made me swoon.
And if you believe that, you’ll believe this, too.
I’m a cat and I like games.
I get bored and the days are too much the same.
So I do what I can to keep myself entertained.
Because I’m a cat and this was just another game.
Encountering a friend who just retired, he asked what the other was now doing with his time. “Well,” the new retiree replied, “I’m publishing my second collection of poetry.”
“Great, congratulations.”
“Thank you. I’ve worked on it for twenty plus years.”
“Who is the publisher?”
“I’m self-publishing. After being rejected one hundred twenty-seven times, I just want to get it out there.”
I looked in the closet
Under the bed
And in the clothes basket
And couldn’t find the time
Maybe I’d left it in the living room
Or in the car when I was out the other day
Doing errands, like buying food
It could have fallen out of my pocket
While I was walking
Or taking a nap
So I’d better check the sofa cushions
I retraced my steps
But the time didn’t turn up
I challenged my brain to remember
If I’d loaned it to someone
Or maybe gave it away to the Goodwill
While Marie Kondoing my life
After a while
I tried reading a book
Thinking that maybe by not doing something
And freeing my brain from that weighty effort
Of finding the time
I’ll remember what I did with the time
Because I just can’t find the time.
Floofetry (floofinition) – Sonnets, odes, rhymes, and verses about animals.
In use: “One of the more famous examples of floofetry begins, ‘Oh, I wish that I will someday see, a poem as lovely as a floof, although we know most floofs are goofs, and those who live with them have the proof.'”