Have you ever wondered how a writer's mind works? What thoughts are going through their heads to come up with such creative and sometimes downright twisted musings? Well, that's the magic word: Muse. That invisible, mythic being who whispers stories into the minds of the writer.
Yesterday, while I was at work, I was arguing with my muse over a story I'd been working on. As I argued, I marveled over the fact that I was arguing with a "voice," someone that doesn't exist, but plays a pivotal role in my writing. I stopped working and just stood their in the middle of a block of cubicles, and I thought, "Hey, I should write a story about arguing with my muse." So that's what I did. Below is my true story of dealing with a less-than-forthcoming creative spirit. If you are a writer, I'm sure you can relate. If you're not a writer, this ought to answer all of your questions. Enjoy!
Listening
to Tina
By:
Jennifer B. Fields
I
know this sounds crazy, but I hear voices…well, one voice other than my own,
actually. Normally, people would call that schizophrenia, but I’m a writer. I
take comfort in the fact that writers are in the realm of artists and therefore
are considered “creative” or “artistic” rather than schizophrenic. The voice I
hear is what is commonly referred to as my Muse. And my Muse is rather
annoying. She shows up at the most inopportune times and won’t stop pestering
me until she gets what she wants.
I’m not complaining,
mind you. No, really I’m not, but how am I supposed to get any work done when
her talons are digging into my shoulder and she keeps breathing into my ear,
interrupting every single thought I have with her own two cents?
“Should her hair be
brown or gray?” I ask the creature perched on my shoulder.
Tring,
tinkle, bling.
Sorry, I forgot to
mention that my Muse speaks to me in music. I know that I’m the only one who
can see her and hear her. I can understand what she’s saying, but sometimes
(like today) her melody sounds more like gibberish than anything melodic.
Essentially, what she said was, “why can’t she have black hair like me?”
“Because we’re not
writing about you, Tina.” (Oh and by the way, her name is Tina.) “We’re writing
about a character in a story that looks nothing like you.”
Skitter-skat,
blong, blong, snaaark!
Translation:
“But I’m gorgeous! Every character should have blong, blong hair like mine!” (You can fill in the blong-blong’s.)
“Would
you watch your mouth, please? You’re so snippy lately. What’s wrong?”
Flooop, trop, trop, trooooow.
For
the purpose of conserving space, I’ll skip the musical translations from here
on out. Here’s what she said in Humanspeak: “You haven’t been listening to me,”
she pouted. “You know how upset I get when you don’t listen to me.”
“What
makes you say that? I ask your advice every step of the way.”
“She
should have black hair.”
“Fine,
I’ll give an elderly white woman raven-black hair. Will that cheer you up?”
Silence.
Tina angles her head and preens her shiny feathers with her beak.
I type
one sentence and stop, waiting for her inevitable opinion. “Well?” I ask.
“How’s that?”
Tina
leans down and scans my creation on the monitor. Her talons bite into my
shoulder hard enough to make me wince. I think it’s her way of punishing me.
She may have the head and body of a crow, but her face always reminds me of
Betty Grable. Her hair too, pulled up in a gleaming updo like a pin-up girl
from the forties. I suppose the rest of her is what I make her to be. Perhaps a
combination of everything in my imagination. Her face is a perfect blend of
human and bird features. Her body is that of a crow with very feminine, human
curves. But instead of bird’s wings, my bizarre mind has given her the wings of
a fairy. She wears no clothing, only a white hibiscus flower within the curls
of her opaque hair. The white of the blossom against the black of her feathery
hair is an exotic contrast. I always find it distracting, like it’s too
beautiful to look away from.
“I
don’t like it.” Tina says, turning up her beak at me. “It’s not what I want.”
“I
wish you’d just tell me what you want instead of being so cryptic.”
“Where’s
the fun in that?” She flutters her wings. She always does that when she gives
me a hard time.
“I
think I liked you better as a blue hamster. You didn’t have such sharp claws
then. Take it easy, will you? You’re going to leave marks in my skin.”
“Not
possible,” she states. “I’m not real to anyone else but you.”
“I’m
not sure you’re real to me either.”
“Of
course I am!” She’s indignant now. “You’re talking to me, aren’t you?”
“That’s
what scares me.” There’s an awkward silence between us for a moment, and I
worry that I had offended her. Secretly, my biggest fear was that she’d get fed
up with me and go away forever. How much punishment can one Muse take before
they pack their bags and disappear? “Look, I’m sorry.” I tell her. “Really I
am. This story is giving me a bunch of trouble and you’re being so…”
“Cryptic.
I know. I’m sorry too. I’ll try harder.”
This
makes my heart feel better and I could tell by the spark in her fiery eyes that
she feels better too.
“Did
you mean what you said about the hamster thing? Because I can change if…”
When
I was four years old, Tina first appeared to me as a tiny blue hamster; my
first and only imaginary friend. I “carried” Tina everywhere with me for quite
a while. My mother thought my choice of imaginary friends was amusing, but to
me, Tina was very real. As I grew, Tina morphed into whatever I needed to see
at that time in my life. Now that I’m an adult, her current form is what I need
to see. I need to see the fantasy in everyday life. I need the wonder and the
beauty and the freedom all rolled into one. But apparently I couldn’t do
anything about the attitude.
“No.
No,” I say. “I don’t want you to change. I love you just the way you are. Even
if you can be a stubborn pain in the butt sometimes.”
She
warbles a giggle that sounds like a mother bird. “You should talk. Are we going
to work or are we going to argue all night?”
“Not
sure,” I offer a mischievous smirk. “Will I get anywhere if I keep arguing?”
“Haven’t
you learned yet that I always win arguments?”
“Unfortunately.”
I say with an exaggerated frown.
“Alright
then. Where are we?” She leans over the monitor again. This time, her claws don’t
pinch.
“Our
elderly protagonist has just found her true love’s cabin in the woods. When she
looks in the window, she sees that he hasn’t aged a day. He’s exactly how she
remembers him.”
“Hmm.”
Tina considers the story for a moment. The music of her voice takes on a Celtic
tone to it. It always does that when magic is being made. “I’ve got it! He’s
the same age as the last time she saw him, but there’s another woman in the
cabin with him; the witch who cast the age spell on our heroine.”
“Very
nice.” I nod. “I smell trouble for our raven-haired old lady.”
Tina
caresses my hair with her translucent fairy wing. It amazes me how she can use
them like hands. “Now that some time has passed,” she says thoughtfully, “I
think you were right. She shouldn’t have hair like mine. Give her hair the
color of spun silk.”
I
smile, wishing she were real enough to hug. “Spun silk. I like that.” As I make
the appropriate changes, she croons a soothing birdsong to me. It comforts as
much as a hug would.
I’ve
lost count of how many times Tina and I have fought. I’ve lost count of the
number of times I’ve questioned her about who she is and where she came from.
Asking why she’s with me has always irked her. “We’ve always been together,”
she would say. “It’s not like I was assigned to you or anything. I am you and
you are me. So when are you going to learn to listen to me?”
“You mean listen to
myself?” I would tease.
“I am your heart,
writer lady. Just listen to your heart and you’ll be alright. We’ll make
beautiful music together if you just stop second-guessing.”
Music. That’s what I
hear when my words paint the page in just the right way. They make a symphony.
Tina whispers and I create. As I happily type away, painting a story to share
with the world, I smile to myself. Yeah, we make a good team, Tina and I.
