Another deadline looms.
I have spent the past month working a lot and living in a shithole hotel in Ohio. Since I like having the day job, the hotel shall remain nameless. These circumstances have not made the muse happy. After I offered her spaghetti with chili on it, an Ohio delicacy, she hopped a plane for New Orleans. She sent me a text saying she was enjoying some jambalaya and a Hurricane in the Quarter. Later, she was in Jackson climbing the Grand Teton.
I have witnessed the brilliant writer, Craig Childs, sit in a bar and crank out words while a disco ball spun and crappy eighties music blared. Since I am not Craig Childs, and I can not write in the beige prison of a hotel room, I have tried a bookstore, a library, a quiet dive bar, a Starbucks, and a bagel shop. I ended up buying books, reading books, drinking beer, drinking coffee, and having a cinammon raisin with cream cheese. I had moderate success camping and sitting in a park. Because of the arthritis, I can only write a few paragraphs by hand so both locales depend on battery life and the weather.
Still needing to churn several pages of manuscript and running out of time, I’m pulling out all the muse luring tricks. I’m playing Alexi Murdoch’s “All my Days” (if I knew how to insert links, I’d put one here) which will be on the soundtrack when my book is turned into a movie…..after I finish writing it, find an agent, sell it to a publisher, and Hollywood finally comes calling. The video is a twopher in muse calling because Alexi has the grungy, crunchy, granola look of the hikers populating my novel.
I have rubbed the buddha……that is not a euphemism for jacking off. I have a little jade buddha the BSW gave me before I began my very long walk last summer. He goes everywhere with me. I have read the journal I kept of my journey. I have looked at pictures of my little Princess and my Beautiful, Sunny Woman. I have done all the silly rituals that usually let me settle into putting words on page.
So far, there is no sign of the muse. Her last tweet indicated she was pub crawling in the East Village. As Ann Hood said, “Let the record show that I showed up and did my part because I’m a writer, and that’s my job.” I hope my muse shows up. If not, to hell with her, and I’ll figure out a way to do it myself.
What are your rituals and traditions for creating?
I’m Darren, and I write…….sometimes more than others