“I write only when inspiration strikes. Fortunately, it strikes every morning at nine o’clock sharp.”
You can find this quote attributed to many different writers if you search online. But The War of Art by Steven Pressfield attributes it to Somerset Maugham.
How Can You Get Control Of Your Muse
The Muse has gotten a bad rap for being temperamental and ruling Her artists by cruel whims. One day She’ll bless the writer with a flood of words that keeps him or her up until dawn. Then She’ll disappear for weeks.
But I’m here to tell you it doesn’t have to be like that. Eight years in the creative industry has taught me that you can absolutely summon your creative energy almost whenever you want to.
It’s just a matter of knowing how to get start. Here are some of my favorite tricks:
1. Set a habit
You think it’s any coincidence Somerset Maugham’s muse showed up every morning? It’s because he showed up, ready to write.
The brain responds well to routine. When you show up at the keyboard every day, you tell your mind, Hello in there, we’re writing now, it’s time to get creative.
Your brain won’t take too long to catch on.
Will there be better writing days than others? Sure. Always. But you’ll always get words on the page.
2. Reward good behavior
Much like a puppy, your muse responds to positive reinforcement. How do you reinforce “good behavior” from your Muse though?
Keep a pen on you.
If you want those great story ideas to come to you in flashes of inspiration, it helps to be ready for them.
Be ready for those moments—look for them everywhere you go—and you’ll find them. Once they're written down, they’ll be at the ready for your next full-bore writing session.
3. Use creativity exercises
Brainstorms. Mindmaps. Writing prompts. When you have those days where it feels like the words just won’t come, try out different kinds of exercises and learn what works for you.
No matter what, stay consistent
Despite the myths of elusive inspiration, you can gain control over your muse and get it to show up when you want it.
There will still be days that are harder than others. But over time, if you keep on showing up, they’ll become fewer and farther between.
How about you? Do you ever have trouble getting your Muse to show up when you need Her? Let me know in the comments section.
PRACTICE
Today, take control of your Muse. Either use a writing prompt here or write on your work in progress or free write. However, whatever you choose to do, make sure you write, if only to show your Muse you're showing up and therefore expect Her to show up too.
Write for fifteen minutes. When your time is up, post your practice in the comments section. And if you post, please be sure to give feedback to your fellow writers.
Happy writing!
I am one of those people who, unfortunately, can only write well when in a certain frame of mind. My primary occupation, therefore, becomes producing that frame of mind on demand.
I can understand what you mean about “producing” a frame of mind, and Emily’s suggestions are good examples of how to do just that. Can you share some of the things you have found helpful?
The very best for me amounts to ‘getting away.’ Going for a walk; sitting alone in public at an outdoor coffee shop; sitting at peace on my own deck, even…basically, staring off into space & allowing my mind to inhabit the world/characters/tensions/psychology/whatever of what I’m working on.
Of course, that’s not always possible…sometimes the weather’s bad or I have to be right at home & keyboard-bound for some reason. In those cases, 2nd best is rereading & lightly editing stuff from my previous sessions.
It all comes down to this: knowing what’s going to happen next. Knowing what my characters are going to say, what that’s going to mean to the development of the story. That’s my working frame of mind. For me, writing is as much a discipline of mind as it is of putting words on the page.
I definitely write when inspired. But, it can come at anytime. Especially at night when I am ready for bed and with no paper or pencil. Just great.
I look forward to writing but my time is often not my own. I must be sure to have at least 30 minutes to write without disturbance. These past months have been a hocus-pocus and it seems as if, from tomorrow I’ll have more time to do the things I want to, because our guests and family are leaving.
My muse is ever at hand.
I understand what you mean Lilian. We all have days when writing is not possible, but the more dedicated we become others will know and be respectful of the time we need. With twenty-four hours in a day, asking for 30 minutes seems more than reasonable, even if it’s locked up in your bathroom. 🙂
I know you’re right, B. I must demand my share of free time. In my family, no one reads anything I write. They think, ‘Ah well! Poor dear. She’s just having a bit of fun on the PC, which means I can be drawn away whenever there is a need. I’m not complaining because it’s the way they see things. However, I enjoy writing and I’ll carry on, be it in the bathroom.
Great tips, Emily. I have another for you. Reading is the key to writing. It can be so inspiring and while I am in no way encouraging plagiarism, reading others work and picking up ideas from it can ignite that creative spark. Also, in addition to using writing prompts from others, you could use something that you yourself have written some time ago. I’m not just suggesting an edit, but instead rework it totally. Mash it up, if so desired or flip it on it’s head
You hit the nail on the head there, Em! I don’t edit, I rewrite entirely.
Thanks Reagan! I’m currently working on a novel that is part brand new and part rewritten, with a touch of editing also thrown into the mix. That is to say that I’ve taken the first 2 chapters of an existing manuscript and have reworked them so that they will now become the first eight or more chapters of the novel. The original opening chapter was split in the new plan to become three, but in writing, I’ve added in a completely unplanned chapter two. So I can honestly say my muse is raring to go. Now, if only there were 48 hours in a day to get it all done. LOL
I totally understand where you’re coming from, Em! I’m in a very similar spot- I’m taking the old scenes of my novel, reading them, then taking the concept of the scene and rewriting something entirely different, sometimes 2-3 scenes for every one! And oh, if only there were 48 hours… 🙂
Sounds great! Good luck! 🙂
Emily, You are absolutely correct. Reading is the key to writing. When I was in college I had the pleasure of studying with a Chicago published Writer named Cyrus Colter. He was the first person that told in no uncertain terms to read every, every thing. I remember saying to him, even the trash writing?
His exact words—-“Read, Read, Read everything—Trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read and you’ll absorb it. Then write.” I sorry to go on and on, but Faulkner said,” I think the writer, as I’ve said before, is completely amoral. He takes whatever he needs, wherever he needs, and he does that openly and honestly because he himself hopes that what he does will be good enough so that after him people will take from him, and they are welcome to take from him, as he feels that he would be welcome by the best of his predecessors to take what they had one.” Sorry again, Emily about the quotes. These are among my favorite writers. What you mentioned in your comments is similar to Faulkner, which is absolutely correct. Great comment, Emily Oh, I almost forgot the muse. I realized a short, short while ago that a lot of inspiration starts coming to me when I am on the bus on my way to work in the morning. I remember, it probably was Joe, that mentioned always have a pad pencil to write things down. I will start that tomorrow. KEN
Thanks Ken! Reading really is the key to writing. Em
I like to eat…a lot…perhaps too much…that’s why I and my laptop have a meeting each and every weekday – even sometimes on the weekend.
Basically, I don’t write…I don’t eat.
Did I mention I like to eat?
I reward myself with food on occasion as well 🙂
The biggest problem, no matter which method you choose, is clearing out your mind. My muse is, in fact, moody and I am trying to control it, but the hardest thing to do is to remove everything else that is literally drowning it. I’ve found that I need to set aside time (which also isn’t easy) and give myself extra time to ‘warm up’, so to speak. I’ll read through the past chapter I’ve written to bring myself back into the story, and that helps free up my mind and put myself where I need to be.
Great post!
“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me”
Reagan
Same here and I also have the same warm up. No matter how enthused we are to get moving, I find that reading the preceding chapter gets me right back into the setting and indeed character I’m writing
Exactly. If we don’t become the character it just doesn’t sound natural, and it certainly won’t be believable.
I’m in the process of reading the stories that won the TWP recent short story contest to learn more about the craft of constructing a strong plot that moves along to a successful ending. It’s not just about a muse, but once you have the idea, it’s a matter of then crafting the characters and the plot structure in a credible and engaging manner. That takes practice. Practice requires time and time invested in practice yields a winning story. Belonging to a community of writers is incredibly helpful. So many ideas, suggestions, and encouragement are shared that helps us to reinforce “good behaviour”! Especially, if we run out of ideas for new tricks!
i do all the time i call it writers block and it sucks
Muses are tricky, like Tinkerbell – they must be tracked and captured. After all, a muse doesn’t know she’s a muse! The one thing I can tell you is that you’ll never find a muse if you’re distracted . . . Here’s a link to an article about beating back distractions:
https://8greatstorytellers.wordpress.com/2014/11/01/writing-stalled-try-this/
Just read this article on “dissing yourself” from the distractions. Great stuff that gives me permission to “disappear, dis-connect and dis-engage.” Read this and find out your muse will make a comeback!
Alright here I go!
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Rain slammed into the roof, pounding the car like artillery fire. The yellow glow bounced off the cold hard metal, just barely beating back the swallowing dark. Shapes darted in and out of the light, past the red eye that gazed into the essence of my soul. The eye became a startling green.
At that point I sped past the intersection, pressing the accelerator to the metal. I sighed, hoping that the person I had to pick up had the decency of having an umbrella. I’d been sent to pick up some guy from a bar somewhere up in the north. At least he was smart enough to have called a taxi driver instead of driving drunk and killing himself.
I slowed down as the bar came into view, the neon letters spelling
‘The Dragon’s Fire’.
The image of a drunk dragon tripping on itself came to mind, with droopy eyes and barely able to stand up straight.I imagined it knocking down all the stools in an attempt to walk. I laughed silently at the image as I came to a stop in front of the bar.
Agonizing silence followed for several minutes, interrupted only by the thunderous roar of rain pouring down upon the earth. I began to feel annoyed as the seconds ticked by. Where the heck was this guy? If you call for a taxi, you better be ready to get into it!
A figure emerged from the bar, covered in a dark leather jacket. He was huge, probably around 6 feet tall. The night hid his features from my eyes. He quickly surveyed the area, and I almost felt his eyes lock on to me. He immediately began to walk fast towards me, but quickly breaking into a full on sprint.
As soon as he reached the car I expected him to open the door and climb in, but instead he produced a long and white object from one of his jacket pockets. He thrust the door open and tossed the object inside. Before I could even protest he slammed the door shut and broke into another sprint.
I lowered the window down and stuck my head out.
“Hey! What’s the big Idea!?” I hollered at him. But the guy was gone. He had disappeared into the night, leaving no trace that he had ever existed. Darn bastard! what type of person calls a taxi, makes him wait and then runs off? I looked in the mirror and saw the object the guy had tossed so carelessly inside the car.
An envelope.
The hell? An envelope? I scooped up the envelope and looked at it. It had a few damp patches from where the rain had struck it. I tore the seal open and extracted a folded paper. As I carefully unfolded it it became clear it was a letter. Why would the guy give me a letter? I felt a shiver of excitement run through my spine, mixed in with the wash of fear. As I read the letter, I began to to feel a sense of dread rise and choke my throat, narrowing my breaths.
What was this guy planning?
I sat in the car, my eyes constantly searching for a hint of what was happening. My body was locked up, tense and ready to go into action at any minute. I felt stupid as I sat in the car, shivering in the cold. I turned the car off because I was afraid someone else aside from the guy would show up, brandishing weapons and wearing psychotic smiles, their laughter echoing in the dark above my own screams.
Needless to say every door was locked. I made sure of it. More than twice. Why had I decided to come here? It was probably a trap designed to catch idiots like me. I wondered if I had been lured here to be robbed. But there was something about that letter I couldn’t quite name. The way I had gotten it and the posture of the guy. After a while of chewing on the problem I realized the guy seemed nervous. He didn’t survey his surroundings casually for me, he searched wildly for me, frantically hoping to find me. But it wasn’t just that. The letter simply asked me to come here and wait for him. The letter said “I might need someone to drive me away if things go horribly.” What if this was a drug deal? I didn’t want to be involved in that. But I felt like that guy needed me, as absurd and stupid as it may sound. And if he wanted to rob me?
I stroked the cold metal, feeling safer in its presence.
I would not go down without a fight.
As time ticked by, I stared at the round coin, the moonlight reflecting off it as I turned it around, its bronze surface shimmering. I remembered when my granddad gave it to me when I was little. That day I had gone to visit him in his home, a modest home with a big yard.
“Hey, Ryder, you want to see something cool?” Grandpa asked me, his brown eyes twinkling with amusement.
“Yes! Yes Grandpa!” I had shouted with glee.
His face had broken into an amused smile, chuckling to himself.
And from his shirt pocket he produced the smallest object I had ever seen.
“A penny?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“Ah, but not just any penny.” Grandpa gave me a knowing smile. ” This penny came from the lair of a dragon!” Grandpa said, throwing his arms up.
“A dragons lair!?” I shouted, astonished.
From there Grandpa told me a tale of how he had gone into the Dragon’s lair, armed with shining armor, sword and shield, and plunged into a dark cave. He talked about how he slayed the mighty dragon in a ferocious battle to the death. And when the deed was done he took the penny from its stash.
When he was finished, he looked at me and asked me if I wanted the penny. And I pleaded with him to give me the penny, which he agreed to if only I swore to the knights oath.
As I grew up he told me many more tales, but as I grew up I also began to see the tales as tales. And after my grandpa passed away, I kept that penny with me. Every time I looked at it I could almost hear his voice full of joy telling me a story. That penny became my most prized possession, impossible to separate from me, you would have to rip it from my cold, dead hands. And even then I would put up a fight.
A shout rose from the nearby lake, followed by a earsplitting shriek that reverberated through the cold night air, chilling my blood. From the lake came racing the familiar 6 foot figure from last night. His feet ate up the distance between him and the car faster than I thought possible.
He dove into the car, slamming the door shut. He was breathing heavily, clutching his jacket. His frantic green eyes locked unto me.
“DRIVE!” He screamed at me.
Before I even knew what I was doing, I was driving at full speed through and empty road. My hands were shaking uncontrollably, no matter how much willed them to stop. The dark landscape sped on by, the river quickly disappeared into the background
“What just happened!?” I hollered at him.
“I pissed it off!” He yelled back at me. When I looked through the mirror he was staring at the back window, his black hair facing back at me.
“Pissed off what?!” I roared furiously, dread rising higher and higher.
He turned around and stared hard at me, as if seeing me for the first time. His eyes then turned away from me, and they widened, fear running wild in his eyes.
“Watch out!” He screamed.
I snapped my attention back onto the road, in which all I saw was a giant gray humanoid figure standing in the middle of the road, bent over something, green eyes glowing in the dark with malice.
I like sitting down and free writing for a few minutes to get the juices going and spill my thoughts out before working on something specific. Often my free writing informs me of what I’m going to write about and helps me generate ideas.
Yikes, this got real personal real fast. But I only write what The Muse told me.
“What are you doing up there?”
“Enjoying the scenery.” He didn’t seem to believe me.
“Oh come on. You think people intentionally string themselves up by their underwear? Would you be a gentleman and help me down?” Not exactly the most romantic way to meet someone. There I was, hanging from the fence by my underwear. There he was, staring up at me. He proved to be a gentleman; he did help me down. And as he walked away, the thought occurred to me that he was quite possibly the most handsome guy I’d ever seen. Lucky me; it turned out that he’d just changed schools and his new walk home brought him right past my house. Further, he lived just up the street from me. And lucky me, it seemed every time I saw him, I did something really embarrassing. What is it about my brain that every time I see a cute guy my body decides to malfunction?
“Tim, you’re hopeless.” He said after pulling me to my feet for the septillionth time.
“We’ve been friends how long and you’re just figuring that out?” ‘Friends’ wasn’t really the right word. We walked home from school together, spent most of our free time together, playfully teased and tolerated each other. But friends? I’d never had a friend in my life. I’d never been close to anyone on the face of this earth, and I wasn’t about to start now. And yet, as weeks went by, and weeks turned to months, I started to develop something like affection for Andrew. That affection kept growing and growing. The months turned into a year and still the strange sensation hadn’t gone away. Before I really knew what happening, I started to dread being separated from him. But it wasn’t just distress at leaving the one person in the world I cared about. As time had gone on, I’d come to see him as a safe place a refuge from the madhouse I had to return to every night. Because as the sun went down, I had to face my father, and he goes through moods, much like the moon goes through phases. Sometimes, he flies into violent rages over me coughing in the wrong direction. Other times, he almost totally ignores me. Then there’s the other side, the side I try the most not to think about. And right now, he was in that latter mood. I spent the better part of the evening organizing things around the house and trying not to draw his attention to me. It wasn’t working; he spent the better part of the evening watching me.
“Tim.” I tried to ignore, pretend I didn’t hear. He got off the couch and came up behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders to stop my movements.
“It’s Friday night.”
“Mm.” His hands pressed and slid down my back in an attempt at massage.
“Wanna come up with me?”
He asked like I had a choice. Maybe it made him feel better in some twisted, perverted way.
Honestly, I’d rather take a sharp stick to the eye. In the past, I tried communicating as much; it didn’t end well for me. I think I still have scars from that episode.
“I think you know my answer.”
He grabbed my hand and pulled me along after him. That was not my answer. Oh well. I followed to the upstairs bedroom. He shut the door (really no need, since we’re the only two people that live here), pushing me further into the hell about to commence. The moon happened to be full tonight, and I had a pretty good out the window. The light shone strong on the dirt road that wound up to Andrew’s house. Andrew. If he were here, if was him instead of my dad, would I be feeling a little more happy, enthusiastic? Goodness Tim, that’s a rather dirty thought for a mere boy of fifteen. Yes, yes indeed, Conscience. Nice of you to show up tonight. Why don’t you go pester someone else? The thought made me laugh.
“What?” A voice said in my ear. I didn’t respond, just reached out and grabbed the speaker, pulling him closer and kissing him. Another fit of giggles came on, stronger this time.
“What is so funny?” Again, I didn’t say anything, but dragged him up onto the bed next to me. He traced his fingers up my spine, bringing my shirt with him. It took all my willpower not to grin like some sort of imbecile. Y’know what, Conscience, as a matter of fact, I would be a lot happier and enthusiastic if it was Andrew here. Don’t you have incestuous pigs to bother? Please, this is my coping mechanism, so screw you very much.
When it was all over, I rolled onto my side and looked out the window again. In my mind’s eye, I walked up the dirt road, to the old Victorian on the hill. There Andrew would be waiting. We’d run off into the woods and-
“That was amazing.” Oh, go to sleep already, pig.
“I’m sure you’re quite – satisfied.” You pervert, I add in my head.
“I see you’re in your mood again.” Yes, I’m in my “mood” again, twat waffle. His idea of comforting me out of my “mood” was to inch closer and cuddle me. I returned my attention to the view outside. As I was saying, Andrew would be waiting. Andrew. Good, sweet, gentle Andrew. I want him to be here. It’s him I want holding me close, dozing off next to me. Shit, is that weird? I want him here. Wait, do I – love him? Love? Me, who’s never been emotionally attached to anyone before, in love? I shift position as the thought occurs. Yes. I do love him. Tomorrow. I’ll tell him tomorrow. It doesn’t occur to me what his reaction might be, whether disgust or elation or something in between. All I know is I have to tell him.
I love the idea of showing up for the Muse, and not the other way around.
“Writer’s Block” is really a lack of preparation and intention on our part. If we wait for something so intangible as a “Muse,” we forget how much is tangibly in our hands: An outline, a plan, a strategy, a purpose (“Am I exploring, drafting or creating a specific scene?”).
And thanks for sharing the Maugham quote – it’s a great one to keep an artistic spirit on a schedule!