Getting Smart about the Muse

By Shannon Baker

I’ve seen lots of references to the muse lately. Writers talk about this tricky, willful and fickle instrument of inspiration who flits in and out of our minds as if he/she is the reason we create beautiful words or twisting plots. I’m often jabbed by an idea that seems to come out of nowhere and all I can do is shiver a little that some other-worldly creature took pity on my feeble wordly wranglings and threw me a bone.

“Some ditzy woman named Bambi just inserted herself into my book, "The Llama of Death." Now I've got to find out what the heck she's doing in there. Writing is so mysterious -- even to the author.”

This was a status update on Facebook from mystery writer, Betty Webb. No doubt Bambi will become a necessary component to the plot, even if Betty hasn’t figured it out, yet. Her comment let me know I’m not alone in these strange bursts of detail.

I had no idea why I added that tiny apartment with the closet under the stairs in the third chapter…until late in the book when I needed to hide a clue there. What about the certainty that the car burned too much oil and smelled bad, only to need the sense of smell later on?
Since I’m such a dogged plotter I used to resist these surprises but have learned to trust the weirdness and let them stay. They usually end up being essential. But how do I know this without knowing? Do I have a muse trying to help me out? Is it magic? For a long time I didn’t question it too much, just accepted that the Universe knew better than me.

Then I picked up Blink by Malcolm Gladwell. With my apologies to Mr. Gladwell, I believe he explained exactly why we unconsciously come up with these gems that seem like gifts from the Writing Gods. I say apologize, because this may not be the point he was trying to get to at all.

What I got out of the book is this: We all have a part of the brain that is hidden from our conscious, everyday existence. It stores all this experience and information behind a series of locked doors like the vault where Maxwell Smart’s headquarters at CONTROL are located. We can’t access it consciously. But this part of our brain works rapidly, sort of like the processer on my work computer doesn’t. We actually know a lot more than we know we know.

This super part of our brain is responsible for those instant decisions we make that seem so right. It’s the intuition part of us (though Gladwell hates the word intuition) that tells us immediately if we can trust someone, if that job is the right one, if the move to Colorado is a good decision. Within two minutes, our brain sorts through everything it knows and spits out the answer—maybe it sends out our own private Maxwell Smart to pass it along. I’m sure your messenger is more like Agent 99 than Max, but from the evidence of some of my decisions I’m pretty sure my contact at CONTROL is Agent 86. Either that, or I have an overactive KAOS factor in my life.

Galdwell doesn’t extrapolate to writing mysteries but I have no problem making that jump. I think this hidden brain knows way more about our stories than we do. Every now and then, it has to give us a little help and sends that perfect detail we don’t know we need until we need it. Good job, Max.

I don’t know about you, but I’m way more comfortable believing I hold all the answers in my secret vault than I am wishing and hoping the muse feels amiable toward me on any given day. Even if some days it feels like all the good ideas are locked in the Cone of Silence.

What's one of those nuggets you included in a story that you didn't know you'd need until later?

No, Really. Authors Aren't . . .

By Deborah Sharp

This month marks a year I've been able to officially call myself a published author. Since my mystery series debuted with Mama Does Time (Midnight Ink, Oct. 2008), I've done more than 50 appearances, attended several conferences, and engaged in numerous conversations about writing with the average Joe (and Jane).

As a former reporter, I'd never want to make sweeping pronouncements about how things are always one way or another. But I can safely say most people have no clue what life as an author is really like. So, in the interest of accuracy, here are a few things authors are not (at least not many of the authors I know):

They're not getting rich.

They're not jetting all over the country on book tours paid for by their publishers.

They're not magically channeling a muse, with words flowing from their fingertips without sweat.

They're not eager to read the 600-page manuscript your mom just loves.

They're not eager to edit that same 600-page manuscript.

They're not interested in turning your story into a book. If it's a good one, you should write it.

They're not always able to explain where they get their ideas.

They're not withholding the secret to getting published. It's a combination of skill, perseverance, and dumb luck.

They're not coasting after they finish a book. They're probably promoting the previous one or starting the next.

And the No. 1 thing that authors are not: Ever, EVER tired of hearing nice things about their books.

So, how about you authors? What's your favorite misconception? Readers, what discovery about an author or writing has surprised you?

Toons to Tempt the Muse

by Nina Wright

That’s not a misspelling. Although music moves me as I write, so do visual images, including—yup—cartoons.

Now you know why I subscribe to the New Yorker magazine and have for almost 20 years. My office bulletin board is festooned with recent faves; I rotate them to suit moods and assignments. Current attractions include cartoons by Tom Cheney and P.C. Vey. Since I don't have permission to post them here, I'll (lamely) describe a couple that connect to my work. If you're curious, I'll email you the jpegs.

You may think I like cartoons because I write mainly humorous stuff. But there’s more to it. I'm in awe of art forms that are at once succinct and insightful. While I, the novelist, trudge through tens of thousands of words to deliver my point, other artists perform their jobs with stunning concision. In that camp I include cartoonists, poets, short-story writers, songwriters, musicians, potters, painters, and photographers, not to mention comedians, floral designers, and chefs. We can appreciate their work in a single sitting, a glance, a gulp. And when it thrills us, we replay it. We view it from various angles. We chew slowly.

A cartoon, like any good picture, is worth a thousand words, and may require as many to describe. You can recount a cartoon to someone who can’t see it, but there’s no way you’ll match the artist's punch. It’s like describing a hedonistically delicious dessert or a brilliant comedic monologue. (Or, for that matter, great sex, but that's for another blog.) In short, you gotta be there.

But cartoonists face some of the same challenges that we novelists do. For instance, they must create a viable world. A favorite Tom Cheney toon features a Realtor showing a property with a gaping hole in the floor through which the cosmos is visible. The Realtor says, "Of course, the real charm of the place is that hole in the space-time continuum."

I write about fantastical phenomena and Realtors, though not always at the same time. Drafting my novel Sensitive, I took pains to vividly render my characters astral-projecting and talking with the dead. Since I had never done either, I had a license to imagine the experiences as well as an obligation to do enough research to get the details mostly right. When we spin suspense fiction, our series protagonists regularly bump up against violent death. Thus we must build a universe on the page that makes heinous crime both shocking and inevitable. Whiskey Mattimoe is a Realtor whose clients have a high probability of turning up dead. I enhance that probability by making Magnet Springs a resort town that attracts the rich and greedy.

Like all true artists, cartoonists make connections where none typically exists. They twist clichés and thwart expectations. And yet they make sense. If they don’t, we don’t "get it," and the cartoon fails. The same is true of the stories we tell on our own broad canvases. Our characters must be recognizable but completely fresh. Our endings must satisfy and surprise as solidly as a single-frame cartoon.

In closing, allow me to describe a toon by P.C. Vey: Two women are having tea. Next to the hostess is a cat wearing a Zorro mask. The hostess says, "I know it's illegal, but quite frankly we couldn't get by without the cash and jewelry he brings home every night."

Yeah, yeah, you gotta see it, and I did. And it started me drafting a new mystery series starring a woman who trains her Devon rex cat to steal. If you think that's impossible, you haven't seen this video or met my Devon rex, Flannery, who as far as I know steals only hearts. Still, Flan gets into enough trouble to make a genuine cat burgler seem plausible. At least in the world of art I can make.
P.S. Happy birthday to fellow Midnight Ink author, G.M. (Gin) Malliet! My protagonist (Whiskey) and I raise a glass to you.