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March 17, 2011

I’m in the Ozarks this week.  Branson, Missouri and Rogers, Arkansas.

Maybe the mountain air has gotten to my sensibilities or summat but I did get hit in the noggin one morning with a revelation about my writing and why the shit’s been just so damned hard for so damned long.

I’ve been writing how I think/see/feel I should write.  I should actually be writing how I write.

This may not make a lot of sense to anyone who hasn’t had the need for this revelation but trust me it’s a biggie.

A huge, ginormous, gargantuan, really, really, really big — well, thing.

I’ve let Koontz (mostly since my main WIPs are along his genre lines) and Eddings and Anthony and whoeverthefuckelseI’vereadinmythirty-fivegoddamnyearsonthisEarth encroach on what should be a very private lovemaking session between me and my muse.  We get together and together we create a story tapestry around whatever loudmouthed characters we decide to pick up at the singles bar of my mind.

Sometimes it’s rough and sweaty.  Sometimes it’s slow, tender and gentle.  Every time, however, it should be personal, private and unique to me and my muse.

Dean (Koontz for those not on a first name basis with him (har!)), as much as I’ve loved his stuff (mostly the early stuff but most of his later stuff is better than I’ll ever be), has a muse that’s just for him.  I should find her ugly or at least average or below.  Stephen King has a twisted little muse who should appear to me as a “screw this bitch and you’ll wake up missing two balls, one penis or one heart — maybe all of the above” type chick.

My muse should be the one who looks nothing like these dudes’ muses.  Or anyone else’s.  She’s just for me and I’ve been cheating her by chasing after the muses attached to writers who have already found success.  I figured, hell, if those muses could make those guys famous why not me?

The problem is this:  It’s not the muses that made those guys famous.  It was the creation that came out of writer/muse lovemaking.

I have decided that I now have eyes for no other muse but my own.  I am making that pledge to her right here in front of all three people who read this crap.  I’m going to foster my relationship with my muse.  This is going to result in some twisted, socially unacceptable, quite probably very disturbing resultant creations but I’m going to go full steam ahead with no apologies.

From here on I will never again try to be the next Koontz, King, Rowling, Sparks, Meyer, or whoever is next down the NYT pike.

I will write like Todd Macy and be damn proud of it.

2 Comments leave one →
  1. March 18, 2011 5:45 am

    Very interesting way to look at it, but strangely apt. I think every writer goes through this when they’re trying to find their “voice”, so don’t feel bad. It’s a process.

    Maybe now that you’re being faithful, she’ll be more forthcoming. Pun intended. Heh.


  2. July 11, 2012 4:31 pm

    Couldn’t agree more on this one. But sometimes, it’s so very tempting…. Of course my muse carries a very long sword and is prone to glaring at me, so the tempt is merely a thought…. Cheers!

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