Chasing Inspiration (July IWSG)

I left a comment on a blog a month or two ago that went something like this:

I've come to the conclusion that inspiration cannot be chased and caught. It's an elusive little bugger. But when you least expect it, it can whack you upside the head with brilliance. Just don't duck. ;-)

My reasoning behind the comment was that we writers cannot sit at our desks, don a tin foil cap sprouting antennae and expect to intercept brilliant inspiration as though it were radio waves. We can't just throw on our baseball caps, lace up our cleats and hold out our gloves to catch inspiration as it falls from the sky.

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It doesn't work that way. At least not for me.

More times than one, I've waited at my desk, hoping, yearning, pleading for a visit from my muse. I've gone walking and driving, knowing that she usually drops by at inconvenient hours and places. All to no avail.

While I believe that inspiration cannot be chased and caught, I also believe it frequently answers active invitations. The key word there is active.

An active invitation requires movement: fingers typing, hands scribbling or eyes reading. Rarely am I inspired while watching movies or television. Such activity leaves my imagination dormant. It sits there, content to watch what someone else has already created.

It is, in my opinion, the act of creating that invites the muse. We may end up tossing every single word we write while waiting, but the waiting will often not be in vain.

So the next time you're finding inspiration elusive, chase it by actively inviting it. You may just catch it.

The Itch

There it is again.  That itch in the back of my head.  You know the spot, right?  Just a few inches above the neckline and a little behind the ear.  Does no good to scratch at it.  The itch is too deep to reach.

I steal a glance over my shoulder.  I know she’s nearby.  She always shows up right after the itching starts.  A little like someone always ends up knocking at Jed Clampett’s door right after the music in the walls stops playing.  She does love making an entrance.

Yes, she plants the seed and the itching starts.  And then I wait.  Not long.  Just long enough for the itch to mutate into a tingle.  The quick grow fertilizer she uses causes the tingle.  It’s her own proprietary formula, I’m sure.  Something like Miracle Grow for the imagination.

I can’t help but wonder what she planted.  A new story idea?  A character?  A scene?  She never plants an entire story.  It might be nothing more than a line of dialog causing that itch.  She’s funny that way, my muse.

I’ll sit and ponder, patiently waiting for her to do her thing.  I’ve learned not to rush her.  Mere moments will pass before I hear her disembodied giggle.  She’ll show herself then, maybe with a wink, perhaps a wry grin, but always with contagious excitement dancing on her face.  She’ll nibble on her lower lip and bounce those pretty brows.  That’s her way of telling me it’s time to scratch and discover what’s sprouting from that itchy spot in the back of my head.

She's so awesome, that muse of mine.

How do you know when your muse is near?