My muse has returned...and her name is Shirley

Those of you who know me well know I name everything. My RV is Wanda. My little Toyota Yaris is Bebe. My computer is Toby. Now, I've named my muse and she is proudly called Shirley.

Okay, I know this is a little wierd for most people. But what can I say? I need to name things to relate to them somehow. A name requires a personality. Shirley is perfect for my muse. She's a bit quirky like Shirley MacLaine and has a lot of spunk. You know anyone named Shirley has to have spunk.

Anyway, one of my favorite movies of all time is The Muse, with Albert Brooks. I confess, I love every movie Albert Brooks is in. He's funny and good-looking in a quirky kind of way (there's that word quirky again)and my God, can that man whine! There's an art to whining - truly there is - and Albert has it down.

In the film, Albert is a screenwriter (been there, done that) and he's horribly blocked. Sharon Stone comes to his rescue and that of several Hollywood personalities, like Rob Reiner and Marty Scorcese, because they all believe she is a muse - one of the seven sisters that were daughters of Zeus in mythology and inspired artists of literary, dance and musical persuasions.

Well, I don't believe I have a muse. I'm absolutely certain of it, because she's come home to roost again. I woke up in the middle of the night, inspired by a new character for my novel and dictated into a tape recorder, too sleepy to get up and type. I transcribed that tape this morning and I had nearly a 1,000 words!

I've struggled to get back into my fiction writing ever since I started into journalism in 2005. Non-fiction is such a different mindset and a writer must suppress the creative side to such a great degree that it's nearly painful. Along with the long hours in Maricopa, finishing the novel I was 309 pages into wasn't going to happen.

But now Shirley's here! I'd like to think it's an alter-ego, but I think the concept of muse has to stay separate from the writer and be acknowledged. Somewhere out in the Universe, I'm sure there's a colony of would-be muses learning their trade and "earning their wings" like Clarence in It's a Wonderful Life. Now that I've convinced you of what you may have suspected all along - that I'm a bit touched in the head - I'll leave you to consider finding your own muse.

In the meantime, tonight I'm setting up my computer so that I can get up and start typing when Shirley returns!

Morning pages unlock the subconscious

A book by Julie Cameron, entitled "The Artist's Way" has inspired me since 2005, but recently re-reading it has jump-started my serious writing.

The reason for this renewed spirit has been the revival of my "morning pages. Cameron's book contains vast wisdom about the nature of artists, which in her world includes writers, a feeling I subscribe to but isn't shared by everyone. It is an uncomplicated book with an uncomplicated way to find your muse. There are only two steps.

One is to commit to doing three pages of journal writing every morning just as you rise and are waking up. Sounds painful and boring doesn't it? Well, for the first few days it is a bit boring and then you let go of your inhibitions without even realizing it and low and behold ideas come to you, seemingly from nowhere. Putting words to empty pages is no longer an agonizing act. I'm not sure how it feels to painters and actors and such, but I suspect it's similar.

Floodgates just open. It's tricky for writers, but we especially want all our writings to be profound and meaningful. Well, after a few mornings of writing your pages, that idea becomes laughable. In fact, Cameron says that the biggest challenge for writers is not "writing" the pages - just letting them flow.

It worked so well for me before that I got 309 pages into a novel. I need to return to that novel as well as tackle my postings for SacramentoandBeyond.com, and I'm not sure why it took me so long to get back to first base. But I'm there and I recommend the process for anyone honestly searching for their inner artist.

The second step is something I embrace with equal enthusiasm, but is definitely not as effective at chipping away at my procrastination. Still, I am trying to follow her lead, and have planned my first Artist's Date in a very long time for next weekend.

Now the artist's date is a time set aside for you and your inner artist to just experience. She suggests trips to the toy store, pet store or park. Museums, art galleries, libraries, any place where you can be alone and explore. No others are allowed - just you and yourself. I remember my first artists date was a trip to Michael's the arts and crafts store. I really enjoyed wandering among all the aisles of do-it-yourself treasures. It was fun. I lost track of time and I came away with a sense of creation being just around the corner.

So, if you want to expand your creative side, try the morning pages and artist's date and even better, buy Cameron's book. It will be an investment in yourself that can't be beat.

Denial surrenders the battle

Two people that I love very much have grave health issues. They are choosing not to face those issues, but rather live in a denial of sorts.

One needs oxygen to make it easier on his body because he has COPD - Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disorder - but resists the need for oxygen as if giving into the canister of life-giving substance somehow reduces him, makes him an invalid. The truth is that without the oxygen he is much more of an invalid. Because of his stubbornness he is making his body work so much harder and probably ultimately denying his family his presence for a longer period of time. He also insists on doing too much, over-extending himself. We watch helplessly.

The other has just been diagnosed with a blockage in an artery of her brain. Rather than accept the offered help of her family, she chooses to continue on as if nothing has changed. No help around the house. No reduction in her activities. No giving in. Or so she thinks.

The truth is that while they both feel they are acting bravely, they are really simply sabotaging themselves. Any great general would tell you that it does no good to fight an enemy without admitting that enemy's strengths. Any disease has a certain power over you, and simply denying or refusing to recognize that power in essence increased it's power.

Marching into battle pretending that the enemy doesn't have cannons or that there aren't archers in the bushes shooting arrows at your army doesn't make any sense, yet repeatedly I've seen sick people just ignore their illness, thinking that somehow they will prevail.

Doesn't it make far more sense to do everything you can to help your body fight the disease? Rest when you need to. Reduce the stress of everyday living by accepting the help of others. Put the oxygen mask on and inhale deeply. Take your meds without complaint. In many cases, they keep you alive.

Most of the time, sick people get angry at being sick. Of course they do. It's something to get mad about. However, I lived through being the fall guy once, watched others take the heat for their loved ones anger and now am watching it happen again. While I completely understand the anger, I wish I could make the ones I love understand that pushing away the support of your family and letting your anger out on them, isn't the right way to go.

This is a very personal post, but there are lessons in it. For the healthy who are dealing with a sick person, try to hang in there and give them the support they will so often try to resist, but don't let yourself become a whipping post. If you are dealing with an illness yourself, try to think of it as a battle that can be won, at least to some degree and remember that it is painful for those who love you not to be allowed to help.

And for those of you who don't fall into either category, thank your lucky stars!

Oh, to be 12 again...

Our Father's Day family picnic was on Saturday, instead of Sunday, and required an hour and a half drive from Sacramento, but it was well worth it. Two miles outside Oakdale, California, there was a picnic area right along the Stanislaus River and it was equipped with a rope for swinging out and falling into the lazy pooled water on our side of the river.

Every part of me longed to put on my bathing suit and swashbuckle out over the river, let go and plop into the tantalizing liquid with a big splash. I could feel the silky water on my skin and hear my own laughter as I burst from under the cold water. I haven't wanted to go back to twelve-years-old for years, but on Saturday, I really wanted to quit being a grownup for an hour and just play.

The desire was so strong and sense of identifying with the age of twelve so clear, that it gave me pause. What was it about being 12?

Well, at that age, we really don't know how anything is going to turn out and certainly don't care. Tomorrow is about as far down the road as we can see. We don't feel consequences hanging over our heads.

Our sense of self hasn't yet been destroyed by the treacherous teenage years. We're poised between childhood and just enough adulthood not to want to ask if we can risk a swoop and drop into a river. We're confident enough to try it, without a lot of coaxing. That's what we (members of the human race) are like at age 12.

I would never want to go through the intervening years between 12 and 40 again. You couldn't pay me enough to do it. But if I could have another day of being twelve, with an awareness of it, boy would I have fun.

I'd play softball, basketball and toss a football around for a while. I'd run like the wind, until I couldn't anymore. I'd climb a tree and I would definitely swing out over a river and drop gleefully into it.

Wouldn't it be wonderful to go back for just one day?

Life According to “The Puppies”

I babysat one of my sisters’ houses over the past week, but the real reason I was there was to look out for “The Puppies.” Take one look in the picture above and you can see that these two are hardly puppies. That’s Indy on the left, a bright, beautiful girl, who could lead any pack. Her companion, on the right, is a big, lovable lug called Cabo. The big orange bulb in the front of the picture is a highly prized squeaky toy that basically drives their leisure world.

Oh, there are other toys, some much better looking and most about as interesting as this one, yet this is the desired prize of numerous tosses across the yard. Both of them scramble to get there before the other, but it is truly a sight to see Indy calculate in less than a second that one direction around the pool is quicker to get to the orange blob than the other. Cabo is either incapable of making the leap in logic or simply doesn't care to bother.

Even when Indy beats Cabo to the orange blob, which I began to call Bob for some reason, she usually gives up the beasty to Cabo, nearly instantly. Bob is exchanged from drooling mouth to drooling mouth and Cabo struts around the yard, just as if he was actually the one to make the capture. I found this an interesting dynamic and wondered if perhaps it proves that the male and female of both species (canine and human)didn’t share some common traits.

Indy also tolerated Cabo’s reluctance to give Bob back to me so that I could toss it again. Until, of course, his hesitancy got in the way of the game and I expressed frustration. All it took was a baleful look in her direction and a plaintive “Indy?” and she would yank Bob away from Cabo and promptly drop it back in the pool, where I was lying on a lounge an arm’s length away. As Bob bobbed in the water (oh, that’s why I called him Bob), I realized the very first time that Indy was the boss, but was good at keeping that fact from Cabo, obviously to preserve his manhood. Oops, manhood can’t be the right word, but you know what I mean.

So, perhaps, the male/female struggle we are all involved in on a daily basis, is truly a cosmic battle, reflected by the simple interactions between even the animal world around us.

I’ve decided to observe other creature couples to see if this theory can be supported. I’ll get back to you on that.