Heliotrope submitted a new blog post:
Exercise the Muse: The Merit of the Writer's Notebook
by Jennifer Baruta
It never fails. I will be napping in my truck at the school parking lot, waiting to pick up my son, when a perfect story idea will hit my skull with the force of a comic book onomatopoeia (BAM! POW! SPLAT!) This sudden smack from my muse will be so inspiring that I will sit, in awe of her genius, moved to tears by the truth and beauty of the enlightenment bestowed upon me. I promise myself that this time I will not forget. This idea is too pure. Too perfect. The answer to my prayers. I can’t possibly forget inspiration so divine.
But, the school bell will ring, my son will skip out the double doors, open backpack in hand, spilling lunch bag and permission forms and gym shoes out onto the field. I will chase after his belongings, shove them back into the bag, take him home, make him a snack, clean-up said snack, and by the time I sit down that evening at my designated “writing time”, lap top open, white page beckoning me to re-create that moment I felt three hours earlier and… it is gone. Poof. Evaporated. The magic is lost. The muse moved on. I can almost see her, hand in the air, eyebrows raised, ready for that high five, but as soon as my hand is inches from hers she pulls away and, giggling hysterically calls, “Too slow!”
Cue the writer’s notebook. For the past few months I have managed to outsmart my prankster muse by carrying a writer’s notebook. I have a few, in fact, to be sure...
Continue reading the Original Blog Post.
Exercise the Muse: The Merit of the Writer's Notebook
by Jennifer Baruta
It never fails. I will be napping in my truck at the school parking lot, waiting to pick up my son, when a perfect story idea will hit my skull with the force of a comic book onomatopoeia (BAM! POW! SPLAT!) This sudden smack from my muse will be so inspiring that I will sit, in awe of her genius, moved to tears by the truth and beauty of the enlightenment bestowed upon me. I promise myself that this time I will not forget. This idea is too pure. Too perfect. The answer to my prayers. I can’t possibly forget inspiration so divine.
But, the school bell will ring, my son will skip out the double doors, open backpack in hand, spilling lunch bag and permission forms and gym shoes out onto the field. I will chase after his belongings, shove them back into the bag, take him home, make him a snack, clean-up said snack, and by the time I sit down that evening at my designated “writing time”, lap top open, white page beckoning me to re-create that moment I felt three hours earlier and… it is gone. Poof. Evaporated. The magic is lost. The muse moved on. I can almost see her, hand in the air, eyebrows raised, ready for that high five, but as soon as my hand is inches from hers she pulls away and, giggling hysterically calls, “Too slow!”
Cue the writer’s notebook. For the past few months I have managed to outsmart my prankster muse by carrying a writer’s notebook. I have a few, in fact, to be sure...
Continue reading the Original Blog Post.