Great Writing Secrets

Writing is easy. I do it all the time. Let me tell you my secret.

No writer's block plagues my mornings, just ask Ms Wonder. I'm up at the crack of dawn although I'm at a loss to understand why the 'crack' of dawn. But let's not be sidetracked by figures of speech, although...oh, never mind.

Immediately after feeding the cats and Yoga With Adrience, You will find me, if you're looking, banging away at this blog, and the best part is that I like what I've written when I read it again weeks or even years later. That's the secret to great writing. 

Did you miss it? No problem. I'll come back to it later in this post.

Writer's block is simply a lack of inspiration. Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that inspiration is old school. You're thinking that pseudo-post-modernists say inspiration is a myth. They're right about that, of course, but not in a way they understand.

Inspiration is the key to good writing just like cats are the key to a happy home. The piece that you put into words already exists before you begin writing it. Just like those cats already exist before they come to live with you.

So inspiration is a mythical event or, if you prefer, substance, and it's real. Another way to say it is, the Muses are mythical but they're real. Now you're probably saying to yourself, that's all well and good, Genome, but it still leaves the writing hanging when the Muse's timing isn't convenient. 

You have a very good talking point but I've got the answer.

The answer was suggested in an earlier paragraph. The answer is cats. Well, I suppose it could be dogs or ferrets or rabbits or goldfish. I should say pets because I realize that cats can be finicky about who they live with. Feel free to replace 'cats' with 'pets' and we can get on with it.

Anytime I need inspiration, all I have to do is look into a cat's face. That always gets them moving and doing something inspirational. They don't like to make direct eye contact. Makes them fidgety. Of course, sometimes when I look into their face they just ignore me. That's why I live with more than one. If Sagi doesn't inspire me, then I simply find Uma, Beignet, Abbie, or Eddy, and do a bit of face staring there.

This technique always works. You can see that it works from the number of blog posts I write about cats. Just click on the labels tab in the menu on the right side of the website and then select Cats and More to see all of them.

To solidify the point, here are a few examples: Don't Even Think About It, which features Sagi, the caramel-colored tabby. Then there's a personal favorite, Little Cat's Feet, in which Eddy is the star but all the household plays a part. And one of the most popular posts, Strange Case of the Cat in the Night, featuring Abbie, the white-gloved assassin, is a perfect example of feline inspiration.

And now, just to be perfectly clear, the secret of great writing that I promised you at the start. If you strive for great writing, then you must write only for yourself. If you like it then you're doing it right.

There you are. The cure for writer's block and the secret to great writing. And it was delivered with no jokes. You're very welcome.

The Shakespeare Method

The thing that troubles me not a little, although assured early and often by my guru, Swami Beyondananda, is that writer's block is a fabrication. And yet, not very often, but yet fairly often, I find myself not writing. 

I tell myself that it isn't writer's block; that it's simply life getting in the way. Life does get in the way of our intentions sometimes, doesn't it? I think, after a reasonable amount of consideration, that you will agree life does sometimes get in the way.

Still, all things considered, why do I go for weeks without writing? Could it be there's nothing interesting to write about? No, that's absurd there's always something interesting afoot.

I've considered the whole thing forward and back but haven't been able to get a handle on it and in times such as this, there is only one recourse for me. Take it to a higher power. 

So I brought it to Ms. Wonder's attention. She has a way of seeing through these things that astounds me. She performs wonders right before my very eyes and still leaves her methods shrouded in mystery. 

"Poopsie," I said, "I wonder if you have a few minutes to help me with a knot? You know what I mean. What is that knot we hear so much about?"

"Gordian Knott," she said.

"That's it," I said, "the Gordian Knott, although I don't know why Gordian. Do you suppose Gordian untied knots while leaving bibles in hotel rooms?"

"The Gideons, I believe, leave bibles in hotel rooms. The Gordian Knot is a legend from the time of Alexander the Great that became a metaphor for an intractable problem solved by a bold stroke." 

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did it become a metaphor?"

"It seems the Phrygians were without a king..."

"Phrygians," I said. "Wonder, are you making this up? I mean, Phrygians?"

"It's an ancient legend," she said. "An oracle decreed that the next man to enter the city driving an ox-cart should become their king..."

"Wait," I said. "I believe you're confusing the ox-cart thing with a sword in the stone, and just as I surmised, it wasn't Phrygians, it was the British."

She gave me a look that one might give the guy who rides his motorcycle through the neighborhood after midnight. Then she continued with the ancient legend, which I'd already determined was some kind of garbled fairy tale. 

 "A peasant farmer named Gordias drove into town on an ox-cart and was immediately crowned king. Out of gratitude, his son Midas dedicated the ox-cart to the Phrygian god Sabazios, known as Zeus to the Greeks, and tied it to a post with an intricate knot."

"Wonder," I said, "I appreciate your effort but I must ask you to put a sock in it when it comes to peasants driving ox-carts and becoming king. Reminds me of that frog who dreamed of becoming a king. Pure drivel."

"Fine," she said.

"Still, why the metaphor?"

"The ox-cart remained in the palace until Alexander arrived. An oracle had declared that any man who could unravel the knot was destined to become ruler of all of Asia..."

I held up a hand. "Wonder," I said. "Think about it for a second. First, an oracle predicts a farmer driving an ox-cart. Let me remind you that I have plenty of experience with Oracles. I was a professional Oracle administrator for years."

"Second, now an oracle makes a second prediction about loosing the knot that binds the cart. I think Freud would have a lot to say about this legend; probably involves dysfunctional family relationships."

She sighed deeply and this time gave me a look that a mother might give a child whose ice cream slides off the cone and onto the boardwalk. Then she demonstrated that stubborn Slavic streak and continued with the story.

"Alexander struggled to untie the knot and then realized that it would make no difference how the knot was loosed, so he drew his sword and sliced it in half with a single stroke."

"Nope. Can't go there," Poopsie. "Not plausible. Too many oracles declaring stuff just in the nick of time. Life doesn't allow for it. Comes fast and hard, that's what life does and you don't just saunter into town and be named king because you're driving an ox or any other type of cart. Nor do you untie knots with a sword and become ruler of Asia."

"Nevertheless, many people over centuries have found it meaningful as a metaphor."

"Yeah, well people over the centuries have found Shakespeare meaningful too. What of it?"

"Oh, yes," she said, "I almost forgot. In Henry the Fifth, Shakespeare said, Turn him to any cause of policy, the Gordian Knot of it he will unloose, Familiar as his garter."

"There, you see? Pure bilge. Familiar as his garter. Shakespeare at his best. Ha!"

I waited for her response but it never came. She just looked at me as though I'd just announced that I wanted to breed Pomeranians. 

"Well, thank you, Poopsie. That explains Gordias I suppose but not Gideon. I happen to remember from my bible study in elementary school, that Gideon was a timid Israelite who was called by God to free his people from Midianite oppression. 

I think an oracle was involved there too. Oracles are a sure sign of poppycock, Wonder. Poppycock! And you can quote me. 

As I remember, Gideon was successful in carrying out his assignment. Trumpets and torches figured into it. He was rewarded with so many wives that he sired 70 sons. 

Unfortunately one of the sons murdered all his half-brothers. You'd think one of them would have gotten wise before it was too late."

She continued to stare at me and I thought it best to take immediate action to avoid her becoming unhinged.

"But enough of that," I said. "What about the bibles?"

"The Gideons International distribute bibles, free of charge, in hotel rooms and other strategic places where people may find them. They took the name after conducting a prayer to find the appropriate name."

"God spoke to one of them I suppose. He often does speak to his people. With mixed results, it seems. Especially when half-brothers are involved."

"I don't know the full story," she said.

"And you never will," I said.

"Now, what was it you wanted to ask about? I've forgotten" she said.

"Oh, I did have a question, didn't I? What was it? Not Gideons. Oh yes, the Gordian knot. Here's the thing. You've heard of writer's block, of course."

"Sure."

"What about the photographer's block, ever experience that?"

"I don't believe so."

"What I want to know is, why do I go for weeks without writing? Think of it as a Gordian knot. I want to write. In fact, it's all I think about and yet I don't do it as regularly as I think I should."

"I heard it said that one shouldn't make a big deal of it. Just put words on paper," she said.

"Yes, I see where you're going. It worked for Shakespeare; slap a few words down on paper I mean."

"Right," she said, and she said it in a way that made me doubt her sincerity.

She's been right before and I'm sure she'll be right again. I mean just consider the law of averages. So after our little chat, I wrote this post that you now hold in your hands. I hope you'll return soon to see what I come up with. Hopefully, it will be better than the bilge Shakespeare wrote.

Does It Really Matter?

The morning after broke fair and bright and the day was served up with all the trimmings: the sun, the sky, the birdsong. But that was on the outside. It was different in the heart. A stalled low-level depression accompanied by grey skies about sums it up. Nature may have smiled but there was no smile in the Genome. It makes little difference when facing a trial by fire that you've got a nice day for it. 

Consider Napoleon happily overseeing the installation of French administrators in the Cairo offices of the Egyptian antiquities department. He must have felt very satisfied with the way things had worked out. The weather only added to his buoyant mood; the sky was Mediterranean blue and the clouds were puffy and white—just the kind of day one hopes for when visiting Cairo—and then Nelson sailed the British fleet into the harbor and set fire to all the French ships. Think about that next time you feel the Universe has let you down.

 The bamboo grove in the Courtyard at Straw Valley

I pondered the mystery of Napoleon's narrow escape as I pushed along toward the courtyard at Straw Valley. Did he have a train hidden away in the desert somewhere? Some of the best generals do hide trains in strategic places. I believe it was a favorite tactic of Garibaldi. I'm not sure about that. I can ask the Muse when I see her.

The weather continued fine and a nuthatch sang in the shrubbery near the side gate as I approached the bamboo grove. No reason not to sing, of course, I just mention it in passing.

It was Lupe who suggested a morning out with friends at Straw Valley and I thought it a particularly good suggestion. Just goes to show how the Fate sisters love their practical jokes.

Entering the east gate, I heard voices and realized that, though the hour was early, I was not the first to arrive. A long table was placed not too near the door, but near enough for a quick escape if a q. e. was called for. Seated there were the Muse and the Saint, both enjoying an espresso. I knew it was espresso by the look on their faces. Nothing else comes close.

Sophie was seated between the two mentioned enjoying a cup of tea. I don’t know how that’s possible, first thing in the morning, but I swear it’s true. The table was quite long, large enough to seat about 10 people, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it.

Muse and Saint were in animated conversation while Sophie, seated between the two, seemed only interested in her tea.

"Sorry, no room," the Saint remarked when he saw me approaching.

"Very funny," I said and took a chair near them but across the table.

"I was just saying to the Saint," said the Muse, "that a margherita pizza would be the perfect thing for lunch, don't you agree? 

"I do like margherita pizza," I said, "but today I'm planning to have butternut-squash ravioli."

"Oh," said the Muse, "if it's squash ravioli you want, the very best, hand-made, squash ravioli is made in Fidenza."

"Fidenza? Is that near Milan?"

"No, not Milan--Fidenza."

"Don't let the people in Bologna hear you say that," said the Saint. 

"People in Bologna have the tortellini," said the Muse. "Just saying...."

"I'll get a coffee," I said as I rose and began ankling toward the barista station.

"Don't order anything with milk in it," said the Muse, "it's too early in the day for that and I should have to leave if you do."

Sophie's eyes opened wide at hearing this and I was expecting her to ask about the correct time of day to have milk in coffee but it didn’t happen. Sophie doesn’t drink coffee. I know! I can only wonder if she was never exposed to George and Nespresso. That could explain it I suppose. After a brief pause, she finally spoke, but not about coffee.

"Why is a raven like a writing desk," she asked directing her gaze toward me.

"Oh good, a riddle," I said. "I enjoy riddles. Let me think. Ravens and writing desks."

"Not plural," said Sophie. "Just raven and desk."

"Right," I said. "I think I've heard this one before."

"So you think you can solve it?" Sophie asked.

"I do," I said.

"Good," she said, "because Alice was able to solve it and I do so want to know the answer."

"Of course, I remember now," I said, "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. I knew I'd heard the riddle before."

"You only thought you had heard it," said the Saint.

"I was pretty certain," I said.

"Maybe," said the Muse.

"Alright," I said. I don't know why I said it. I just did.

The conversation dropped and we sat silent for a moment while I tried to remember everything I knew about ravens and writing desks; not much as it turned out.

"Have you solved the riddle yet?" Sophie asked.

"Nope," I said shaking my head. "I give up."

"Too bad," said Sophie.

"Get some coffee," said the Saint.

"I'm still deciding," I said. I didn't want to get a coffee with milk because I didn't want to take a chance of the Muse leaving and I had a question or two about Fidenza.

"Tell us a story," said Sophie.

"I think I'll get coffee now," I said.

"I'll have another double espresso, thank you," said the Muse.

"Really?" I said. "I've never known you to have more than one at a sitting."

"It isn't for me," she said. "It's for the mouse in the flower pot outside."

I raised an eyebrow and gave her a look. You know the look I mean. You would have given the same look had you been there. She raised an eyebrow and returned the look. It was an opposite but equal look. I glanced at the Saint and at Sophie and they too were giving me looks with eyebrows raised. I don't know when I've experienced a day with so many eyebrows. Mine was far outnumbered.

I walked to the Order Here spot and was greeted by Amy Normal, Backup Mistress of the South Durham Night, and rogue barista. 

“What are you looking at?” she said.

“You've done something with your hair,” I said.

“I decided to ornament the topknot. Spice things up you know?"

"Very nice," I said, "but the cats will surely miss them."

"They were the only feathers I had," she said. "Wanna make a smartass comment about them?'

"No, no," I said. "Very becoming."

“You know, Genome,” she said, “we had high hopes for you when you were young. You seemed so bright and full of fun. But now…just look at you. What happened?”

I pondered the question for what seemed a long time but was probably only a moment. At that same moment, Princess Amy awoke and directed my attention to the door. As I could think of nothing in common for ravens and writing desks, I decided I would deliver that double espresso the the mouse in the flower pot myself.

As I passed their table on my way to the door, I overheard the Saint say, "Spread the love, Brother." The Muse was shaking her head. "Total eclipse of the heart." I heard her say. Just to set the record straight, it wasn't a mouse in the flower pot out in the courtyard; it was Miles. And I thought he was in Paris!

Sweet Dreams and Tomato Sauce

I finished reviewing the blog post I'd written to promote my summer driving tour and was very pleased with the progress. You know the tour I'm talking about. It's the summer road trip I'm calling the Colonial Coast tour. 

As I was saying, I finished my writing for the evening and went straight to the bedroom hoping to find that Ms. Wonder had not yet finished her reading and turned off the light because I wanted to wish her a good night before going to sleep myself.

I was pleased to see that her face was still in the Charleston magazine and the light still on but, to my disappointment, she placed the periodical on the night table and switched off the light just as I entered the doorway. 

Well, you know the result of abruptly walking from the light into the dark. I bumped into a cat, who voiced his displeasure at my clumsiness, which caused a second cat to become convinced that discretion is to be valued above valor. 

He lept from the dresser causing that thing the Brits call a torch to fall on the floor and begin brightly shining into the gloom.

Just another of the many examples of one damned thing after another.

"Imported from Italy," said Ms. Wonder from somewhere in the darkness.

"What?" I said.

"The dresser," she said. "Imported from Italy. Now turn the light on before you break it."

Well, I don't need to tell you that I didn't like the way things were lining up. I'm an innocent man, I thought. I only came in to wish her good night, I thought. And yet here we were nit-picking again. 

But taking three breaths and counting backward from 10, I moved beyond the fray and took the proper steps.

"Sogni stellari, cara mia," I said

"Sogni d'oro," she corrected and that started it all again. I could have let it go but I have this deep need to be understood. I'm not looking for agreement, only understanding. It's a character fault probably, but there it is.

"I mean more than sweet dreams, my love; I mean to wish you stellar dreams, star dreams," I said.

"Don't start," she said

"But it's an important distinction," I said.

"Sure," she said, although not with any real fealing. "Like the eye of the needle thing," she said

"You refer to the 'eye of the needle' as compared to the 'eye of a needle,' I said. "A fitting comparison I suppose." 

I didn't mean that of course. They weren't comparable at all. A camel can't fit through the eye of a needle. Impossible! A lean camel, however, can fit through the gate in the western wall of Jerusalem that was referred to as the 'eye of the needle'. 

"Please," she said, pulling a pillow over her head. "I need to get to sleep."

"I understand fully," I said. "Early to bed and all that." And I meant it but I'd spent some time thinking about the significance of the two blessings and wanted to make sure my intentions of wishing her stellar dreams were understood.

"It's just that sweet dreams are all well and good, as far as they go, but they are limited to the dreams that comfort you like being cuddled in a mother's arms while receiving a kiss on the forehead. But is that all we want from a night's sleep?

"Exactly what I want," she said.

"But sogni stellari, oh my!" I said. "Sogni stellari is so much more. Star dreams are the visionary dreams, the larger-than-life dreams, the dreams that motivate us to our higher calling. We wake, not just to another day but to an open vista calling us to soar higher than ever before. Don't you want to soar when you wake?"

"No, I just want to go to sleep."

"Oh," I said, "well, goodnight then."

"Umph," she said, and then if I have learned anything about her at all, she was no longer with us but drifting somewhere out in slumberland.

Oh, it's nice enough if that's what she wants but as for me, give me sogni stellari y salsa di pomodoro! And I wish you no less, my friend. See you tomorrow and we shall soar!

A Beautiful Day

The morning awoke to bright happy skies over Brunswick Forest and cheery sunshine spread across its stately trees and open meadows, its rolling parks, and its flowering gardens. The lagoons reflected the Carolina blue of the sky. Resident ducks happily paddled around their soon-to-be nurseries and resident dogs happily pulled their human pets through the environs with jaunty steps and pleasant dispositions.

I've always felt that morning is the canvas on which nature paints its masterpiece and this particular morning did not disappoint. It's important on a day like this to pay close attention to what's happening outside one's head. Only in that way can the day remain fresh and bright.

My stroll around Brunswick Forest can be relied upon to get the day off to a good start and then a cup of steaming Jah's mercy from the local beanery helps to give momentum to the joyful beginnings.

Now, I'm not absolutely certain of the original source, but I think the odds are in favor of it being one of Shakespeare's gags, that just as one is thinking It's a wonderful world, the Fate sisters are waiting around the corner with a bit of lead pipe.

It's widely known among friends, that where others fall victim to subterfuge and misdirection, I take immediate action! Catherine I of Russia did the same I'm told. And so it was with me the work of an instant to get myself to Native Grounds for a steaming cup of fresh brewed. 

I hoped to find my god-niece Lupe and her roommate Claudia among those present and enjoying the globally grown but locally roasted. They were there. It was beginning to look like a beautiful day for the duration.

For those of you who visit The Circular Journey daily, you will understand just how juicy the day had become when I tell you that when finding the two members of the inner circle waiting for me, Princess Amy began singing the Louis Armstrong version of What A Wonderful World.

I consider Lupe, a young geezer of fifteen years, to be my most trusted confidant and advisor. You may think her a bit young to fill such an important role but I've learned that by the age of eleven or twelve women have acquired a poise and understanding of the absurdities of life that men can only hope to achieve somewhere in their mid-seventies.

And this Lupe is one of the masters. I doubt she's ever encountered a charging rhinoceros, and probably will never have the pleasure, but if she did, I have no doubt the animal, under her steadfast gaze, would stop in mid-stride, roll over, and begin purring with its legs in the air.

"Hello, Genome," said Claudia, "join us."

"Wow," said Lupe, "you look like something the dog dragged in and intended to bury later on when it had the time."

"And a bright good morning to the both of you," I said. "And Lupe I'm going to take your remark as one of those friendly little jabs that we sometimes cough up to those we love the most."

"Okay," she said.

"I'll order coffee now," I said, "and give you two time to prepare yourselves to counsel and advise. I'm tied in a Gordian knot and need a little unraveling. It seems that every day I know less and less about more and more."

"What's the knot?" asked Claudia.

"It's about a decision I have to make," I said, "and there are very good consequences and potentially uncomfortable consequences no matter which option I choose."

"Oh, good," said Claudia.

"Good?" I said. "Would you call it good?"

"Oh look," Lupe said, "Don't overthink it." To paraphrase Shakespeare, If you're going to do a thing, you might as well do it now and get it over with."

"But it seems the most prudent thing to do would be to make a list of the pros and cons and see how the thing adds up," I said.

"Nope," she said.

"Nope?" I said.

"When young people face life-changing choices, they do it with their entire future ahead of them. Their decision can be made without anxiety and trepidation. 

But when someone old, like you," and at this juncture in the monologue she gave me a sidelong glance as if to see how I was taking it. She continued, "When someone old is faced with an uncomfortable choice, the mixture of future and past only makes knowing what to do all that more difficult."

 

"So you're saying I should stop analyzing and just get on with it," I said.

"Yeah," she said, "and if it doesn't work out, you can feel confident in changing your mind and trying something else. Simple"

"Simple for you maybe," I said. "I understand your point, and I suppose I approve in principle, the broad, general idea."

"Well, there you go then," said Claudia.

"But when it comes to actually doing the thing," I said, "the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak."

"I understand," said Lupe.

"Yeah," said Claudia, "the same thing bothered Hamlet. But don't worry about it," she said. "Life is too short."

"Yeah," said Lupe. "So get going is my advice. I think Aunt Maggie said it best when she said, Once more unto the breach, or fill up the wall with our spent coffee grounds. Yoicks! Tally-ho! Hark for'ard!"

Over my head. Every bit of it. She had a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye when she said it so I assume there's hidden meaning. If it has any meaning for you, leave a comment below.

The only bit I got was the bit about get going and when this young savant says get going, you get going.

Still, I wasn't in a cheery mood as I made my way out into the great wide open. It was only with some small satisfaction that I realized the street was fairly empty. Only one long, dark sedan cruised slowly up Castle Street with the volume turned up to about an 8 on the Richter Scale.