Writing

When I think of writing I always envision the actual process of putting words to paper. The blinking cursor on the screen followed by a trail of letters and the steady click of the keys, as my fingers dance in rhythm with the mind running full gallop across the bounds of my imagination. Writing birthed by words.

However, like any birth, the process doesn’t actually begin there. Rarely have I ever just sat down at my desk, opened a document and started typing. An idea has to be on fire (usually too fearful of being lost) for me to be able to skip the ritualized process of consulting the muses and heading straight to print. And did I mention my muses require romancing?

Enter the other arts, stage left please. They all affect the way I write. The actor whose voice and mannerisms I just can’t seem to shake, the book which encouraged me to not only enter their world, but to create my own, and the artist whose painting not only inspired a background but left a palette for my mind to play with. Yet no other art medium can touch me the way music can. Of all the arts, it is the workhorse I rely upon.

Music has become part of the birth process, propelling me forward into the labyrinth where writer and story merge. With it I can manipulate my mood, allowing access to a variety of emotions within seconds. It also has the ability to heighten my focus, forcing the muse to dance, and dance some more with the tiny flick of the continuous play button. Not to mention the benefit of sound keeping other distractions at bay.

When sitting down at my desk selecting my musical accompaniment is the first step of my process. I then open the document and let the pages breathe. The cursor needs time to blink while I play a game of computer solitaire. (Or a few. Some may call this procrastination. I call it getting into the right mindset.) Once my mind has turned into the appropriate amount of mush and the cursor appears good and mad, blinking with such taunting insolence that I feel I have no choice but to silence it with the continual rush of keystrokes, the story swallows me. The process is then complete.