Mi Papa y Yo
I'm a runner. Did you know? I guess I keep it pretty much to myself. I think I've mentioned it on the blog once or twice before.
It doesn't have anything to do with my writing. Well, except that it's my one source of inspiration that never quits until I do. I have a favorite loop that runs about eight and a half miles around and back home. When I was working on my query for Drats! that's where the hook came from. Later, when I had the chance to pitch to an agent in person, that's where I practiced my pitch.
Yep, out loud. I practiced for 6 or 7 miles, repeating it over and over until my pauses were more for effect than for the fact that I forgot the next line. I went through it by the rhythm of my gait, feet rolling, people staring. It was so worth it. My delivery wasn't perfect, but at least I didn't feel totally unprepared.
Now that I'm working on a new story, I'm using the 8-mile-loop to brainstorm details, plots and subplots, credible motives--all the stuff that evades me as I stare into the white screen of Word. And though it's hard to focus on story when my knees ache and the street swoops upward in a never-ending, gradual climb, this is prime time for my subconscious to seep into my consciousness.
The ideas don't enter in a straight line. It's more like chaos. But my brain stores the chaos in its own way and when I sit here in my computer chair with a word count goal, the story unfolds. It's amazing the details I remember, from crisp leaves chasing me to the color of the ghost in the woods haunting an entire town. The ideas are all there, and they wouldn't be if not for my muse: the noisy quiet of the sidewalk going puth, puth, puth--my own inner metronome manifest on concrete.
If only I could find a way to get these results minus the sunburn. No muse is perfect.