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OUT OF THE OOZE
by
LUGH
Please understand that what I'm about to share with you is a personal
experience. It isn't based on any research, nor is it scientifically
sound; take it with a grain of salt. Better yet, save the salt. You may
very well need it when you get to "The End."
I've heard authors speak repeatedly about their muses. They have to
coax them into sharing the juicy tidbits of a story or bribe them with
chocolates or other treats. Now, most people speak of their muses as
female. I can just see them now; obese fairies wearing too much make up
and not enough clothing sitting on someone's shoulder yammering away
about trivial things until someone opens the box of bon-bons.
This got me to thinking about my own muse one day and what a little
whore he was. Yes, I said "he." I didn't want a whore of a muse... so I
must confess, I took the self-centered son of a bitch, bashed his head
in, and then drowned him in the primordial ooze that is my imagination.
I never felt better.
However, I then realized I had a problem. All the writing books
addressed the muse in one way or another. I didn't want my muse back,
but I needed to find a way to tap into that creative aspect.
Luckily for me, at about this time, I was taking a class in college on
psychology. If you've been to college, I'm sure you've had the same
class. How the mind works, the ego, id, super-ego... sound familiar?
Well, I was pondering this one evening in the manner of many great
writers, and I decided a few things. Other people may've come across
these ideas before, but if they have, I haven't read them. If they
haven't, well, maybe it's because they haven't murdered their muse--yet.
The thoughts whizzing around my mind that night centered on two things:
the part the muse played in a writer's life, and the role of the
internal editor. With enough Poesque prompting, I finally determined
that these two figments of a writer's imagination were just that --
figments of the imagination. Granted, the writer gave them voice and
shape based on several different factors not limited to mythology,
gender, age, and most importantly, the writer's own psyche.
My mind wrapped around this and danced with it. I could see the three
separate psychological parts and their functions: the id often
manifests as the muse, and the super-ego as the internal-editor. Why?
Because the id only wants what it wants, when it wants it. Doesn't that
describe most of the muses you've met? And the super-ego is our compass
of right and wrong -- the good, the bad, and the ugly. Sound familiar?
It was a profound moment. I'd discovered that the muse and internal
editor that authors so often gripe about were nothing more than a
manifestation of my subconscious given form by my imagination. The two
things that define many a beginning writer's struggling efforts were
only the writer's own inner voice. While these two manifestations are
necessary to the author, they don't necessarily have to take the
predetermined form.
With this in mind, and now knowing that the muse was only a figment of
my imagination, I took a mind trip to discover this font within myself.
Little did I know what I was in for...
Tramping through the recesses of one's own mind is not recommended for
those who don't want to come face to face with what they have been, for
there is a place deep within each person where the imagination exists;
a vast swamp of ideas bubbling to the surface through all the person's
life experiences -- the good and the bad. I believe that as humans, we
are hunters and gatherers. As an author, I am a hunter and gatherer of
stories. It bubbles forth from time to time, mixing all the person's
life experiences, creating a sort of primordial ooze where all the
elements of good fiction reside. At other times, though, the ooze must
be poked and stirred for the right mix to come together.
When I first stumbled across mine, I didn't recognize it. The ground
squelched up between my toes with dark fluids and sharp bladed grasses
protected the more vulnerable areas. Huge trees had grown and fallen,
left to rot where they lay. Amid all this, a pool of murky water roiled
with random bubbles and the slithering movements of creatures I dared
not to guess at. My first thought was that I should be afraid of this
place, but I was more curious than afraid of what might be there,
hidden in the depths.
I found a half rotted tree that lay partially in the water and sat on
its trunk, pondering what I had found. This fetid place wasn'tt at all
what I'd expected. Imagining myself as a Hunter in this dreary place
wasn't difficult. Bubbles popped on the surface of the pool, and a
spear formed in my hand. Recalling the meaning of Primordial Ooze, the
beginnings of life... I took my spear and I stirred the Ooze, watching
it carefully for signs of life, knowing that anything could come forth,
prepared for battle.
Deep within the Ooze, the elements came together and Plot formed. It
took shape and substance and began to make its way out of the Ooze,
leaving a trail of slime behind.
At first, I did not see it, for it was small. A tiny Plot Slug almost
not worthy of my attention, although I was seeking it. I watched it as
it struggled up from the turbid pool and slimed across the more firm
ground near my foot. The slime it left behind was shiny, more so than
it should have been in this dark place. I couldn't help reaching out
and touching it. When I did, images filled my mind. This slug had a
story to tell. I gasped in disbelief. My imagination was this foul
pool? I followed, writing as I went.
It could be an interesting story, if only I could find the Slug. The
trail crossed itself several times over before I caught the now
fattened Plot Slug and speared him to the ground. He was mine! He would
be written! I built a fire and slowly roasted the Slug to making sure I
got all of his juicy secrets. At his screams, his followers crawled out
of the Ooze. Characters... I had characters. Exhilarated, I netted them
and bound them to nearby trees. They will talk, oh, how they will talk.
I began to write more furiously; I now had dialogue.
Over the fire, the Plot Slug spat and popped. With every layer of skin,
a new twist showed itself. I cackled with glee. Soon, very soon, the
climax came. The Slug, resilient as ever, had survived all the way
through. The characters hung their heads for they had told all, and I
had written down every word. Then I came the decision… did I want a
sequel?
I looked at the slug. Should I decide 'yes', I would have to toss him
back into the Ooze to let him heal and grow some more, and should I
decide 'no'… well, you did remember to bring the salt, didn't you?
Copyright © 2004, A. MacFey. All
rights reserved.
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