Going to the Dogs: Meet My Muses

Today, my blog is going to the dogs.

In a wild departure from the norm, I'm not going to talk about writing at all. I'm going to yammer on about the dogs that make my life worthwhile.

I'm only half joking when I say my dogs are my muses. Their quiet energy (they sleep most of the time while I'm writing) and their tangible warmth (at any given time, at least one of them is laying on my feet) stokes the creative coals. I create better, plot better, and write better when they are around.

And if, perchance, the Muse should prescribe a nap -- you know, for story purposes -- well, they're more than happy to crawl up on the couch with me for a little snooze.

WunderGuy & I & our first 2 Dals.

When WunderGuy and I were first married, we lived in a house that had the approximate square footage of a midsize Buick. No dogs allowed. I found a way to get a horse, which I kept at the neighboring farm across the street. I found a way to get a cat. (It followed me home and I kept it. Ssshhh!) But a dog was verboten. I believe my desire for a dog was one of the fundamental reasons we bought our own place. That and wanting a living room larger than a postage stamp.

We had Dalmatians for years. Our first was a 4-year old that needed re-homed NOW! Within a few months of getting him, we also had a Dal puppy whose first owners had quickly realized they were not equipped to raise anything that wasn't stuffed.

In addition to our Dals, we acquired a beautifully bred, show-quality Whippet whose owner died and whose inheriting people gave him to us when we attended the estate sale. Oh, he was lovely! His favorite place to sleep was on his back in the bathtub, with all four legs waving in the air.

Our daughter at 11 months & Bogie at 13 years.

For years the back door to our house didn't have a lock. (We live in the country. Door locks are optional.) For years, it didn't need one. We had something better: we had Barney.

Barney was a full-grown Akita when we got him. He'd lost his family to divorce. His original owner was a fireman who worked 36-hour shifts. He didn't think it was right to leave the dog alone for days, so he came to our place.

Barney was a gentle giant. He weighed well over 120 pounds in his prime.  I had never owned a Northern breed before. I was used to dogs that would actually pay attention to me when I called their names. Not Barney. He was very much his own dog. For the first 3 weeks we had him, I thought he was deaf.

Somehow, we ended up on a Dalmatian rescue list and for years we'd get calls about every spotted dog within 50 miles that needed a home. Our final Dal was Digory, a special needs case. We had 3 dogs at the time, but got a phone call from our vet the day before Thanksgiving that went something like this:

Vet: I've got a stray Dalmatian pup here about 6 months old. Found in a ditch. The person who found him thought he was dead. He's not. Yet. Animal Aid [a local rescue agency] will pay for his vet care, but he needs a home with someone who knows these dogs. Will you take him if he lives?

Me: Uh... N--

Vet: He's a rack of bones. At least 70% underweight, with a bad case of heartworm and road rash. I don't think he's going to live. But if he does--?

And that's how we got Digory. He spent weeks in the vet's office before he could come home. He was a good boy, but had deep seated aggression issues toward other animals. He was fine with the dogs and cats we had when he came, but we were never able to successfully introduce other animals afterward.

Digory lived 12 years. By then, we had a child. I thought "Dalmatians have so much energy. I'm not sure I'm up to handling both a kid and another Dal..."

So, in our infinite wisdom, we acquired a stray part-Pit who showed up at a friend's house. Pits, we discovered, have all the energy of Dalmatians, just without the spots.

River the WunderPit is a lovely 50 lb., brown brindle bundle of energy who never met a plushy squeaky toy she didn't disembowel. She's obsessive to the point of self-destruction. She can play soccer with a horse toy - literally - for hours, and sometimes must have the ball taken away in order to rediscover her brain.

I contend that River was the inspiration for Toothless the Dragon in "How To Train Your Dragon." To press my case, I present Exhibit A:

River & Toothless: Separated at Birth?

While River is "technically" my husband's dog, Kestrel is all mine. We had a lovely, sweet English Mastiff who died of lymphoma when she was only 1 year old. I was distraught. I went to the Humane Society, where Kestrel immediately claimed me as if she'd been waiting for me to get there.

Kestrel: Always ready for something...

Kestrel is like me: very Type A. After the Dalmatian years, I generally prefer my dogs to be bigger and more laid back. Kestrel, and Fate, didn't give a rat's patootie what I preferred. Kestrel is mine. Within a few days of getting her, I did the 3-Day Novel Writing Contest. While recovering from the Swine Flu. (No, I'm not kidding.) She endured it all with me.

There you have it: the dogs that keep me sane, workout with me, are ready for a play break at a moment's notice, and inspire me. They don't care if my writing is great or shoddy. They don't care if people know who I am or like what I write. They are unconditionally accepting; fuzzy purveyors of several of life's critically important Real Deals.

-- Do you have an animal muse that makes your writing time even more enjoyable? If so, contribute your own Ode to them below! 

The Do-It-Yourself Writing Retreat

All summer, I have been not-so-secretly jealous of my writing friends who put their lives on hold to go on a writing retreat. It was hard not to be tinged with the teensiest bit of green when hearing of those who eschewed the demands of parenting, working, and spousing for awhile in order to spend some serious quality time with the creative muse.

One need not escape in order to create.

And then I got to thinking: my thinly veiled envy wasn't because my friends were spending time at the shore, or in the woods, or in the mountains. No. It was the sheer concentrated writing time that I begrudged them.

This realization soon led to another:

If they could do it, goshdangnabbit, so could I.

This inelegant (but motivational) thought led me to create the DIY Writing Retreat. It's amazingly simple. Here's how it works:

• For three consecutive days, I am going to focus primarily on my writing. My family has people in it (other than I) who are capable of cooking. [Note to self: if the cooking tenet proves false, we can easily survive on mac & cheese and takeout pizza during that time, if need be. My muse thrives on carbs.]

• During my retreat, I am more writer than mom, daughter, friend, or spouse. 
• I will not do laundry, run errands, go grocery shopping, weed the garden, troubleshoot relationships, babysit, or talk to telemarketers. 
• I will not answer the phone. 
• I will not muck about on social media sites. 
• I will not feel guilty about this. 
• I will not back down. 
• I. Will. Write.

Because I have access to the mystically magical Net of Inter, I'm going to have New York Times bestselling author Jennifer Crusie be the keynote presenter to kick off my retreat.

You see, several years ago, Crusie wrote an awesome post that was ostensibly about finding an agent, but was more accurately a step-by-step blueprint on How To Discover Your Ideal Writing Career. Addressing the "you can only answer these for yourself" questions and issues raised within that post shall be Item One on my DIY Writing Retreat Schedule.

I'll spend some of my DIY Writing Retreat time focusing on word count.

I'll spend some time focusing on improving specific parts of my craft.

And I'll spend some time plotting and planning so I have a clear vision of where my WIP is headed when I return to the story of my life that's already in progress.

I will not spend time doing research online because I know that the aforementioned Net of Inter exerts a strange and terrible influence over me. I can begin researching ninth century peasant life to add veracity to my story, only to fall down the YouTube rabbit hole, emerging two hours later dazed and addled and laughing hysterically after yet another viewing of Tim Hawkins' Inappropriate Wedding Songs.

I will not spend my time painting my fingernails, or my toenails, or (God forbid!) cleaning my house or my writing studio.

I will not delude myself into believing that 140-character tweets count as writing. My family won't be noshing on takeout so I can fraternize with my Twitter friends.

I fully expect to emerge from the three days of self-imposed exile, disheveled, over-caffeinated and recharged with creative juice, with several thousand as-yet-unwritten words added to my novel in progress. Who knows? If the family can handle one more visit from the Pizza Guy, I may decide to extend my DIY Writing Retreat by another day... Or two.

My 3-day indulgence begins on Monday, August 27. Don't be jealous! Join me from the comfort of your own home, and embark on a #DIYWriting Retreat of your very own.

Photo via www.MorgueFile.com

Why You Shouldn't Be Embarrassed About Your Art

I'm not your average television & movie watcher. Ask anyone -- especially WunderGuy and BFF -- and they'll tell corroborate this. I'm a bit... odd.

For me, watching a movie or TV show is a communal experience a la "Rocky Horror Picture Show" or "MST3000."

I don't always kibbutz, mind you. IMHO, viewing a movie in a theatre that includes actual other people in the audience mandates the STFU rule.

I *can* be quiet. It's just not as much fun. If given the opportunity and a suitably open-minded viewing buddy, I'll comment on the script writing, the character development, and remark on the casting choices. I'm especially adept at offering unsolicited (and generally ignored) advice to the characters.

Something else I do is pay attention to casting. In my next life I'd like to be an intergalactic astronaut. Barring that, I'd like to be a casting director.

I notice when parts are cast well and pay what some would say is an inordinate amount of attention to the bit players. I'm one of those derps who notices when the same group of people start showing up together in movies or in several series -- positing that they all have the same agent who offered a package deal if three or more clients were hired.

When I find an actor or actress I like, I'll go out of my way to watch everything they've done -- with a few exceptions.

(I don't do porn and can't stomach horror. So though I love Matt Bomer, I can't make myself watch Michael Bay's "Texas Chainsaw Massacre," even though it features both Bryce AND Jill from Chuck. I just don't need to see Matt's pretty face torn off.

"Magic Mike," BTW, doesn't "technically" qualify as porn. So, yeah, I'll be there. But I digress...)

I watch so many movies that it's always nice when I find someone new whose work I admire because it generally gives me a whole list of new things to see. I've watched the careers progress of some fabulously talented people that way & found some movies I like that I would never have seen otherwise.

Case in point: "The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe" jumpstarted my James McAvoy obsession (which really never went away -- I think the man is Ah. Maze. Zing.)

Before he was Wanted, he was Leto in Children of Dune.

So I watched everything he'd done up to then, including "Shameless," "Rory O'Shea Was Here," "Children of Dune," and the never-seen-anything-quite-like-it "Strings." All of which I would probably have missed. All of which I now own. All of which introduced me to even more people whose work I admire...

Like, fer instance,  the uber-talented Paul Abbott, whose writing I fangirl-squee *adore.*

When I watch "the early days" of a performer, I'm quite forgiving. I understand that though the raw talent may be there, it sometimes takes time, experience, and resources to hone it into something brilliant. But often, there is still a spark of "WOW" even while the craft is still developing.

That's why I'm always happy when a performer I like breaks out and hits the big time. It generally means that the stuff they did "before they were famous," that's been sitting on the shelf doing no one any good, will finally see the light of day. Not only does it give fans a chance to watch a star develop his or her glow, but it also allows other actors and directors who are still waiting for their break to enjoy some recognition.

For these and other reasons, I get a wee bit chuffed when I try to track down an earlier project of a pre-stellar star and can't find it. It's downright selfish, if you ask me.

The most blatant example of this I've encountered in a while is the director who responded to a fan who contacted him about one of his short films featuring Darren Criss before he went nuclear:

"It's... a film that I'm very embarrassed about having made. So, for now, it'll stay under lock and key. Unless I can convince you to buy it for an amount that will finance my next picture..."

He then attempts to extort $500K! (Frankly, given the number of Criss fans, all the director has to do is run a Kickstarter campaign with copies of the short as incentives to those who donate, and he'd probably raise his half mill.)

I don't understand this kind of thinking. But I am not a director. My friend Paul, who is a director, explained it to me.

"No one in the industry cares about growth. All they want is perfection. Several of my short films that have won awards I would *never* make available," he said. "Online or on-demand. I want people to hire me for major features. Some of the shorts I made were Make-A-Movie-In-72-Hours contest films. I don't want those out there as examples of my work."

"Even if your lead actress suddenly becomes Miss Universe?" I asked.

"Especially then."

I still don't get it. These days, when people feel compelled to post videos of their farting dogs and epic skateboard fails on YouTube, the concept of "being embarrassed" seems as anachronistic as releasing a new EP on 8-track tape. I especially don't understand the mentality of those who are embarrassed by a creative project they once did.

See -- art is never perfect. It's not. Dance. Acting. Music. Writing. There will always be something you could have done to make the piece better. Sometime you will kerfluff a performance altogether. Sometimes you will crash and burn.

But that doesn't mean you should be embarrassed. Even Spielberg has a 1941 to his name. And that's OK.

Thanks to Hollywood and to our judged, televised, talent shows, we have come to the place where we feel compelled to be perfect every time. Which is, of course, impossible. Even if you're Matt. Or James. Or Darren. Or Steven.

No one is perfectly perfect. And the more you insist on your own perfection, the more you will squash your creative muse into a box that is too small, that smells funny, and that stunts its growth. As your skills grow, your art will inevitably change. Hopefully, you will improve. What you create as a mature artist will, quite possibly, eclipse what you do in your early days.

But never let anyone tell you your early work has no merit. You never know: perhaps your raw, unformed talent will speak to some people in ways that the stuff done with mastery and control never could.

In any case: it's art. It's the creative equivalent of your child. Once you've created it, it exists apart from you.

Make no mistake: I'm not suggesting that you shouldn't sweat blood while in the creation phase. By all means, do your best with whatever project you are working on at any given time.
Then set it free. 

Move on, unencumbered by regret or worries about how what you've created reflects upon you. Keep your eyes fixed forward, looking toward your next challenge. Allow what you've done in the past to remain in the past, testifying to how far you've progressed, forming the foundation for the great things to come.

What do you think? Does anything you've created embarrass you? Why or why not? I'd love to know.