I have been mulling over the creative process. Even as I write the words — creative process – I question if process is the right word. Doesn’t process imply some sort of an organized, linear procedure? I don’t know about you, but in my experience, creativity comes randomly and usually at the least opportune times. Many ideas appear in the shower. Pencils and paper don’t fare well under a steady hot stream. Paper, particularly, turns to mush. How do I know? I won’t say, but trust me I do know.

There are also those middle of the night inspirations, the ones where the GREATEST ideas in the world come. All of them, without exception, are atomized by morning mist. Nighttime inspirations, like vampires, can’t endure daylight, so I started taking a pad and pencil to bed. I’d place them conveniently on the nightstand beside me. Sure enough, I got one of those amazing insights and this time, since I was ready, I clicked the pen top and wrote it down — very precisely — letter-by-letter. Now I could return to sleep with full knowledge that the idea, unlike an uncaptureable lightning bolt, was  secured safely in ink.

I was so excited the first time I did it. I woke up anxious to read the revelation given to me so I could change the world. It said, “Hi goberdobink.” Hi goberdobink, was that it? Was goberdobink my precious gift from my subconscious? This was my great revelation? I could have cried, but I didn’t. After all, I reasoned, this was my first attempt; no one gets it right on the first try. Be patient and it will get better. That is what I said to myself to rally the ol’ gumption drive inside.

It’s a funny thing about writers; we use words to talk people into believing the most outrageous things. We can convince them of the existence of time travel, other worlds, and fantastic beings.  Instead of hating us for deceiving them, the better we are at weaving beautiful invisible fabric out of air, the more respected we become. Isn’t that amazing? If you make up stuff in a court of law, you go to jail. If you make up stuff and write it down, people will praise you for it, but only if you do it well.

Where’s the danger? We all know the danger. The writer who comes to believe that their imaginary creations are real, is ready for a fall. Can you say cuckoo?

Stephen King, for example, can, and does, create horror out of the most benign things. In the book, Thinner, a berry pie became a terrifying sinister object. How does Stephen King maintain equilibrium when even dust bunnies (from Delores Claiborne) are malevolent? Wouldn’t you think that he would be as neurotic as hell? He must see evil intent in everything.

Speaking of Stephen King, his book On Writing, which by-the-way isn’t frightening, unless your dreams of equaling his achievements leave you dangling over a cliff when you realize where you are in comparison. But enough about me. In the book he writes about finding your muse. His, apparently, is a cigar chomping little guy who flies around his desk and taunts him. Mine is an impatient, flirtatious nymph I call Fickle Jenny. I even wrote a poem about her:

Fickle Jenny

by Bill Ruesch

Fickle Jenny, she’s my muse,

wakes me up when I try to snooze.

If I take a shower, she barges in,

at the oddest times creates a din.

“Write it down!” she shouts at me.

“OK Jenny, can’t you see

I’m up to my neck in crocodiles?

Goodness, Jen you’re such a trial.”

“Yes, but you love me anyway.”

If I don’t act now, she doesn’t stay.

That great idea like grain of sand is

forever scattered on a stretch of land.

Once it’s gone, it won’t come back.

It’s not like you slide it in stack

and wait for a more convenient time

when you’re ready to start the mine.

What was that gem that Jenny brought?

Too late kid, what was — is not.

I can beat my head until it hurts,

wring my hands like laundered shirts.

“Too slow, pal, you had your chance.

This Jenny-girl has gotta’ dance.”

She disappears without a sigh

and takes my idea to some other guy!