That’s her, the one in the Wonder Woman suit.  I always envisioned muses as Greek goddesses– like us –with long flowing robes and one of those round cherubic faces that never ages. 

You know, like us.

:-)  

That’s the kind of muse I’d like to have. 

Unfortunately, I haven’t been very careful about where I get them, and this time, I ended up with a sloppy broad who smokes too much and drinks like a fish and thinks flatulence is funny.  Oh, and she likes to dress up.  She’s worthless!  She makes me work for every nugget—and that’s when she’s not being downright destructive.  She’s been known to whisper things in my ear, like “do you really need to describe the house?  A house is a house, isn’t it?”  Or, “250 pages is a good novel length.  What were you going to put in the other 150 pages anyway?” 

I finally kicked her out the other day. She hadn’t inspired me to anything other than eating, and really, once I thought about it, I realized she hadn’t contributed to anything but the grocery bill all winter.  So the other day when she started in on me with those subliminal reminders that there was a pan of brownies in the kitchen, and maybe if I had one…just one…I could finish the chapter, I said, “That’s IT!  You’re outta here!”

She. Would. Not. Leave.  We wrestled—she’s tough as an old boot—but eventually I shoved her out onto the back porch. That exhausted her, so she lay in the chaise and had a smoke or two and used the pool as her ashtray.  But then she started hovering around the house, peering in the windows and making noises about needing water, or at the very least, a beer.  Then she just got nasty and started calling me names I will not repeat here.  And finally—finally—she faded away like all my other bad muses. 

Which means I am currently museless.  Some people panic with the muse deserts them, but not me!  I love getting a new muse, because I find them between pages of good books and in the frames of good movies, or on my iPod when I am on the treadmill.  It is amazing how just a little bit of creative input will suddenly kick-start your brain into thinking.  Ideas that have been knocking around in my head start to blossom like magic mushrooms.  And better still, no one is calling me names.

The trick is being careful about where you get your muse.  When you see a slob poking her head around the corner whispering wouldn’t a glass of wine relax you and help you think, or, hey, let’s knock off and go for a swim to clear the cobwebs, my advice is to run, because pretty soon she’ll be smoking in your house and lying around with the zapper in one hand and a Bud in the other. When that happens, get rid of her and pick up a good book instead.

What’s your muse?  What’s your favorite go-to book or movie when you need a little pick me up?  How many songs do you have on your iPod, and just for me, because I fired my muse and need more inspiration, who was the last artist you put on your iPod?

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My name is Nicole. And I must come clean with my fellow goddesses.

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I’m an addict.

Of list-making.

I can’t help it.

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I make lists for everything. They’re everywhere. They’re on my refrigerator. On my nightstand. They’re in my purse. And in my suitcase. They’re on hot pink sticky notes and on lime green ones. They’re on legal-size sheets, and they’re on index cards. They greet me each morning when I look in the mirror and when I walk into my office to start work. I can’t leave the house without one; I can’t go to bed without making one. They comfort me; they frustrate me. I like to cross things off my lists; I like to add things to them.

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In addition to the usual (the grocery list, the honey-do list, the do-today list, the do-sometime list, the round-tuit list), I make lists for everything else:

• Quirky traits I discover in real people that I might want to give characters on the page.
• Creative terms for certain body parts that come to me when I turn out the lights at night (the terms come; not the body parts… at least on my lists) – words to use instead of throbbing member, glistening head, tingling bud.
• Fabulous plot ideas for scenes in yet-to-be-written books so I won’t forget by the time I finally get around to writing them.
• Arguments I want to make when I’m mad at someone and need ammunition to bolster my case (my dh, car service technician, TV cable company).
• Things I need to take with me when I go out to the barn to ride my horse.
• Things to think about while I’m away from the computer.
• Things I need to bring back from the barn after I ride my horse.
• Things that go in my suitcase when I fly to Atlanta for my critique group meeting.
• Things to say to my editor when we talk.
• Things not to stay to my editor when we talk. (Things like, “I’ve only just begun,” and “Why in blazes did the &#*$ marketing department do that?”)
• A list of the lists I wanted to list when I wrote this blog.

I ask myself the source of the addiction, and here’s what I’ve come up with:

I’m in my own little world. I’m writing 24/7. While I’m watching a movie, eating dinner, chatting with friends. The story is on a continuous loop in my head. The characters are always speaking. In good moments, they’re making love. To survive (and enjoy the good stuff, like those love scenes), I’ve got to organize the rest of my life.

With lists.

I need an intervention.

Do you have an addiction of your own, or do you share mine?

Are you a list-maker? Can you help me? Can you list the ways?

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My name is Rachel Gibson and I am a shoe-aholic. It started in the fourth grade with my first pair of white patent leather go-go boots. Once I felt them on my legs, and listened to the sound of the heels as I walked the playground at Longfellow Elementary School, I was hooked. In junior high, while other girls babysat and earned money for things like cars or college tuition, I bought shoes.

Always.

My husband doesn’t understand my obsession, but that’s okay. I don’t understand his obsession with fishing. It’s either cold or hot, depending on the time of year, and smelly. When my husband points to my closet overflowing with pumps and wedgies as reasons why I don’t need another pair of shoes, I open the freezer and point to the frozen schools of fish.

To me, shoes are works of art that make a statement about the person wearing them.  I like my statement to have a little flash. I think boring shoes are a tragedy of cataclysmic proportions. And yes, I know that Crocs are comfy and all that, but I just have to cover my mouth and shake my head.

My mother is also a huge shoe freak, but her true passion is collecting anything Betty Boop. She’s one of those ladies you see walking around in Betty Boop T-shirts, jackets, pants and carrying a Boop purse.  She has an entire room in her house devoted to Betty, which makes buying her gifts easy . . . or at least it used to.  She’s about to turn seventy, and a year ago I took a good look at the Boop room and it hit me like a slap up side the head that I was going to inherit all that Betty crap . . . ah stuff, one of these days.

I think everyone should have a passion, be it shoes, fishing or collecting memorabilia. Something that gets us all excited and brightens our day.

So what’s your passion? What makes a statement about your inner Goddess?

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I am a creature of the night.  No, not a vampire.  (Sorry, this isn’t a vampire blog, although I’ll throw in a purely gratuitous pic of Mr. Pitt just ‘cause I’m nice.)    I’m not even one of those weird ballerina dudes from that Laura Branigan video back in the 80’s.  Okay, now I’m a dated creature of the night, LOL.  Oh, please – you know you remember it, too.  And if you don’t, go google it.  That song still sticks in my head from time to time, oh-oh-OH, oh-oh-OH.   But I digress, which I often do.

The truth is, I work better at night.  I’m not even sure why I try to work in the daytime.  I can sit in front of my computer all day long, then round about eleven p.m., the creative juices finally start to flow.  So what is your problem, you ask.  Just work at night, you say.   You don’t have a day job anymore, so you can sleep anytime you want.  Ha.  This shows what little you know.  I can work all night, see the family off to school and stumble into bed, but then …. sunlight happens.  It’s inevitable, I suppose.  I live in the Sunshine State (which incidentally gets less sunlight than many other states, but that’s a different blog).  And even if I weren’t a Florida resident (ha! no state income tax!) the sun comes up.  Every dang day.  And it’s bright.  And when it’s bright, I can’t sleep.

So wear a little mask, you say.  Stop whining, you say.  Okay, fine.  Even if it were dark, then there are the CALLS.   Sometimes it’s friends.  I love you, friends J.  I love to talk to you.  But not when I’ve been up all night.  Sometimes it’s telemarketers (ominous music).  I always feel like I have to be polite.  My husband just tells them we’re dead.  Have you no shame? he’ll thunder and the telemarketers scurry away, tails between their legs.  Figuratively.  I imagine none of them really have tails.  Horns perhaps, but not tails.  But I digress again.

The point is, there are CALLS.  So ignore them, you say.  Let the machine pick them up.  HA.  Shows how much you know.  Maybe they’re IMPORTANT calls, like the school saying my daughter has a toothache or I just won ten million dollars from the lottery.  Oh wait.  I never enter the lottery, so scratch that (ha, no pun intended). 

The point is, the rest of the world doesn’t function at night, so if you wish to be a part of the real world, you will be awake during the core hours of 8 – 4.   It’s a crummy spot in which to be.  I’ve tried to train my brain to be productive during the core hours and sleep during the night, but my brain is willfully uncooperative.  But I think you must know that by now.  Keeping on task is, at times, like herding cats, thoughts wigging all over the darn place.

The best answer of course, would be to sleep at night and work during the core hours of  8 - 4 when everybody else functions.  So … what’s a creature of the night to do? 

1. Cut down on caffeine.  See illustrative pic of TAB cola. Yes, they still make it.  We drink a lot of TAB in our house.  Remember the girl coming out of the water?  (Real cola taste/Just one calorie).  Didn’t you want to be her when you were 14?  Oh, no, dated again.  Um … Next!
2. Get a comfier bed so I can sleep in the night.  Maybe.
3. Treatment for Adult ADD? No, because I don’t really have an attention deficit disorder.  Besides, when I’m not trying to sleep, I like the percolator that is my brain.  Keeps me company.
4. Experts say to “set a time to worry and plan.”  Oh, for Pete’s sake.  If you can’t sleep because you’re worrying, setting an earlier time to worry (during the core hours of 8 – 4) just gives you bonus worry time.  Who are those “experts” trying to kid, anyway?  But then, they’re the same ones saying to cut down on caffeine, so what do they really know?
5. Keep a stock of really boring videos.

Any suggestions for other ways to combat creature-of-the-night syndrome?  Or at least any boring videos?

Oh, and any responsible medical professionals out there – I know I should cut down on caffeine.  Don’t even bother.   Other responsible medical professionals have tried.

So are you a creature of the night, or does your brain march to the beat of the “core hours” drummer?  If you are a creature of the night, how do you function with the “day people”?  And is that Laura Branigan song in your head or not?  Oh-oh-OH, oh-oh-OH.

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Book Snobs? Isn’t that a bit harsh? I mean, just because I was taught in the 2nd grade that books are our friends, our wonderful, but defenseless friends and that they deserve our protection and care so that they will live to bring joy to others forever doesn’t make me a Book Snob. I prefer to think of myself as a Book Bodyguard. Once they’re mine, they’re under my protection for life. Loaning them is not on the agenda. Does the bodyguard loan out his client for a bit of potential roughing up? I think not.

I’ve noticed that there are lots of hidden differences between those who count themselves friends. Hidden loyalties to certain ideas and preferences that can put a strain on a relationship beyond being what I think I can fairly call a Book Killer.

It goes way beyond books. I’ve recently made the move from a PC to an Apple. At this early stage in my defection, I can see no middle ground between these two camps. Apple people scoff at PCers and PC-users think that Mac Maniacs have their mouses up where the sun…you get the idea. As a person who thinks of computers as a necessary evil, I don’t have a dog in this fight. I fully expect that to change. No middle ground, right?

Coke or Pepsi.
Nutrasweet or Splenda.
Reality TV or sit coms.
Tasty vegetables or beets.

We have a tradition of choosing sides in this country, a proud position of preferences we will argue into the ground and defend until the commercial’s over. I know I will fight to the death before I ever let a beet touch my lips. How about you? What’s your preference?

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I made a startling discovery at an early age, when my younger brother and I had a conversation that went something like this:

“You can’t borrow my book,” he said. “You always break the spine.”

“The what?”

“That part on the end that holds all the pages together.”

“How could I break it? The book is really thick there. Let me show you . . .”

“Mom!” And he ran screaming from the room.

At that moment, I realized three things:

1) Apparently, breaking a book’s spine is A Bad Thing

2) I didn’t care

3) My brother was a tad uptight about his possessions

And that meant that my brother was (still is) a Book Snob. He reads a book half-open to preserve the spine, uses a bookmark (I do that only when they’re handy), and occasionally even keeps books in plastic sleeves.

A Book SLOB, on the other hand, is . . . well . . . me. I dog-ear pages, use books as coasters, and accidentally drop them into tubs. I don’t own plastic book sleeves. I have been known (gasp!) to leave a book lying open face-down. It seems this is bad for the spine (what is the big deal about book spines, I ask you?).

I know what you’re about to say: “How would you feel if we treated one of YOUR books like that?” Repeat after me. I. Don’t. Care. For me, a well-worn book is a well-loved book. If you loved my book enough to carry it into the tub with you, for me that’s a compliment. The books I own are all well-loved. Beat-up, but well-loved. Some people (and goddesses) destroy the thing they love. Apparently, I am one of them.

So, which are you, Book Slob or Book Snob? And do you ever loan out your books?

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I became a writer because of Han Solo. Now this is only the first of many blogs in which I will likely mention Star Wars, because my love for the saga — especially the “classic” movies — is deep and obsessive, but more on that later. I’d actually always planned on being a writer, though my brain didn’t form that into an actual statement until after I’d read Born Free and In the Shadow of Man in the fifth and sixth grade.

I was going to Africa. I would camp in a tent and take notes on the animals I saw there, and then use my portable manual typewriter to translate my notes into a bestselling nonfiction novel. I didn’t practice on local birds or cats or dogs or anything, because that would have been, well, boring. Neither did I want to waste the great words and presumably limited number of words I had stored up on Snoopy, my salt-crazy Dachshund.

And then I watched a particular episode of Wild Kingdom, one about the world’s deadliest snakes. Apparently at the time most of them were considered to be in Africa. My Africa, dammit all. Like Indiana Jones, I don’t like snakes. I can’t help it.

Anyway, a year or so later, I went to the movies with my family and saw, yes, Star Wars for the first time. This was before it was Episode IV, before it had the subtitle of A New Hope. It was just Star Wars. And it blew me away.

I read a great deal as a kid and a teenager, stacks of books on loan from the library. Fiction, non-fiction, science fiction, romance, history – you name it, I read it. But nothing hit me like Star Wars. And no character in Star Wars hit me like Han Solo. I wanted to create a guy like that – cocky, cool, a little less sure of himself than he’d like other people to know. Then I realized that the key point in all this was the word CREATE. I could make it up. No snakes in a tent for me, bub.

Many, many years later, all that making up of things (some might call it creative lying) finally paid off. Two Regency romances, thirteen Historical romances, two anthologies, and three Contemporary Romantic Suspenses later, and I made a second discovery. Saving up my words for that one perfect novel was silly. My brain does feel emptied out from time to time, but it gets refilled. And if I get worried about that, all I have to do is pop my Star Wars dvd (either the original version or the special edition or the extra special edition) in and spend two hours getting re-inspired.

Do you write? Do you have someone or something in particular that lit that spark or that continually inspires you? Do you think Han Solo is just the coolest hero ever?

Suzanne Enoch

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Hello to our fellow readers, authors, and goddesses!

It’s a known fact that true love can lift you in many ways. Our love of books has lifted us out of the laundry room, the board room and the elementary school auditorium all the way to gorgeous Mt. Olympus where we are all goddesses!

Welcome to thegoddessblogs.com. We’re a group of romance and romantic suspense writers who decided to sponsor our own forum (note: ‘forum’ is a Greek word!) to chit, chat, and discuss life, love, and (of course) books. We welcome you, our goddess sisters, and hope you’ll make us a daily stop!

Here, we’ll even wait a few moments while you bookmark this page . . .

(imagine Jeopardy theme music here)

Now you’re hooked up for some true quality goddess time. Mt. Olympus is a lovely, happy, idyllic place. We won’t ask you to stand on your head, wear a toga (unless you want to — they’re really quite comfy!), or speak Greek (unless you decide to use the word ‘forum’ in a sentence — that would be ok), but we WILL ask you to share your love of books and life!

So help yourself to a glittering margarita goblet, recline with us upon our couches of gold, float away on the scent of incense and myrrh (what is myrrh, anyway? I hope it doesn’t smell like sausage.) and let’s chat about what’s what!!

WELCOME TO THEGODDESSBLOGS.COM!!!

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