I’m walking my way back to writing.

It takes at least a few miles of footsteps for my cluttered mind to relax, to stop thinking about my mother’s impending move to assisted living, to stop dreading the spreadsheet I need to turn in, to stop nagging myself about the work I need to find — and all the rest. But once I’ve put in the miles, I start to think like a writer again. I ponder a story line. Titles pop into my head for articles. A revision outlines itself to me.

I wonder about the connection I’m discovering between moving feet and inspiration. The long-distance walking began as physical exercise. I felt the need to get stronger and get leaner. At first, a mile or two seemed enough. Sometimes a trot, sometimes a stroll. I pushed up to three miles, then longer. I’ve been in a phase of life where I’ve been helping relatives heal from injuries and family relocate. My husband and I sold our home in another city to move closer to our aging mothers, but never really decided what came next for us. With all the uncertainty, I couldn’t get myself to write. Anything.

Then ideas started floating across my consciousness after about an hour into a walk. I stretched the walking to five miles. One day, near the end of a walk, I could see a change I needed to make in a draft. One day last week, I even logged in 10 miles musing about a couple articles I want to write before my feet told my brain it was time to stop. It’s no coincidence that I’m sitting at the computer writing this — yesterday it came to me at about mile four that I’d found my Muse again.

She’d just been waiting down the road a bit, and I had to get moving again before I could see her.

I stopped writing fiction several years ago. I no longer saw the point of writing stories that weren’t being read by many people. I told myself I’d try my hand at writing fiction again when a story struck me that demanded to be written–but the inspiration I was waiting for didn’t strike.

Then a couple years ago, I happened across a short article about National Novel Writing Month. The organizers said they expected a few hundred thousand people to try their hand at writing a novel in a month. Impossible, I thought. Ridiculous.

But I found myself thinking about that article late on October 31, long after I’d given out the last of our Halloween candy. What if I tried to write a novel in November? With no expectation of publication. No literary illusions. No story plotted out. It was a liberating idea. The next day I joined the ranks of NaNoWriMo-ers.

Recently, I wrote my own brief piece about National Novel Writing Month. It starts like this: Continue reading »

It’s time for the Muses’ muses to kick in.

We’ve had to rethink our original plans with the departure of one of the Founding Muses on a world tour. The two remaining Resident Muses are busy looking for new venues where we can host our workshops (and, eventually, our retreats.) Feel free to send your ideas our way.

Before too long (we promise), we’ll be announcing some in-person events in this space. In the meanwhile, we’re looking for contributions to this website. What feeds your Muse? What’s the spark behind something you’re created? Where do you find inspiration? Please send your submissions tojody@feedingthemuse.com.

P.S. This muse picture comes from a black-light mural in Adams Morgan. Have any “a-muse-ing” pix to share with us?

Feeding the Muse got its start in Carrington House, an 1827 stone building in the Bluemont, Virginia. For the first 100 years of its existence, it was home to one of Loudoun County’s earliest taverns. Later it became a popular boarding house and, this year, it inspired a collaboration between kindred spirits.

Just behind Carrington House, on the other side of a meandering stream, sits an old log cabin surrounded by woodland at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains. In 1825, villagers in what was then called Snickersville set out to erect a public building that could serve as a school, church and community gathering spot. The log cabin they built, the Snickersville Academy, still stands in the heart of the village, today’s Bluemont. One hundred and eighty-six years of weathering have taken a toll. The iconic pre-Civil War building can’t be used again until it is restored. Continue reading »