Writing about Writing: The Muse and Music

"The muse; she speaks through me. I am but a humble servant."

Inspiration can come from the most unusual places, even on episode 2 of Better Call Saul season 2, when actor Bob Odenkirk's character Jimmy/Saul comes up with a wild excuse to shake off the police from his client with a strange concept: that he's a "Squat Cobbler."

You'll have to watch the show to find out what that means. In the meantime, here's a rumination on the volley of inspirational essays and other sources that have filled up my days and nights, days and nights that should have been filled with writing. But I have excuses, plenty of them, and none of them have anything to do with Squat Cobbling.

Awesome Mix Tape: Music for Reading

Music plays an integral part in the story of Guardians of the Galaxy, and it also plays an integral part in my writing, which should be obvious, since my last two novels use classic song titles.

In this great comic Book Resources article, the director James Gunn, screenwriter and actors share how the '60s and '70s songs are not just played in the movie and trailers, but part of the story.

You can "watch"er, listen to the full soundtrack, "Awesome Music Mix #1" on YouTube. It includes some of the most awesome songs ever. Billboard says it's understandably topping its soundtrack list.  (Here's another version.)

As I watched Guardians of the Galaxy for the second time, in a different theatre (and in 2D, for a change), I was particularly amused by a group of young boys seated behind me and a friend. While often movie and theatre experiences have been nearly ruined by talking audience members –I seem to have annoyance bad karma– this time, the kids' whispers and giggles were totally enjoyable. Their enthusiasm was infectious, and the mother of one or more boys did shush them a few times.
But still, I could hear their excitement and knowledge of the story, how one boy was explaining a few back stories to his younger pal or brother.

It made me wonder what these kids, like the young version of Peter Quill (played by the adorable Chris Pratt), now think of these groovy songs that were released decades before they were born. The classic songs are almost timeless, but it's funny to think of a nine-year-old of today grooving in his room to Blue Swede's "Hooked on a Feeling" or David Bowie's "Moonage Daydream."

Chapter 5 (excerpt)Every Time I Think of you

As a family, we generally eschewed the drone of the television, and instead listened to some of my father’s jazz or classical LPs. Dad chose a Stan Getz album. Mom’s preference ran toward older pop favorites; The Mammas and The Pappas, Doris Day, Dean Martin. Off to the side, my few rock albums filled the rack.

Everett, after dropping a few names like Coltrane and Gillespie, again doffed one loafer, tucked one leg under his other knee, and settled further back on the couch near me.

It took some reserve not to simply lay my head in his lap, I was that happy. My parents might have been initially miffed, surprised or even put off, more by any open display of affection than by it being between two boys, one of them their son. Learning by Everett’s example, I realized that perhaps joy contained might have more longevity.

Chapter 2 (excerpt)Every Time I Think of You

As he finished changing into a sweatshirt with the name and emblem of Pinecrest Academy, I sat on a chair at his desk, secretively looking for some small memento to pilfer.

“We should go into Pittsburgh. I want you to meet my sister, Holly,” Everett said with sudden enthusiasm.

“We could take the train,” I suggested. “I’ve done that a few times. It’s only, like, an hour.”

“So, how about Saturday?” Everett pressed.

“To visit your sister.” “That’s not the point, brainiac.” Everett softly punched my shoulder. “We can be alone together; spend the night. Together.”
        “Oh.”

As all the concocted plans ran through my head, I failed to notice that I was being casually seduced by my host.

Everett had turned on his stereo, preset with a small stack of LPs. Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors began to play. He flopped down on his bed, bounced up once while scooting to one side, patted the other, coaxing me to join him like some newly trained pet.

Glancing down at the damp remnants of melted snow at my pants cuffs, I remembered that he did have a housekeeper, after all, and with an attempted gesture of élan, I plopped myself down beside him.

I didn’t want to force myself on him again. But after a few minutes of the both of us simply staring at the ceiling, our legs and elbows touching, Stevie Nick’s nasal voice warning that ‘players only love you when they’re playing,’ I did.

Leaning up and over, I brought my lips to his, and with equal abruptness, Everett’s face and mine collided. A chuckle, a lip wipe with tongues, and our mouths slurped together like sea anemones.

JIM'S BOOKS

Every Time I Think of You