When the Pen Grows Quiet

Billy Collins’ poem, “Budapest” (especially this animated version) is one of my favorite go-to sources of inspiration.  In it, Collins speaks to the creative process through the life of a pen.

“I watch it sniffing the paper ceaselessly / intent as any forager….”

A writer on the hunt led by a fountain pen with an endless supply of ink. Magic moments when the pen, or the story, takes on a life of its own and makes up for all the hours and days when the prose reads rough or the plot impossible. Wouldn’t it be great if we were all “ceaselessly” creative?

But any writer knows there are stretches of time (maybe even weeks) when the story stalls and no amount of coffee or muffins or change in scenery kicks the creativity back into gear. While those times are frustrating, they don’t have to be debilitating or the reason to give up entirely on doing what you love. You might simply need to tap into your creative juices in a new way. So what do you do when the pen grows quiet?

Pick up a guitar.

This isn’t a metaphor. I’ve had a few days recently where the novel got pushed to the wayside, the short story fell flat, where I questioned the validity of a character I’d created. You’d think if you write fiction you can make up whatever you want, but a character’s choices still have to make some sense. So when it became difficult to stare at the page, I really did pick up a guitar. Or…a ukulele.

See, my daughter takes guitar. For a while each time we went to lessons, we walked past a row of ukuleles, all of which called to me in their four-string, strumming kind of way. First, I smiled in their direction but let the realist in me shrug off the invitation. I’ve got crow’s feet and carpal tunnel. The thought of manipulating my hand into the shape of a decent chord made my wrist hurt. Then occasionally after lessons, I would stroll past a little closer, close enough to pluck a string or two. Just for the thrill.

Later, I mentioned to my daughter that some day I might buy myself a ukulele, plink out a tune or two. We could form a band. Play on Sundays. Good fun. She thought it was a great idea, so I resigned myself to “yeah…some day,” like “probably never but it’s fun to dream.”

Then the owner of the guitar store said he was retiring and closing the store. I’d have to move to a new place for my daughter’s lessons, but more important: I’d have to make a decision to buy or not to buy. Things got serious.

I convinced myself that, for as many times as I sat outside the practice room listening while my daughter talked G7 chords and open strings, surely I had picked up a little technique by proxy.

Next thing you know, there I was with a ukulele, a tuner, and a Hal Leonard book.

I’m hardly any good, mind you, but I can pluck a simple song. And, I know the chords to play back up for my daughter as she plays “By the Light of the Silvery Moon.” A very slooooow version.

I had no idea how strumming the ukulele would push me further down the page to the end of my novel draft or how it might reveal a stronger thread for my troublesome short story. But suddenly, there was music after dinner.

There was a smile on her face, then on mine.

Somewhere in the corner of the room, my muse was tapping her foot, not because I haven’t put pen to paper but because that song is catchy. And, when it comes to creativity–in any form, there’s always a story in play.

Good fun.

A break in the monotony of “poor me, this plot isn’t working.”

And, this slight turn off the main path to a light-hearted play on strings has been just the inspiration I need to get back to the pen.