Cross-Pollination

Wow. The muse has descended, and these last weeks I have been lounging with her, spitting cherry seeds, taking bubble baths, walking to the lake—and writing four or more hours a day!

How did this happen? I’m always asking for a visit from the muse—why now? Yes, I did allow myself to take a break from editing during these summer months, despite the financial repercusions. And while opening myself to my anger last month must have also triggered my current creative boom, I give the real credit to mehndi.

Mehndi is an old art form of body decoration using a paste made out of henna (see pictures below). It stains the skin for several weeks, and it is used traditionally in India, Southeast Asia, North Africa and the Middle East during celebrations and rites of passage, and in the West for safe, non-permanent body adornment.

So what’s the connection between mehndi and the muse of fiction writing?

Cross-pollination.

It's all starting to make sense. My mother is a painter and a seamstress and a woodworker and a jeweler, my brother a visual artist and musician, my uncle a talented sculpture artist and photographer. The creativity gene runs thick in my family (and that’s just a brief overview), but I’ve always considered myself a one-trick pony. While I long for the instant gratification of visual artists, I am usually left alone at the computer, aggravating my carpal tunnel, “alligator wrestling at the level of a sentence,” as Annie Dillard would say.

As far as instant gratification goes, writers have it the worst. It only takes 30 seconds for an audience to appreciate a photograph or painting. Try dumping a 80,000 word double-spaced novel into someone’s lap and saying, “I can’t wait to hear what you think of this.”

Perhaps for me the muse disguised herself as the Hindu goddess, Lakshmi, adorned with mehndi. I’ve been supporting and working with mehndi artists for years, but never had enough confidence to pick up the henna myself.

By stepping away from writing, the fiction muse has descended. I think sometimes we just bang our head against our preferred art form, not allowing ourselves cross-pollination, not allowing ourselves a guilt-free break. Now I’m painting henna at a hip hair salon and at the First Friday art shows—and my writing has never been more inspired or prolific.

What’s more, I’m actually having a creative Renaissance. I’m eating chocolate with the muse, decorating cakes, making my own lotion, taking artsy pictures. I danced the Universal Dances of Peace. I started riding my bicycle.

I’m 150 pages into the final revision of American Gypsy—and I’ve got an appointment to dye my hair punk rock pink.