"I would especially like to re-court the Muse of poetry, who ran off with the mailman four years ago, and drops me only a scribbled postcard from time to time."
— John Updike
In April, I had the honor of participating in a program called “Poets-In-The-School” in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Basically, this program brings professional poets into the classroom to perform their work and encourage students to read and write poetry. Oddly enough, the founder of this program, Alex Traube, isn't even a writer — just a businessman who truly gets how important it is to ensure that these creative skills aren't lost.
My first day at school was...well...ummm...quite...interesting. The obnoxious clanging bell that I remembered marking the start and end of class was gone — replaced by equally obnoxious short bursts of sound (although the school announcements over the loudspeaker remained exactly the same). Hall monitoring was no longer the territory of the Social Studies and P.E. teachers (the latter threatening any errant student with the basketball he had palmed in his hand), but rather that of security guards with shiny badges and starter mustaches.
As I entered the classroom and glanced at the blackboard, the teacher had written (in that maddeningly perfect penmanship) this admonishment: Don't forget to bring your muse!
My muse, indeed. An easy word to define (in chalk, permanent marker or pencil), but what an elusive creature! Exactly how do we lure these slippery beings to our side for much needed inspiration? As my muse is sometimes absent or as groggy as a teenager before noon when I'm rarin' to go, how am I supposed to pass along any insight? Okay, I'll say it...you can't just text the word “MUSE” and have a meaningful dialog.
One thing I do know about my muse is that she's more likely to be there if I set a simple ground rule. So, the students and I agreed we would not edit our output — we would just let the words spill out onto the paper, and worry about revising it later. I gave them loads of writing prompts and exercises to get things started. The students did a wonderful job — surprising me and, I think, themselves with their work.
The talented writer R.T. Smith said, “...The muse comes into being (I won't say "materializes") only on an unstable threshold where the internal and external forces meet and interact without reservation or inhibition.” How right he is. And in this issue of flashquake, we see the results of that interaction. We see what is possible when that capricious muse sashays into the room. In the exquisite flash fiction, "The Last Word," Steve Johnson reveals a tenebrific place — yet it is also a place that beats with a radiant heart. Fortitude and fear join in a potent way — each illuminating and informing the other. There is a fierce energy in Jenny Hay's nonfiction, "The Waitress Who Hates Me" — bringing the idea of unity in duality into meaningful focus. Carol Brockfield's terrific poem, "To One Absent", is sorrowful yet joyous — recognizing the strong currents of change and the complementary nature of life and loss. I've enjoyed all of the work in this issue — it is evocative, surprising, inspiring and, well, muse-ful.
Lori Romero's short screenplay, "Strange Saints," won the Manhattan Short Film Festival's Screenplay Competition. Her chapbook, Wall to Wall, was published by Finishing Line Press. Her poetry and short stories have been published in more than eighty journals and anthologies, and she was recently nominated for a second Pushcart Prize.