A field trip for my writing muse . . . the Tampa Botanical Gardens

Last week while entertaining company, we took a trip to the Tampa Botanical Gardens. The effort was to find some interesting outing to pass the time. What I found was an awakening experience for my muse, tempting her to create an array of incredible fantasy settings. My muse loves field trips, so I’ve learned to take my camera along.

In most cases I had no idea what the common or scientific names were for these species, which was a real frustration for the biology major in me, but lack of formal names didn't bother my muse. She just made up her own.

This unusual hanging growth grabbed her attention at the park’s terraced entrance. Its leaves were like a staghorn fern, but the base arranged in papery layers like that of a hornet nest. It may well have been a staghorn fern on steroids, as many plants appear to me from the perspective of a transplanted northerner.

Across the patio, a fountain held the aura of a fantasy setting. A giant pinecone apex set on a primitive-looking wheel, festooned with embossed blossoms.

Epiphytes (aerial plants) always whisper “fantasy” to my muse, this one on a grand scale, smothering the fork of the mighty live oak trunk.

Flowering lily pads set amid a bamboo forest = exotic fantasy. My muse saw fairies hiding underneath the flat leaves, waiting for us to pass.

A pregnant banana tree seemed no miracle to my muse. That so-large-it-frightens flower demanded sex, so reproduction should be a given.

These were a few of the fascinating plants and sites which woke the imagination of my muse to spin out a fabulous setting or so for my fantasy stories.

A living fairy tale for my muse

Most muses expect to be fed occasionally. Some whimper for chocolate, others demand shopping sprees. Mine usually is satisfied with a pot of special blend white tea, kept steaming on a warmer for the evening of writing. But, once in a while she begs for an outing to someplace exotic. Lush settings captivate her. While taking lit classes in college, she prodded me to read every 19th c. novel she could find. That included the entire collection of Thomas Hardy, whose settings of mist-shrouded moors covered with purple heather in Wessex are every bit as memorable as his romantic characters, Tess and Angel, Bathsheba and Gabriel. She balks at workshops on world-building, maintaining a keen eye and an overactive imagination serve better. Nothing pleases her more than an afternoon at the beach. Once my toes are wiggling in sand beyond the towel's edge, she skips my pencil across pages at lightning pace.

Last Saturday I took my muse on a new adventure to the local Renaissance festival. I hoped she'd like it, since unnaturally cool Florida winter weather precluded beach days. And she did.

A curious array of earthy scents greeted us: fresh-milled wood chips underfoot; vendors newly-tanned leather vestments and boots; toasting cinnamon-dusted nuts; spirals of sandalwood incense. Visual delights also intrigued her. The grounds lay amid a grove of gnarly trees draped with Spanish moss. Their swags swayed with magic around tents belonging to tarot readers. Street performers and festival goers alike dressed in costumes, a variety of old world fantasy mixed with buccaneer accoutrements. Diaphanous layers of ladies skirts flowed like dreams. Coins adorned hats, headdresses, belts, wristlets, and necklaces – catching dappled sunlight and jingling with each step. I expected something of a pirate theme, following from the popularity of the Gasparilla festival, a pageant given by Ye Mystic Krewe in honor of their captain, Jose Gaspar. The result – a surreal tapestry.

Enchantment and swashbuckling in every direction. A human chess game and giant sand castle thrilled imaginations of young and old. Druids lay half hidden, clinging to tree trunks. A pickle vendor alerted me to fairies climbing in branches above, planning mischief. Celebrators extended cordial welcomes to all. The eclectic merriment painted an unwritten scene from Alice in Wonderland. My muse drank in the splendor of that living fairy tale.

In the days since, I felt her scrambling for characters to add to the new world. When finished, she hands me a complete setting and characters, detailed with personalities and attire. If she enjoys the characters enough she will lend a hand with plot. Then, my muse rests and sips tea until impatient with my plodding for months over what she created in days. I'm always behind, thankfully. She plays hard and works hard, never leaving me with writer's block. But the best gift is seeing the world through her eyes. A writer's blessing.

I'm driven wild, longing for him

"Life is a series of collisions with the future; it is not the sum of what we have been, but what we yearn to be." ~Jose Ortega y Gasset (credit to Michael Yamin on his Legend & Wisdom Stories blog)

I'm writing a novel where two lovers meet briefly and are separated. They yearn for each other, striving to be together. The plot cycles on that theme, with emotional and physical desire building as the pair are briefly together, yet kept apart. Each time they interact, it's just enough to visualize their potential bliss beyond reach. Over hours, months, years, and decades they long for the other, imaging how wonderful life could be if together. Quests and perils of increasing magnitude block their path, yet they aren't deterred. After risking life and limb, in hopes of permanent union, the lovers must be satisfied with only a few moments of shared love. And they are. Even short meetings satiate, or more, leaving them breathless. All who come to know the characters, readers and authoress alike, root for the couple to remain together.


As I craft this theme, I consider why the cycle of meeting, separation, and longing is so compelling. Recently, I came across some quotes that helped supply my answer. Jose Gasset, from above, explained when our visions of personal futures collide with, or are shaped by, present time, the result is termed “life.” We begin with a mental vision, a prediction creating a goal, much like the longing of my lovers.


Similarly, while reading Jane Friedman's blog, “You are bad at making yourself happy,” I came upon the same idea. She quoted a review posted on Amazon by Malcolm Gladwell for a book entitled, Stumbling on Happiness. I list his quote again:

“What distinguishes us as human beings from other animals is our ability to predict the future–or rather, our interest in predicting the future. We spend a great deal of our waking life imagining what it would be like to be this way or that way, or to do this or that, or taste or buy or experience some state or feeling or thing. We do that for good reasons: it is what allows us to shape our life. And it is by trying to exert some control over our futures that we attempt to be happy. But by any objective measure, we are really bad at that predictive function. We’re terrible at knowing how we will feel a day or a month or year from now, and even worse at knowing what will and will not bring us that cherished happiness. Gilbert sets out to figure what that’s so: why we are so terrible at something that would seem to be so extraordinarily important?

In making his case, Gilbert walks us through a series of fascinating—and in some ways troubling—facts about the way our minds work. In particular, Gilbert is interested in delineating the shortcomings of imagination. We’re far too accepting of the conclusions of our imaginations. Our imaginations aren’t particularly imaginative. Our imaginations are really bad at telling us how we will think when the future finally comes. And our personal experiences aren’t nearly as good at correcting these errors as we might think.”

It seems we are captivated by our imaginations, and while convincing and believable, are largely unable to accurately predict the future. The thrill of the chase. It excites our senses, feeds our minds. Why wouldn't my separated lovers dream of bliss beyond their wildest dreams, if only they could be together. Aren't we all dreamers?

“ Life can only be understood backward, but it must be lived forward.” ~Erica Jong, Fear of Flying

What do you think?  Is the journey more exciting or more important than the end?