The Urban Dictionary defines Mojo as a magic power that allows someone to be creative or effective.
Where do you go to get motivated each day to achieve your goal? Is the best place really about location, location, location? I feel a bit like Goldilocks when I get ready to write for the day. I tend to move around the house. It’s all a bunch of lazy excuses and self-delusional tactics to delay the inevitable – get your butt away from the TV and donuts and go to work.
On a kitchen bar stool – too hard. My legs fall asleep.
A ratty but plush old love seat – too soft. Begs to be napped on.
The “ladies writing desk” I had to have – too big. Plus I don’t want to scratch the Compass Rose inlay. I can hear my mother now…
As a writer I love the romantic idea of popping a squat at Starbucks with my laptop and latte. Then I’d peck away at a story with amazing plot twists and characters that jump off the pages guaranteed to dazzle the critics. The inspiration would flow…for me, like molten lava cakes. Slow, sticky and fat with empty calories. In short: not the best place for stirring my Mojo.
When I can’t find a regular “go to” spot I think back to my years chained to a 5 x 5 cubicle. Suddenly inspiration meets the luxury of placement choice and the dog crate begins to look like a quiet comfortable work space.
Usually the spot that generated some literary gem on Monday feels all wrong on Tuesday. I’m consistent in one thing: I try to follow the sunshine. That works. Except on cloudy days.
Today I’m on kitchen barstool where smudges on the cabinets beg to be buffed. Appliances too. Then I start thinking about food. All day sitting in the kitchen makes me hungry. Go figure.
So I shift to the comfy loveseat, laptop in lap, feet on the ottoman, tea and water nearby, dog at my feet. I write best with no background noise but music is always an option. I wrote the montage ending to a screenplay by visualizing and acting out each CUT TO shot while playing the same song over and over and over until I timed it where I wanted it. Crazy? Maybe. The dog growled. Tough critic.
I’m in the mood for music. I fill the CD drive with opera. Specifically, Pavarotti. Hmm. I’m usually a 70s rock throwback. He sings Nessum Dorma and I stop. Stop breathing, stop thinking – I’m totally suspended in a state of awe. He holds a note and I feel it. The tears come every time. The last note ends and I begin to write from a deep hurt place — after I blow the snot away, of course. Maybe I should have chosen the Out of Our Heads vinyl by the Rolling Stones. I can’t get no satisfaction.
Enough. I give myself the tough talk: Find a spot, any spot, with least amount of dog hair and hum something. Go to work.
I’m curious — Where do you go to stir up your Mojo? Is there music in your background?
Stephanie DelTorchio writes social commentary on living well in a world of neurotics, nitwits and fools where she is an active card carrying member.
