Hello, writers! How is everyone doing?
Just a quick housekeeping note before we get into the writing prompt today: I know summers are often busy, with traveling, kids home from school, and other activities. Because of that, and because life can just in general be kind of lifey, I’ve heard from a couple of you that you didn’t get a chance to make use of the free month’s upgrade I gave you when you signed up. So, just to make sure no one’s lost in the shuffle, I just sent an extra month’s upgrade to everyone whose time had expired. That means you get more time to share your work, read that of the other writers here, and give and receive feedback. And, as always, if anyone wants to continue to participate but can’t afford the $8/month, please just let me know.
Okay, back to the writing prompt! This one is similar to a past prompt, but with a different reference to start us out. One of my favorite books growing up was The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle. If you haven’t read it, it’s the story of a unicorn discovering that she is the last of her kind, and going on a journey to find out what happened to all the other unicorns.
One of the people she meets along the way is a magician named Schmendrick, who I immediately identified with. Schmendrick is kind of a mess: He’s a magician who can’t fully access or control his magic, bumbling around trying to find his way in life. I could relate to Schemedrick’s deep sadness, his quiet jealousy when they fall in with Molly, who seems to be on closer, easier terms with the unicorn than he is, and his tragic sense of being so close to having something incredible (the power of magic) yet fatally flawed so that he can somehow never take hold of it.
Here is a scene from the book, where the unicorn and Schmendrick have been captured by a band of outlaws, and Schmendrick tries to use his magic to impress the outlaws and save himself and the unicorn.
Schmendrick began to run through the old flummeries with which he had entertained the country folk at the Midnight Carnival. It was paltry magic, but he thought it diverting enough for such a crew as Cully’s.
But he had judged them too easily. They applauded his rings and scarves, his ears full of goldfish and aces, with a proper politeness but without wonder. Offering no true magic, he drew no magic back from them; and when a spell failed—as when, promising to turn a duck into a duke for them to rob, he produced a handful of duke cherries—he was clapped just as kindly and vacantly as though he had succeeded. They were a perfect audience.
Cully smiled impatiently, and Jack Jingly dozed, but it startled the magician to see the disappointment in Molly Grue’s restless eyes. Sudden anger made him laugh. He dropped seven spinning balls that had been glowing brighter and brighter as he juggled them (on a good evening, he could make them catch fire), let go all his hated skills, and closed his eyes. “Do as you will,” he whispered to the magic. “Do as you will.”
It sighed through him, beginning somewhere secret—in his shoulderblade, perhaps, or in the marrow of his shinbone. His heart filled and tautened like a sail, and something moved more surely in his body than he ever had. It spoke with his voice, commanding. Weak with power, he sank to his knees and waited to be Schmendrick again.
What happens next is a powerfully described scene where, summoned by Schmendrick’s magic, Robin Hood himself appears with his merry men, and leads the outlaws away. It is the first real magic we see Schmendrick do in the book, foreshadowing his own destiny and the unicorn’s.
I was so struck, reading this as a kid, by the relationship between Schmendrick and his magic. I don’t know if I understood it then as I do now, as the powerful intuition and muse that guides us in our lives and in our writing. But I got that there was something accessible to Schmendrick, and to us, as long as we are willing to let go of the reins, to let go of the outcome, and trust the magic within us to do as it wills.
To put it another way, it’s writing from an intuitive place rather than a logical or emotional one, from the gut rather than the head or heart, if that makes sense. Not that feelings or thoughts are verboten here. But we access them through our gut, our intuition, our bodies even.
So even thought this is a writing exercise, I’d like to encourage you to find some way to incorporate your body. Do a few minutes of yoga or stretching before you begin. Step outside and feel the sun, or wind, or rain on your face. Touch your hand to your heart or your head and say, “I am here, now.” Or ground yourself in your body by simply noticing how you feel, what hurts, what is sore or stiff, if you are cold or thirsty or hungry.
Then, set the timer for half an hour, forty-five minutes, or an hour, and say to the Spirit, or muse, or intuition, or magic—however you understand it: “Do as you will.” And, without thinking about it, just start writing. Write whatever comes to mind. Let go of any plans you had, or desired outcomes, and let the words flow out of you.
I look forward to seeing you back here on Monday to share what we’ve written!