Something to be said...

Surely there is something to be said, right?

Haven't been working much lately, despite the excellent opportunity I have to write at this time. Over the last few weeks, I've been King-ing a bit: reread Carrie, Salem's Lot, and On Writing. Also, I've been interacting with writing communities, both online and in town. Trying to ground my efforts a bit more, and find a good comparison point as well.

Its time to start it back up though. I'm feeling sort of sick with inaction, and its a bad feeling. I'm scared again. My inactivity frightens me, and so does the weight I feel pulling me toward this stuff all of the time. I'm courting obsession, but it seems to be without compulsion. Dangerous combination: it breeds deep dissatisfaction.

Still, the cards keep falling. Their arrangement is promising, but I can't figure out what the promise is....

lesson

A wonderful thing happened today.

This morning, around 5, I had a dream that woke me up. I laid there for a bit, and then I saw how it could be a story.

I've been rereading that wonderful Stephen King classic On Writing, and I have been mulling over his suggestion to let fly on the first draft and not edit at all. Deciding to take this to heart, I grabbed my iPad, keyboard, and lap desk (all next to the bed) and let fly. Rather than look at what I was writing, I turned my screen away from me and focused on the story I was telling rather than the words. A whole damn draft came out of me before I quit. Beginning to end.

Then a terrible thing happened.

My keyboard hadn't been turned on. No words on screen. Sad face. Actually, really pissed off face.

Still, the lesson is there: writing finished draft and telling a story are two different things. You don't bring a baby into the world as an adult; you don't bring a piece of writing complete into the world either.  It takes time and learning what the thing is and what it needs to reach potential. But first it needs to come out.

Anyway, I guess I'm going to be experimenting with this further.

Also: I'm still here.

:-)

admission

A few entries back there is a ramble on my realization that I needed to use anger as a tool in my writing. Channeling that emotion is going to be very helpful, I think, because when it hits I typically need to act on it. Trying  to rationalize my way through it never does the trick, you see: the disturbance just increases in its shaking until I have to act on it in some way. When I do that, I typically take it right back to the perceived source. Sometimes that works, sometimes it doesn't (even when it does work, it doesn't work well, creating future problems down the road even while solving those in temporal proximity). Putting it into the words I'm writing will most likely provide the outlet I need to manage those feelings; I've experimented with it in the past and it worked pretty well. 

When I am angry its incredibly empowering. Its like holding a lightening bolt that has to be thrown before it vibrates me to pieces. And, for better or worse, anywhere I end up chunking the furious thing always creates a nice, big reaction, just like any good catalyst ought to wrought.  Its satisfying, often, but also sloppy, with damage to things I would prefer remain intact. 

So, again, the intention is to harness that power, putting that energy into proper channels, routing it into circuits so it will push the process along in more beneficial ways. Then, I think, great success will ensue.

Here's the problem: I'm really not that angry all the time. When I am, good god I am; when I'm not, I'm lots of other things. I suspect that most people who know me would be surprised that I place such emphasis on anger as a dominant emotion in me, as I usually come off as pretty jovial. A jovial attribution is fair, because by and large I'm in a pretty fine mood most of the time. What I mean when I describe anger as being a dominate emotion in me is, when its been poked and prodded enough to raise its head and gnash its teeth, it immediately comes to the forefront of my conscious experience with no small amount of force. But most of the time (thank goodness), its other emotions being triggered by my environment. 

Sadly, fear has been a big one lately, along with frustration and uncertainty. These are springing from my employment situation...even with a bunch of opportunities on the line and savings to see me through, I'm really uncomfortable not having a work schedule to anchor my days. The hope is to take advantage of this transitional period and write a whole bunch, but how do I do that without the burning bright anger to fuel my fingers? Fear and uncertainty are oily and damp feelings, and frustration is only a little fire with little hope of blazing when surrounded by them. I think of writing, and I become afraid of failing at it. I become frustrated with what I've done. I debate endlessly whether or not its worth the effort. 

Here is the admission for which this particular entry is titled: I was correct in recognizing that anger is an emotion that can and will have to be used, but that recognition was way too limited. It was a natural deduction in that anger demands an outlet, and creative endeavors are a fine, obvious safe place to let anger stomp around until it tires out enough to be turned into something more productive (determination, say). What I didn't recognize was that, if I'm going to make this work, I have to figure out how to use every other emotion at my disposal, even those that don't obviously lend themselves to inspiration.

huh-rumph

Grumble, grumble, grumble....

Mars retrograde

Man, I picked a poor phase in my life to start this current effort. It began in a mercury retrograde and as soon as that ended, mars retrograde started up. I'm feeling it too: my part time job has fallen apart, forcing me to stop typing and start job hunting. I'm sort of thrilled at the notion of getting out of the library coffee shop, though. Don't get me wrong, its been a great job for me for the last couple of school years, and it met my financial needs for a long time. Much more importantly than the money, I have met some incredible people who have impacted me in ways that I suspect will take years to recognize. Still, I suppose with all of my birthing/ caterpillar metaphors on this blog over the last few weeks, its rather apropos that I'd be getting squeezed out into a new world.

Its messing up the writing, though, and I look forward to the establishment of a new stability to continue working in. Not that I'm ceasing (I'm about to rough out some stuff I've been thinking about) but only that I'm distracted.

That's what mars retrograde is all about, though: the recognition and destruction of faulty drives and efforts, as well as the laying of new foundations. With that in mind, I can look back on the last few weeks and recognize that, for all my recent efforts in writing, I've really been learning what doesn't work for me rather than what does.

Still, there are those occasional moments when I tap the right space in my head, when the words start flowing and a feeling of disconnection with my body sets in, and I think to myself, "If it could feel like this more often, I don't know if I'd be able to stop."

To be really honest, I'm really scared right now, but I can't say of what. The closest I can get is the enormity of what I'm trying to do is starting to dawn on me, and what's at stake as well. Its too big right now (it like Mt. Everest decided to go for  stroll in the fog), but I get little slivers of clarity.

I suppose I ought to get to work.

Something I might need to recall from time.

Since I was a kid, my favorite band has been Tool. They took anger and directed it into something that was powerful not for its own sake (for anger is power; if you don't believe me than recall the Incredible Hulk, and then recall that comics are one of our meanest myth platforms running). Tool took their anger and targeted the place that inspired it, be it inside themselves or outside, and made beautiful weapons out of the things that could have made them weak.

I am an angry person. There are lots of other emotions running around in the ol' noggin, but anger has directed so many of my choices through my life. Frankly, I've been its victim too many times, with my decisions being often more destructive to myself than to the situations that created them.

Maybe its time to stop that. Maybe the feeling I'm afraid of, the reason I'm afraid of writing, is that it means tapping that boiling place in the bottom of my guts and bringing it up. That is a stupid thing to be afraid of (I am angry at that fear): by bringing it up with care and love it will turn to passion. Destructive passion, certainly, but directed into sick things in my life and in the world around me that need burning to the ground.

Anger might lead to the dark side (and can we really trust George Lucas's creativity at this point?) but one hand plays the white keys and black keys. The black notes are labeled "minor." This is a bad joke; they are the most moving and powerful notes when played properly. Their power makes them frightening, though, so we limit them in title and regard their emotional expressions as poisonous.

I'm angry about that too.

Let's take the anger out, then. Let's look at it honestly and break the black off and pull out the diamonds that are hiding inside.

Roar.

reversal of fortune

I left Holographic Moon today and went back to Mirror Box.

That was a good idea. That story stalled out on me when I realized that I'd filled up most of the space that is reasonable for a short story (I was over 5000 words on it, with the end a ways away), with material that didn't do at all what the concept needed. Going back today, I moved nearly half what I had into a slush file and restarted at the last point I felt some degree of confidence in. The new stuff is much more effective and exciting for me to look back at.

There is a funny feeling that is starting to happen. A weird sort resignation to the material. There is little doubt anymore that writing these stories is going to be hard on me--the vulnerability that is called for, the willingness to try and fail and accept it and try again, other things--but I feel increasingly called to sit for longer amounts of time. Its a matter of immersion, and of pushing myself into the mind states of the characters. More than that, pushing myself into the very language the concepts require. Its like dancing, but more exhausting. And yet I feel compelled...

Part of it is the increasing of synchronicities all around me. Some of these are related to my material, and seeing direct relations between concepts and characters corresponding to things in the world around me. Those could be chalked up to my material being near the top of my recent memory, causing my mind to pattern my experiences onto the stories I'm fooling with. But its more than simple things and chance meetings; the whole world around me seems to be changing, and me with it.

I can't help thinking of butterflies cramping in cocoons, pushing out into a world they'd witnessed before in another form but now equipped to move and interact with it in a whole new way.

It might behoove me to speak with Artemis again soon...