starts and stops

Over the last few months, I've gotten into three stories, and driven each to near completion. Each are missing crucial portions, but all together I've got about 50 pages or so of manuscript, with about 35 of those being pretty usable for a book I'm planning. Its the most output I've ever achieved in pursuit of this dream.


 That's the good news.


 The bad news is that I'm doing it in little fits. Following these little creative bursts are stretches of inactivity marked by total uncertainty and fear of continuing. I make plans and break them constantly, and frustration just gathers and pools. Cue the negative feedback loop, where my own feelings of inadaquacy damage my proclivity toward creative acts, which in turn creates more frustration.


When I was a teenager, I went through a spell of intense commitment to a particular denomination of Protestant Christianity. Around this time was an era of lots of trips to the river, and lots of jumping off cliffs. I remembered both of these little factoids when I was thinking that every act of writing is like jumping off a cliff: its scary as hell to make the leap, but once I start I just have to let gravity do the rest. The last time I tried to jump off a big ciff was probably a few years ago. Unlike my teen cliff jumps, this attempt wasn't effective; I chickened out and had to climb down to a safer height. By the by, this was during an era of my life when I'd pretty much lost faith in everything (friends, family, country, religion, etc...). 


Faith is a funny thing to talk about. The greatest proponents of it are typically idiots using religion in ways that make other people uncomfortable. And, as something of a neo-gnostic, it doesn't make sense for me to discuss faith in a religious sense. Still, jumping off cliffs requires some sort of faith, even if its just simple faith in the water being there and being as deep as it looks. Faith that things will work out, that harm won't come from an attempt. And you know what? Faith might be misplaced, and the rock just out of sight beneath the water might just bash the shit out of you when hit it. Still, good luck finding the gumption to jump without it (unless you happen to be one of those lucky assholes who just do things for the pleasure and the thrill...I've never felt that way about writing). 


 Anyway, I'm trying to hold to some sense of faith in myself. I know I have potential, that my understanding of the English language in the written form is pretty solid, that my vocabulary is wide, and--most importantly--I have an awful lot of creative concepts that would not only be fun for a reader to partake in, but also enriching. Also, there are thriving markets out there for short fiction, and fantastic opportunities in the realm of e-publishing. Its all there: everything a person could need to begin a successful career in the arts. 


 Faith, faith, faith. I have to start having it in myself. Its the only way to take this obsession and turn it into a compulsion. How many people wish for OCD I wonder? Well, I sure as shit do. I want it bad. Because, see, the problem is that I have the obsession already, but its paired with repulsion rather than compulsion. The OCD individual suffers painful anxiety until the obsession (be it counting buttons on all the clothes in the closet or washing their hands four times an hour) is completed. I have that god awful anxiety, but the thing I need to feel satisfied is often terrifying and disgusting to me. Isn't that sick? 


 Those negative feelings are the result of comparing my actual self to my ideal self: in my head I'm getting interviewed and giving speaches as a bestselling author (embarrasing, but most of us do it about something I think...), but when I look at what I wrote last, all I can see are my mistakes. Those mistakes will be fixed after a revision or so, I know that, but the errors I'm seeing don't jive with the paragon of literary awesomeness I imagine myself to be at the times I'm most excited about writing. 


 Random note: early cliffjumps were typically painful as well. It took water shooting into my sinuses and back out through my mouth before I learned to make damn sure my nose was held; I wacked the hell out of my balls a few times before I learned to cup them before impact. There's a lesson there, eh? So maybe I'm still learning to protect myself from the hurtful components of throwing myself into chair and into the worlds I'm trying to create. But before I can refine my defensive technique, I have to jump. And that, me amigos, takes faith. 


 Thanks for reading. Leave a comment. I could use some encouragement.

Checking in

Hey folks!

Still here. Working hard. Haven't felt like talking about writing.

Logged 8 hours on a story over the last two days. There is a contest entry due on the 6th of June I'm hoping to hit. Going slowly, but going well.

Anyway, back to it.

:-)

A kingdom for worms

My wife is playing video game right behind me, and a character just used the phrase "A kingdom of worms." I liked it.

Work is moving along. I've recently been introduced to a couple of neat writer's market websites. Kind of excited to find out there are as many outlets as there are for what I'm trying to put together.

My senior paper for my major is coming up due in 5 days, so its getting my attention right now. Looking forward to having it done.

Insights continue to flow on what writing is and isn't; more than that, I'm starting to have actual fun and not treating my time in the chair as a giant effort. Bringing something into the world requires labor, and labor is often painful and messy, but satisfying too. Maybe I'm getting more comfortable in the midwife role, learning to maintain the proper attitude to the work...

I guess I'm adapting to the crueler aspects of writing that I've cringed from in the past. Those awful minutes that tick by with nothing new or good on the page aren't the hope-killers they used to be. Rather, they seem to be the story's way of letting me know I've wandered from the path it needs to take.

New methods are starting to show up. I really want to finish the two I'm knee deep into right now so I can  try new techniques when beginning fresh projects. Actually, that's dumb: I can use these techniques now to help me finish the two I'm on.

Cool then: insight. I guess I'm going to go put an hour or so into my paper, and then maybe fool around with some fiction.

Optimistic.

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....