Terri Said
Charles Said
I wonder if Charles Dickens was ever called Charlie or Chuck?
Anyway, I’ve done these things that he referenced, prowling to find ideas and words, beginning and stopping, beginning again…
Cold Coffee, Hot Writing
It was an exhausting, satisfying, and intense writing session today. All those muses who reside in the apartments of my being were silenced, except one. They knew exactly what I was to write, and one was the designated director.
Barely able to keep up, I hit that flow. The story’s complexities and this path that I’m following demanded that I first edit the two chapters I’d finished yesterday. Then, the muse dictated, start this chapter, and then another, and so on, until five chapters were being written in parallel. Had to be, because of the nature of the unfolding events. I typed, editing and revising, jumping between pages, paragraphs, characters, and chapters as ordered and needed, trying hard to keep up.
Finally stopping, I look up and engage in the coming-out period. Looking out the window, a line from “Uncle Salty” by Aerosmith comes to me: “Ooo, it’s a sunny day outside my window.”
Coming out after writing is always odd. These are the long seconds endured after intense writing when I re-enter life, my existence, reality, whatever you want to call it. I hear music and see other people. An air-conditioner’s chilly breeze teases my bare legs and neck. I feel detached from being there. What feels most real is that my butt cheeks feel sore and numb, and muscle strain stretches across my shoulders.
Still, I feel detached. I continue thinking about what’s been written, and what’s meant to be written yet, and how much work remains. Once the beta version of all four novels in this series are completed, I then need to edit and revise them until I have a first draft of all, something that I feel complete enough to regard as books. That will be a huge chunk of work. I think I’m looking at the rest of the year and beyond.
With those thoughts still strong, I drink my coffee, cold as an iceberg. Three-fourths of that cup remains. It’s time to stop writing like crazy; I can feel that, like the muse has said, “Okay, that’s enough for today. We’ll pick up here tomorrow.”
Still, I feel detached. My fictional world was so much sharper. I was engaged so much more deeply. It took a lot of energy to go that deeply into the flow, I realize. I’ve noticed this before without comprehending it. Going into the flow takes strength, energy, and commitment to induce myself to release enough to accept it.
I’m hungry, too, and realize that I’ve been hungry for a while, and I need to hit the restroom. Yes, time to stop writing like crazy today.
A Blushing Dream
I’m generally self-effacing and prefer to hang around the edges, watching and observing. Being the center of attention, praised, or honored, is something that provokes all manner of winces from me. So last night’s dream is one of those that made me wince, not just for those reasons, but because it bumped up against my impostor syndrome.
Not surprising. Many writers feel like they’re on the verge of exposure, that they don’t have talent or much to say that others would find interesting. The dream pushed me against all of that.
I was at a huge writing conference. I guess over two thousand people were present. We were in chairs in a ballroom. I was in the front row in a seat of honor. As the conference began, the organizer took a moment to note my presence and thank me for attending, and said all sorts of wonderful things about my writing. I was the only one she did this with. The rest enthusiastically cheered and applauded. I stood, gave them a quick wave, and returned to my seat as fast as I could.
We’d brought writing projects to read to the rest. Before reading them, we were being given time to make final edits. The woman beside me was nervous and asked me if I would mind editing and revising her work. I agreed and set upon it.
Well, anyone who writes knows how often writers feel the urge to change whatever someone else has written. It’s rare that I don’t feel that, even with many published books.
So it was at the conference. I made multiple changes to her manuscript because mine was finished and didn’t need changed (ha, ha). When the woman returned to me, I explained what I did. She was surprised but delighted. We agreed that the two of us would read it together, that she would read the female parts while I read the male parts. This made sense in the dream. She was one of the first up, and that’s what we did, to great acclaim.
Time skipped past. I knew others had read. It was my turn. Again, I was given an elaborate introduction. The praise made me uncomfortable. I got up to read.
People weren’t paying attention, though. A hubbub swelled through the room as others stood, stretched, and generally milled about.
I was perplexed, because I thought I was about to read. What’s going on, I thought, waiting for the others to settle.
Wearing shorts, I suddenly felt something amiss. Looking down, I saw my pecker sticking out of my shorts’ leg. Glancing about to see if anyone was observing me, I hastily turned away and made my adjustments so the devious creature was back in the house and concealed, as God intended.
Then I turned back around. A moment later, everyone quieted and returned to their seats. I was introduced again and asked to read. Great applause followed. I began by giving a brief summary of the history of what I’d written, and the dream ended.
Back in the Writing Groove
Ah, sweet comfort. I’m back in the writing groove again.
Thinking about it as I made coffee this morning, I recognized how fiction writing every day helps me be more mindful. To understand characters’ motivation and behavior, I look to myself and other people that I know. I think about what I’ve done and what drives me, along with my inherent contradictions, and search for understanding of what I do, and why. And I do the same with other people, and the characters that I encounter in novels, short stories, movies, and television shows. All that is so that I can create richer characters and tell better stories.
Going through that thinking exercise as the darkness swept through me this week, I saw how my daily writing provides me structure and goals. Those structures and goals give my life meaning. So when I flail through the darkness and don’t want to write, my structure comes apart.
It isn’t just about feeding and satisfying the muses, telling stories, or pursuing goals of writing novels and becoming published. My writing is a tangible part of who I am. When I can’t write, I feel incomplete and adrift. I feel like I’m not me.
Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Michael Seidel, writer 