Ralph Said
Find A Club
I sat down to write and poured out a paragraph.
Then I stopped to regard what I wrote.
Yech, I said. It was as appealing as a dirty cat litter box.
I don’t wanna write, I whispered in my inner vault, aware of the blasphemy that I was uttering.
Nor did I want to walk. I’d completed two and a half miles. The thought of another step depressed me.
I wanted to be on the beach, basking in sunshine as I listened to the waves and watched them crash on the shore.
I wanted to be reading a book, sitting at a restaurant, enjoying food that I don’t allow myself to eat because it’s not healthy. I wanted to be listening to music and laughing with friends. I wanted to be flying away, driving away, buzzing away.
I didn’t want to be writing, walking, doing yardwork, cleaning the house, or eating healthy.
Just like that, I knew I was into one of my dark moods. It was overtaking me like a terrifying storm.
Nuts, I said. Nuts.
I returned to writing. Every word felt like a struggle. I kept pushing, looking for a carrot to use, urging myself, just finish this paragraph, and then doing it again. I really needed a club. It’s a day like this when I could use a personal training urging me to push myself. Without one, I had to do it alone.
It was a gritty session. I actually counted the words. When it was nine hundred fifty, I said, good enough, and shut down. Then I grit my teeth and braced myself to walk. I wanted at least two more miles before going home.
I know the words that I wrote today will not seem any different from my usual output. It’s just the mood that’s affecting me. Sometimes I don’t need a carrot or a club. I just sit down and write. And then there are days like today, when neither a carrot nor a club seem like enough.
It was a terrible day of struggling to write like crazy, but tomorrow is another day.
Keith Said
I’ve experienced the same while novel writing. You’re thinking hard about scenes, chapters, and plots, and you just turn something subconscious on. The more you use it, the stronger it becomes. Things you hear and see flow in and connect with what you’re working on.
Barbara Said
This makes sense to me. When I’m editing and revising, I’ll often read it aloud to see how it sounds.
Grace Said
I consider this very apt. I don’t know how often I encounter people who tell me they’ve been thinking about writing a book, or they want to write a book. If you’re a writer, you don’t tell others; you just begin.
The Direction Dream
Hartford, CT.
It seems like a strange place for a destination for a writer living in Oregon, but that’s where I was going in my dream.
It began as a confused melange of chaotic colors. A story emerged. I was with my wife, and a friend, Mark (not his real name), and his wife. We’d survived something and had come together. Now we were going to Hartford, CT. Then we’d fly out of there. I don’t know where we were flying to.
I said, “Okay, I know the way. Follow me.”
My wife and I got in our car and started driving. Mark and his wife were in an eighteen-wheeler truck. Mark drove. His truck was glossy black with neon green trim. At first, I was leading, but coming up on two other eighteen-wheelers, I became stuck behind them. Mark passed us. The three trucks were aligned across the highway, blocking all three lanes. All three trucks were painted the same color and style, glossy black with neon green trim.
I managed to pass them with some aggressive driving. The highway entered a woods and then became an unpaved rough path that grew fainter and narrower. We finally stopped because it seemed like the wrong way, and we couldn’t go on.
Meeting up with Mark, he said, “I have GPS. I’ve mapped out the way. Follow me.”
I said, “Where are we going?” I knew we’d said Hartford, Connecticut, before, but it seemed odd.
“Hartford, Connecticut,” Mark said.
“Why Hartford, Connecticut?” I said.
Mark laughed. “Don’t worry. We’re going to fly out of there. Trust me.”
We drove in our vehicles, me following him. In a surprisingly short time, we stopped. We weren’t in Hartford, Connecticut, but in someplace we’d stay until we could go on. My wife went ahead with Mark and his wife while I stayed behind to help a homeless person, chatting with them while giving them food and money.
Then I went to the hotel. I told the desk agent who I was and who I was looking for, but they knew me, and said we were already checked in. I prepared to pay, but they told me it was all already paid for, and showed me into a luxury suite. It was gorgeous, with a private dining area for the suites on that floor that was on a balcony overlooking an amazing vista. That’s where my companions were sitting and chatting.
Mark had it all arranged. All I needed to do was to trust and follow him. I agreed to do that.
After buying some food for our trip, we departed. Two cats traveled with me. Sometimes they were in a kennel, but sometimes they wandered about freely. It seemed like we were traveling in our suite at that point, confusing me. I’d get in my car to drive, but the entire place would go, not requiring me to do anything but trust Mark. My wife and I socialized with him and his wife.
His wife had a birth defect that left her without feet. Instead of feet, her legs ended in two knuckles that she walked around on. She had several animals, too.
An issue emerged with her. She was eating soldiers. As this hubbub arose, I rushed to learn what was going on, and to basically get involved. What she actually ate were small plastic soldiers. While it appalled me because they were plastic, probably didn’t taste good, and lacked nutritional value, I defended her against the rest, and they agreed. They didn’t like it but she wasn’t doing anything wrong.
After that, I fed my cats and found several extra sandwiches that I’d bought for the trip. They were in my car, in a compartment made to hold them. The sandwiches were of the kind called submarine sandwiches, or subs, like I bought at G.C. Murphy’s when I was a child. I didn’t eat the sandwiches, because I had food, but hung onto the sandwiches to eat them later.
That’s where it all ended, giving me a lot to think about on my walks today. We were still enroute to Hartford, Connecticut. It was the place to go, according to Mark, and we’d get there, if I just trusted him.
I’ve already taken some ideas from it. Chiefly, Mark is my muse, and I need to quit second-guessing him. If I do, I’ll get where I want to go.
Hartford, Connecticut? It’s not a matter of the name of the place, but rather a destination that I don’t know. It’s named, but it’s a surprise.
There was another dream, but I feel too exhausted from thinking and writing about that one to go into now. I’ll write about it another time.
Trust me.
Michael Seidel, writer 