Tag: writing

The Wall

Ever do distance running?

The race begins and after a brief interlude of finding your pace, you enter your zone where your legs and arms are moving with orchestrated pace and you are where you want to be and where you expected to be. Interior dialogue begins to help focus. Time and distance pass and you feel good, even great as your body feels its power and responds.

And then, without warning, here is the wall.

The wall is many impressions at once. It feels like you’re running in sludge. Where your feet were lifting and dropping with relative ease and precision, you suddenly feel wobbly and your feet are heavy. Your legs feel heavy. An undertow has sucked all your energy out to sea. You just want to completely stop, sag and breath.

But you know that this will pass if you can keep your arms and legs moving. That’s why you’ve trained, to learn how to keep your arms and legs moving, how to properly breath, how to find the oxygen in your lungs and get it to your heart, into your blood and to your muscles. You’ve trained to know what to do when it happens and take the pieces of broken focus and put them back together so you can keep going.

Well, I’ve hit the writing wall this morning. My body is sagging despite my stretching and yawning, and my mind is screaming, “I don’t wanna, I don’t wanna, I don’t wanna.” It’s cold, gray and wet outside. My eyes are tired. My morning coffee is cold and it doesn’t taste good. It’s Sunday, come on, aren’t you supposed to take Sunday off to sit and chill? You deserve a day off from dealing with the Penta Majur.

And I know some of this wall comes from unique places within. Emotional demands have eaten into the writing reserves. I’ve learned that a friend and family member by marriage had open-heart surgery a few weeks ago without telling anyone. Only his wife knew. And you wonder, why wouldn’t they tell anyone this? He didn’t have insurance and her insurance is a miserable and greedy company which is barely covering any of the bill. She’s well employed and a hard worker, with an impressive job title and salary, but this has drained their finances.

I know some of this wall is holiday related as I pause to consider what was and what now isn’t. I understand my nostalgic nature even if I can’t control it.

And I know some of this wall comes from dealing with news and protests and murders and deaths and hatred and racism and bigotry and –

And there is the wall.

My dreams reflected this last night, too, putting me through the paces of trying to sell a car, a sports car which I owned for twenty years but traded in for a new SUV, a car that reflected some of the pleasure I felt with what I’d achieved, where I was and where I was going, a car that then became a reminder of where I’d been and what I’d achieved and that I was no longer going anywhere, car that reminded me that time had passed. And yet a car that I missed because I’d enjoyed considerable pleasure driving that car on trips, and it was associated with the validation found in work and promotions.

I saw all that in the dream as the dream masters chastised me for not following proper procedures while selling my car, ordering me back into line, and confusing me with demands that I need to write my requirements in white on black socks, which totally befuddled me because that makes no sense. And then, there is the waking reflections on what makes sense and does not, with gentle chiding amusement over the expectations that everything is to make sense. That’s the interesting thing about writing: that you must always make sense in a world that doesn’t make sense.

The writer within is demonstrating remarkable patience. He wants to write but he’s telling me, you’re just a little tired. It’s understandable, that’s okay. Take some time to sit in quiet, relax, drink some more coffee, read, surf the net, look out the window, watch the trees, the birds, the clouds and rain, and the passing pedestrians. Observe life. Let your energy build.

The wall is there but you’ll break through. Be patient and persevere.

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The Novel Progresses

It’s like writing a history of the second world war. Politics, economics and personalities whirl around galactic and planetary fronts as technology causes surprises shifts and skews expectations. It can be overwhelming on some mornings, sorting out the players. Each time that the action shifts via a new twist or expands on an established twist, research and thought is demanded to understand the people, cultures and civilizations involved.

It’s hard work, and it’s fun. It’s fiction writing. It progresses, pleasing and exciting me. Yes, some boulders of frustrations are encountered, and a block ensues. I hunt around it until I find a way to carry on.

Which, if you read my posts with regularity, takes me to the doorstep of last night’s dreams.

Of course dreams are involved. I seem to be able to do little without my dreams becoming approaching the stage to provide their impressions. I accept their participation with little hesitation because the dreams tend toward the positive.

In last night’s feature, the first of a double-header, I was living under water. Not literally; this is a dream. It was an impression of living underwater. Sounds were murky and distorted, colors were diluted and glazed with an faint olive green hue. I lived as I would on land, walking about, but with the impression I was underwater. The sensation of being under intense pressure all around drove that sense.

And I was tired of it. I didn’t want to live underwater and under pressure. So I took up flying. It was that simple in the dream world, which, when I awoke and thought about it, made me long to live in a dream world.

The flying was pretty terrific. I was up and out of the water without thought (and without any splashing). Everything was sharp and clear. Visibility seemed like infinity. As I perceived the changes in the dream, I gasped and said, “I’m flying.” And a voice answered, “Of course you are.”

“But I don’t have wings,” I replied.

The unseen other laughed. While they sounded like they were located by my shoulder, I saw nothing of them. Their voice, while pleasant, intimate, soft and friendly, didn’t betray a sex. “Why would you need wings? You’re not a bird.”

I laughed on hearing that. No, I’m not a bird, but a human, flying above the world, going to wherever I selected. As dream impressions go, it was empowering cubed. In an aside, I noticed I looked like a younger version of myself and was dressed in jeans with a belt, polo shirt and shoes. Although it was all fully colorized, I barely remember those details except to know I noticed what I was wearing when I looked for my wings. I had no wings, no engines or contraptions attached to me, and was without strings. I was flying on my own.

After that, the other dream, about my home and decisions to make changes, and being overrun by animals from the neighbors amidst efforts of organizing and directing others (some took some of my FedEx delivery envelopes for their use from my big binders of organization, but I had them to spare), seemed as bland as reality, except the good mood from the main feature carried over.

As it’s carrying over now. Ready to write and excited with expectations, just the way I like it.

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How It Works

Car appointment today, 12:30, in Medford, down the asphalt river seventeen miles. Wife asks, “Are you going to go do your writing first?” Because this is the standard, this is the norm, this is the way it works. Whatever else, go write. Michael must write. Not writing makes Michael a cranky man.

“Yes,” I answer, “but I need to have some coffee first.” Because this is the standard, the norm, this is the way it works. I must have a cup of coffee to go have my coffee and write.

What were once indulgences are now habits. But come on, that first cup, black and hot, French roast, untainted by milk, cream, sugar or anything else, is awesome. Yeah, it would seem like there’s a chasm between drinking strong, unadulterated black coffee and then indulging in a mocha with four shots of espresso. But I believe – and belief is important – that the coffee pleases my muse, and that helps my writing. Gotta keep the muse happy.

That’s the way it works.

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The Writing Life

There is the moment when you’ve turned off the lights and the television, because actually, you had fallen asleep. Or you finally quit reading blogs, surfing the net and playing games, and turn off the computer because it’s time to go to bed, you have to get up in a few more hours. Or you were reading, and your eyes had closed.

Signals had been received that the day is done and it’s time to retire. Your pets have recognized it and have assumed their positions, and the sounds of sleep from the remaining household are already percolating.

Then, as you’re accepting the moment and preparing to sleep, writing strikes. A scene, character, moment or idea that’s been troubling you has found its way into your thinking, shoving you awake. You see and know what you must write.

And you rush out to the notebook, the computer, the typewriter, and capture those words, that thought, that explanation, and more, because that was a block, a logjam, and now that it’s broken, the words are thundering out.

Or, there is the moment when you’re in your writing space, carving, hammering, defining the work in progress and it all comes together in sublime beauty, and you laugh aloud as you write, chortling on because you’re pleased — or crying because the scene affects you, or gulping down a breath, sweaty with fear and tension, because the scene has affected you.

And, there is the moment when you’re spent from the energy release of realization and creation and you sit back, returning to this space and existence that you left when you began to write. And you look around, assimilating where you are and what you’ve been doing. And you’re pleased and want to share it with someone, and must restrain yourself from grabbing passing strangers and servers and saying, “Hey, listen to what I just wrote. Isn’t this great?”

You can’t go home and tell others. That might jinx it. Also, they’re not up on the creative mind and its idiosyncrasies. They’re existing in the real world, dealing with the minutiae of being. Or they’re asleep and wouldn’t appreciate being awakened to be told what wonderful words you’ve discovered.

So you sit, pleased with the achievement, sighing with joy over what you’ve done, before turning out the lights and going to bed, as you planned — OMG, two hours ago.

Or, so you sit, sipping old, cold coffee and listening to reality reclaim you, finally acknowledging that you’ve spent a few hours doing this and that, oh my, you need to pee, so now would be a good time for a break.

But you don’t want to break, you don’t want to stop, because this is so wonderful as a feeling.

And there it is, the conundrum of writing, that so often, you’re writing alone and celebrating your achievements alone, and that your body and existence stops you from just writing on, and on, and on, as you want to do.

But it is the writing life.

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What Do They Wear?

I used to sing this ditty in the evening during my corporate existence:

“What shall I wear tomorrow? What shall I wear tomorrow? What shirt should I don, what pants should I put on? Oh, what should I wear, what should I wear?” I added more verses over the months, and then some dance steps. It became a whole Gilbert and Sullivan thing.

My wife hated it. I don’t blame her. She has good taste. Her only lapse is me.

The cats also weren’t pleased, giving me the look shared when they deem the food in their bowls unworthy of being eaten.

A confrontation is happening on the Wrinkle. I’m dressing my aliens as part of the scene, as it’s their first full on appearance, forcing me to regurgitate my old song. What do my aliens wear? Novel and movie aliens I’ve known, loved and despised darted through my thinking. My aliens are pretty uniform, partly be genetic exercise, so should they be uniformed? How much clothing is sufficient clothing for these travelin’ space people?

(Could Travelin’ Space People be a punk folk group? “She was on my ship; I shot from the hip. She had four eyes; they were full of surprise.”)

Dressing aliens isn’t an easy exercise, requiring thought about the many roles clothing can play an how these roles are parlayed into their mighty structure.

I think I need more coffee for this. Add some Irish whiskey to the four shots of espresso, please. It’s time to write like mad.

5

Strange Brew

I dreamed last night about the power of eight. That is literally and explicitly what the dream was about, no B.S. I remember all of this thanks to a cat.

I know that will surprise you.

In the dream, I was in a class with others but not a classroom. I don’t know who the others were. Someone unknown was explaining that the power of eight shapes everything. Basically in a ‘Matrix’ reveal, I was shown how streaming digits make up reality. Then we were told, “If you can find the power of eight in the numbers, you’ll unlock the power of creation.” Then, as we all talked and looked, I grasped that within the threads were sequences that added up to eight. As I realized the implications and began bubbling with the thrill of knowledge, I began showing them to the rest of the class and elaborating on the instructor’s explanation about how to see and capture the power of eight. As example, I explained, laughing, “Like this one.” I captured a sequence. “That’s eight hundred thousand dollars.”

At that point, whiskers, licking and kneading awakened me. Quinn the Black Paw was hungry. The food in the bowls didn’t suit his mood. It didn’t matter that it was oh dark A.M. Resigning myself the power of the cat, I fed him, and then used the opportunity to pee and ponder the dream.

I was pretty much at a loss about what it meant then. Like, what was I supposed to do? Take a pill and find an eight? Returning to bed, I resumed sleeping.

The lessons about the power of eight continued with further dreaming. They were explaining how the power of eight was part of a balance. But now, instead of being in a class room, I was standing atop stairs. Others, like my wife, accompanied me, but they were incidentals. Dark, dark, dark cheery red, these steps were worn smooth. Like contoured hillsides of rice paddies, they extended in either direction, leading down to something that I couldn’t see. In fact, the only other thing seen was a blue grey sky.

I knew I was to go down the stairs, and I did. This was a learning expedition, and I felt pretty good about the whole thing. My wife and a few others accompanied me. At the bottom was a land, and people who…well, they identified themselves as the common people. They explained I was to kill two of them.

That shocked me. It could not be right. But no, they were comfortable with my intentions. I’d done it before and others did it, too. They liked the way I killed them, demonstrating empathy and kindness when I did. Besides, they told me, I often gave others gifts. Which was true, I remembered then, as I absorbed it all. On the way down, I’d left and given packages as gifts.

Then, my instructions were to return to the top of the stairs and resume my lessons in the power of eight. I returned to the top of the stairs and awoke, confused.

What in the hell is the power of eight, and how am I supposed to harness any of that dream information in this real existence?

At that point, I wanted to return to dream with instructions to myself to provide further explanation. But sleep eluded me. Instead, I thought about my recent state of mind.

It’s been that time of month, when I’m coping with my darkness. Essentially, my darkness has a mission statement that I’m to feel so depressed and miserable that I question, why the hell am I even alive? Arriving in this depressed state, I become all, J’accuse: Thou art a shite writer writing shite fiction. Nobody wants to read the hot sloppy piles that you write, so why do you torture myself with this pursuit?

I know, intellectually, I’m coping with an emotional state that affect huge swaths of population. None of that really helps. I’d been reading to manage it. In the marvelous way that the world works, I’d come across a T.C. Boyle interview and a John Scalzi post. Both helped bolster my resistance to quit.

Boyle’s post was ‘Writing Advice from T.C. Boyle’, in which he provided five points to help you keep writing. His second point:

2. The .357 Magnum. The second tip goes (if you’ll forgive me) hand-in-hand with the first. In recognition of the fact that all writers are manic-depressives, alcoholics, drug-addicts and fixedly specialized degenerates, it’s always helpful to keep a loaded pistol on your desk, perhaps located conveniently beside the ballpeen hammer, depending, of course, on the size of the desk. This acts as an aide-memoire, a spur to creativity and, of course, the ultimate solution to writers’ block.

The other post, by John Scalzi, was Rejection. He closed:

In the meantime, I’ve already sent a query off to another agent. You can’t sit around moping after a rejection, you have to rush into the arms of the next rejection. Because who knows? It might not be a rejection at all.

Heartening words, the words that every writer embraces, the essence being, who knows when you’ll get your break? It’s a strange brew where writers reside. As other writers have written, we’ve developed good taste about what we like to read, and we’re attempting to envelope that good taste in what we write in a difficult and often lonely, and solitary endeavor. And I, being of low self-esteem and a person who eschews attention, struggle with writing and wanting attention for what I write against being a solitary creature who is pretty happy writing in his isolation. It’s a messed up, strange brew. And again: I know I’m not alone.

I told my wife about my dream this morning.  She suggested I hunt down meanings for the power of eight. Doing a web search, I came across Christine DeLorey’s website, Creative Numerology. She’d specifically written about ‘The Power of Eight’.

Reading her post reinforced my understanding of the dream. Frankly, I was startled by having such a dream and then discovering such explanation on the web. I’d wondered if I’d read about the power of eight before, and had simply regurgitated previously required knowledge.

I don’t know. My wife’s book club met last night. Their book in discussion was ‘Ordinary Grace’. As always, they investigated the author, William Kent Krueger. They’d discovered some good interviews with him that she shared with me, where he discussed his frustrations with writing novels and trying to become published. I mentioned that’s what writers, including me, are always seeking, that perfect strange brew where the good taste that we’ve acquired through reading is blended with the good taste we infuse in our writing, but also with the good taste that civilization displays by finding and reading our work. It’s a very, very strange brew, and none of us are sure of the exact ingredients.

But my wife closed, “Well, you can’t stop writing. Writing is part of the Perfect M. Writing is your drug, and it keeps you balanced.”

M is my private nickname, BTW, to clarify. I began using that initial to sign things like a zillion plus years ago and she adopted it as her term for me. But she’s right. I write because I need to write. Everything else is just the strange brew of being.

And now, since it’s the song that I sang to myself while walking down to write, here’s another shot at today’s theme song: ‘Strange Brew’, by Cream, 1967.

 

 

 

 

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Giving Up, Going On

  1. On a delayed train from Manchester to London in 1990, Rowling wrote her initial Potter ideas on a napkin. She typed her first book, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone on a typewriter, often choosing to write in Edinburgh cafés, accompanied by baby daughter Jessica, now 19, named after Jessica Mitford, a heroine of Rowling’s youth. ~ J.K. Rowling, author of the Harry Potter series and other novels.
  2. In the end, I received 60 rejections for The Help. But letter number 61 was the one that accepted me. After my five years of writing and three and a half years of rejection, an agent named Susan Ramer took pity on me. What if I had given up at 15? Or 40? Or even 60? Three weeks later, Susan sold The Help to Amy Einhorn Books.     ~ Kathryn Stockett, author of ‘The Help’.
  3. After she wrote Still Alice and was ready to get it into the market, Lisa spent a year trying to get literary agents and editors at publishing houses to speak with her. The editors all treated her as yet another aspiring writer not worth their time, and the few literary agents she managed to reach thought her novel wouldn’t sell. ~ Lisa Genova, author of ‘Still Alice’.
  4. The situation was improbable. Just one year prior, Weir, a computer programmer by trade, had given up hope of becoming a professional writer after failing to get a single agent or publisher excited about his work. But then he posted The Martian online, and it generated such buzz that now here he was, signing mid-six-figure deals with both Crown Publishing and Twentieth Century Fox. His self-publishing success story—well-paid tech nerd becomes really well paid novelist—made him the envy of every would-be author who ever fantasized about ditching his day job. Even critics were on board. (“Brilliant. A celebration of human ingenuity and the purest example of real sci-fi for many years,” said The Wall Street Journal.) ~ Andy Weir, author of ‘The Martian’.
  5. He pitched the book and was rejected 27 times before a chance encounter with a friend who had just landed an editing job.  Geisel told his friend about his book, about the rejection, and told him he was fed up and about to destroy the book.  The friend read it and Dr. Seuss was born. ~Theodore Geisel, author of ‘The Cat in the Hat’ and other books.

It’s just something to think about. You, and your good taste and writing skills, may be unknown and yet still be a brilliant writer and yet still be unpublished and unknown.

And you, along with the editors, publishers, agents, family members and critique group who rejected you, might all be right. You don’t ‘deserve’ publication. And you do.

If you go into Amazon and read some novels, you’ll discover scathing reviews of great classics and best-sellers. And there are books like ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’, which I didn’t like, that began as fan fiction published on a website and ended up as a best seller and movie.

You can’t predict what will happen so invest that energy elsewhere. Write like crazy. Plan and write. Revise and edit. Establish a process or system and keep trying, keep trying, keep trying. Write because you enjoy writing. Write a book in a month in November. Do what it takes. Believe in yourself. Keep believing.

And keep trying.

 

4

Your Good Taste

I think Ira Glass captures the truth between effort, taste, and beginning in this video, ‘Nobody Tells Beginners’. Gallery posted this as encouragement and insight for the NaNoWriMo participants, but wherever you reside on the writing spectrum, you can learn from this video. It’s about having courage and patience, enduring setbacks, and persevering.

So here, it is.

 

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