pjthompson: parker writing (dorothy)
I haven’t written much in the last three weeks. I allowed myself to get distracted by my mother’s memoirs (and I do mean allowed). Then late Sunday night I came down with either a stomach virus or a bad case of food poisoning and have pretty much felt like I was run over by truck all week. But if I’m honest with myself, I have to admit I’ve been on a writing vacation. (Screwing off, in other words.) I’m finally starting to feel human again, health-wise, so I’m rapidly running out of excuses not to write. I need to just hunker down and do it.

I’m about 80k into the novel I’ve been working on. That sounds way the hell more impressive than it actually is because this novel is basically stitching together a bunch of pre-written stories. However, I’d say about 25k of that is new writing. I’ve gotten to the part of the novel where the pre-written material has mostly been used (there’s one more story for near the finale). I’ve completed chunks of partially written stuff and done substantial stitching together. My last bit of serious writing before flaking off was finishing a barely-begun story that had been sitting on my hard drive for years, then slotting it into place. It felt really good. I liked that section so much I even considered ripping it out and marketing it. But it doesn’t really work as a standalone story. It works quite well in the context of the novel framework, so I’ll just leave things be.

Finishing that was an important for me. I’d completed a couple of stories late last year—the first I’d finished in years, and real milestones on the road to recovery from writers’ block. But they weren’t great stories, more like stretching exercises after a long time of sitting idle. But they were finished, and they were stories. The one I just completed inside the novel was solid work. It will have to be edited, et al., in the larger context of the novel, but it was a substantial thing. It had always been a linchpin story in the greater context of the world I created here, but it had existed in my mind, not in actual writing. That was also true of other stories I had to complete for this project, but this one a big deal for me.*

Now I’ve arrived at another story I’ve needed to complete for some time—the last before the big push to the end. I always knew it was going to be the hardest to write. I’ve poked at it a little and edited out some superfluous material, but I’ve mostly been like a horse shying at a jump. I know myself as a writer well enough to understand that part of the reason I've shied away is because it was going to be difficult to write. I just didn’t want to go there and had to wait for my psyche/right brain/whatever-the-hell to build up its nerve. (This is a totally unconscious process, by the way, and has to work itself out in the back brain.) So, the time has arrived to get over myself, jump the hurdle, and get on with it.

The good news in all of this, is that I’ve started to tell myself stories again after a long while of nothing. I’ve got new ideas on the back burner wanting to be written and decent enough that I want to write them. (And by stories I’m afraid I mean novels. I don’t seem to be able to write anything short to save my life.) Also today, the end scene of the current novel popped into my brain fully formed, so that’s a very good sign. (I'd been vaguely aiming at a last line before this time.)

It feels good, it feels like I’m a writer again. I’ve even started to take it a little for granted which I haven’t done in a very, very long time. I don’t want to take it too much for granted because I know quite painfully how easily it can be taken away from me again.

By my own psyche, of course, but we’re always our own worst enemies, aren’t we?







*For those familiar with my Dos Lunas cycle of stories, Ramona finally got her story.
pjthompson: (lilith)

Twenty-two or more years after doing Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way course in creative recovery, I am doing it once more. My friend Tara reminded me that I’d sent it to her all those years ago and it helped her. I’m coming at it from a whole new perspective this time, which in itself is interesting.

Blocks, Cameron says, are caused by fear of one kind or another. None of the fears she lists in the Week 1 exercise are really mine any longer (or never were), but she never meant it as an exclusive list, just the kinds of things people think:

  1. Everyone will hate me.
  2. I will hurt my friends and family.
  3. I will go crazy.
  4. I will abandon my friends and family.
  5. I can’t spell.
  6. I don’t have good enough ideas.
  7. It will upset my mother and/or father.
  8. I will have to be alone.
  9. I will find out I am gay (if straight).
  10. I will be struck straight (if gay).
  11. I will do bad work and not know it and look like a fool.
  12. I will feel too angry.
  13. I will never have any real money.
  14. I will get self-destructive and drink, drug, or sex myself to death.
  15. I will get cancer, AIDS—or a heart attack or the plague.
  16. My love will leave me.
  17. I will die.
  18. I will feel bad because I don’t deserve to be successful.
  19. I will have only one good piece of work in me.
  20. It’s too late. If I haven’t become a fully functioning artist yet, I never will.

Only that last one has any resonance for me, and only the “It’s too late” part. Fact is, I was a fully functioning artist for years and I only put it aside because life circumstances took it away. However, going through this list and the exercises she suggests may help get to the root of what’s really bugging me. Even this early on, I see I’m beginning to flesh out what my real fear: that the well has gone dry, that I am all used up.

I have an overwhelming sense of fatigue when I think about jumping back into art with the same commitment I used to have. There are other unidentified fears floating around in the miasma of my consciousness, but I feel now that I’m inching towards discovery. Things are starting to loosen up.

That’s a form of progress, and I’ll take it. As Ms. Cameron says, “In recovering from our creative blocks, it is necessary to go gently and slowly.”

No worries, Julia. I’m going painfully slow. Hopefully, it won’t be painful forever.

Mirrored from Better Than Dead.

pjthompson: (Default)

 

Twenty-two or more years after doing Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way course in creative recovery, I am doing it once more. My friend Tara reminded me that I’d sent it to her all those years ago and it helped her. I’m coming at it from a whole new perspective this time, which in itself is interesting.

Blocks, Cameron says, are caused by fear of one kind or another. None of the fears she lists in the Week 1 exercise are really mine any longer (or never were), but she never meant it as an exclusive list, just the kinds of things people think:

  1. Everyone will hate me.
  2. I will hurt my friends and family.
  3. I will go crazy.
  4. I will abandon my friends and family.
  5. I can’t spell.
  6. I don’t have good enough ideas.
  7. It will upset my mother and/or father.
  8. I will have to be alone.
  9. I will find out I am gay (if straight).
  10. I will be struck straight (if gay).
  11. I will do bad work and not know it and look like a fool.
  12. I will feel too angry.
  13. I will never have any real money.
  14. I will get self-destructive and drink, drug, or sex myself to death.
  15. I will get cancer, AIDS—or a heart attack or the plague.
  16. My love will leave me.
  17. I will die.
  18. I will feel bad because I don’t deserve to be successful.
  19. I will have only one good piece of work in me.
  20. It’s too late. If I haven’t become a fully functioning artist yet, I never will.

Only that last one has any resonance for me, and only the “It’s too late” part. Fact is, I was a fully functioning artist for years and I only put it aside because life circumstances took it away. However, going through this list and the exercises she suggests may help get to the root of what’s really bugging me. Even this early on, I see I’m beginning to flesh out what my real fear: that the well has gone dry, that I am all used up.

I have an overwhelming sense of fatigue when I think about jumping back into art with the same commitment I used to have. There are other unidentified fears floating around in the miasma of my consciousness, but I feel now that I’m inching towards discovery. Things are starting to loosen up.

That’s a form of progress, and I’ll take it. As Ms. Cameron says, “In recovering from our creative blocks, it is necessary to go gently and slowly.”

No worries, Julia. I’m going painfully slow. Hopefully, it won’t be painful forever.

Blocked

Mar. 17th, 2017 09:48 am
pjthompson: quotes (quotei)

Random quote of the day:

“When I sit down in order to write, sometimes it’s there; sometimes it’s not. But that doesn’t bother me anymore. I tell my students there is such a thing as “writer’s block,” and they should respect it. You shouldn’t write through it. It’s blocked because it ought to be blocked, because you haven’t got it right now.”

—Toni Morrison, Black Women Writers at Work, ed. Claudia Tate

 

Disclaimer: The views expressed in this random quote of the day do not necessarily reflect the views of the poster, her immediate family, Lucy and Ethel, Justin Bieber, or the Kardashian Klan. They do, however, sometimes reflect the views of the Cottingley Fairies.

 

Mirrored from Better Than Dead.

pjthompson: (lilith)

The first time I had a writer’s block of years’ duration was after my father died. I realized, in hindsight and after the words started flowing again, that I was blocked because I needed to redefine myself as a writer. I couldn’t tell the same old stories in the same old way. I had changed; my subject matter had changed; my voice was developing in new ways. When the words came back, it was to write something totally new—and when they came back, they came in a flood. I could hardly transcribe fast enough.

The good news was, after the torrent of words started flowing again, I was able to return to some of the older ideas and reshape them to my new self.

Now I am in the midst of another writer’s block of years’ duration. The words stopped first when I became so consumed by taking care of my mother that I didn’t have time for anything but caregiving and my job and trying to keep life together. My mother has been gone two years now, and still the words won’t come. I’ve poked hopefully at several of the things I’d been working on before crisis descended on our lives, and although I like several of those things, nothing happens.

A couple of weeks ago I had the same old epiphany: I need to write something new. I’m not the same person. I have a new subject matter. What that subject matter is hasn’t emerged. It’s not time yet. I still have to be a while longer in the space I’m in. I suspect, as with the last time, when those new stories emerge, they will come to me instinctually rather than intellectually. I won’t figure out the new subject matter in my head because it’s a soul process. And whatever it is, whenever it happens, it will be exciting to see.

Patience is what’s required of me now. And the ability to let myself be. And see.

Mirrored from Better Than Dead.

pjthompson: (Default)
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Peace, quiet, and good health.
pjthompson: (Default)
The novel has been moving along since I allowed the POV shift. I knew Ramona, the character I shifted to late in the novel, would have a great deal to say, and she does. Getting her to shut up again so I can write the climax from the original narrators' points of view will be tough. As with everything she's ever been in, she wants to take over.

Which makes me worry that once again I'm writing two climaxes and dei ex machina are blooming all over the place. Because Ramona has escaped my leash and headed off across the landscape. I'm willing to let her run a bit because she might tell me something I need to know, but this novel already feels like a Mulligan stew. I don't need any more ingredients or it's going to wind up tasting vile.

At least I've reestablished regular, daily writing sessions. This block—or whatever I've been going through—has wreaked havoc with my routines. I used to be a regular writing machine, doing my daily count day after week after month after year. They were never huge word counts, an average of three pages a day, but they were steady. Brick by brick to git 'er done.

I recently came across an old journal (I'm slowly digitizing them as well as my old files). It happened to be the one I kept in the year following my dad's death, which was also (not coincidentally, I think) when my worst writers' block ended. That block went on for nearly five years and was excruciating, but there's nothing like a crisis to remind one of the shortness of life and need to get one off one's a**. Writing became my pressure value in that terrible year. My escape, too.

I began by dabbling in occult things: rune readings, tarot, etc., listening for answers that existed inside me but that I couldn't hear through the white noise of grief and confusion. Then I began writing poetry. Next came erratic spurts of writing fanfiction for X-Files and Forever Knight, which led to long discussions with fellow members of the X-Files and Forever Knight lists I belonged to regarding the nature of vampirism. And then came The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron which opened me up to a daily routine and to giving myself permission to be whatever I needed to be, artistically speaking. After that I began to apply the things I'd been learning and doing, and started making up my own characters and universes. Next came my first vampire novel, Blood Geek. I haven't had a bad case of writers' block since.

Well, until now. But this one wasn't nearly as severe as that and may have been fed by bad body chemistry. Whatever, it seems to be thawing. I see signs of spring. Although I'm a little superstitious about stating that openly, I think it's going to stick. No fanfiction or occult readings led me through this time, but there was poetry. It's either all uphill or downhill from there, depending on your perspective.
pjthompson: (Default)
I've been struggling with the writing for awhile. I went for weeks and weeks (and weeks and weeks) where I didn't write a word except on the blog. I got seriously twitchy and depressed. I just couldn't seem to get anything going and when I did try to force myself to sit down and work on the WIP, a feeling akin to marching up the scaffold to my own hanging gripped me. I came to believe that perhaps the Muse had changed his postal code with a request not to forward my mail and that perhaps my writing days were over.

What's life without the occasional crisis of faith, right? So enriching to the spirit.

So I started making deals with myself: finish this scene of the WIP and you can spend your next writing session working on something else. And what do you know? When I worked on the something else, things were pretty good. I no longer felt like Apocalypse Moi. I actually wrote. I actually enjoyed it again. The Muse was just being sulky. He hadn't completely deserted me.

This was encouraging, but the WIP still felt like a sluggishfest. Part of the problem was that there is so much going on in the last quarter of this manuscript, so many complex threads to weave together, that I was forced to do an outline. Writing from an outline is something of a story killer for me, but there wasn't any way around it. I told myself it was time to stop acting like a baby and just do it, fer cryin' out loud. So I kept at it, on those days when the thought of working on the WIP was less than throw-myself-off-the-castle-walls, chipping away at finishing chapter 22, beginning chapter 23...

And a strange thing happened. Although I was following the outline, little openings of story started to happen, little surprises from the psyche that I love so well when pantsing it all the way. In the last couple of days I've had actual, God-damned flow happening. You know, the kind where it's time to go back to work, but you don't wanna stop—just a few more minutes, just a paragraph or two more, please?

It's been so long since I've felt that for anything, most especially this WIP. I begin to hope again. I see signs of spring. The Snowpocalypse is melting. The waters, trapped so long in ice, are once more flowing to the sea.

Let's hope it lasts.
pjthompson: (Default)
Today I only managed 432 words on my novel, Venus In Transit. But seeing as how I've only managed 1590 new words since Christmas, I'm actually pleased with that—in a Please-Universe-Don't-Hit-Me-Again kind of way.

Only tomorrow knows if I can sustain this blistering pace, but I'll be happy if I can sustain any ol' pace at all, thank you very much. It's been a rough winter, writing-wise, but when I look around me at the truly rough times other people have been going through, artistic whining didn't seem particularly relevant or important. In the larger scheme of things, it truly isn't.

But writing is my thing that I must do. And so I must do it. Whining is optional and extremely unproductive, so I'll try to keep that to a minimum.

To Do List

Jan. 18th, 2010 01:01 pm
pjthompson: (Default)
From the notebooks, January 15, 2010:


To Do List

The laundry and the dishes—yes.
Top of the list unless it's evening,
then something must be cooked.
Snuggle the kitty, say hello to mom:
must work that in somewhere.

Scan the photos moldering in the trunk,
memories of a pre-digital age,
harkening me back to when things
still mattered, when I still mattered,
when the world teamed with vibrant things
and I thought I could do them all.
Ready them (the pictures, that is)
for their march into the e-future.

And the books falling off my shelves!
Must sort them for the library donation.
Exercise. Yes, that would be good.
Meditate? Who am I kidding?
Sit quietly and think? A dream.

A dream postponed. Moldering.
Like writing. Writing. Wrighting.
The words used to come like silk
from my pen, but I no longer use a pen.
Writing. Riding. Words carried me
along the wave-strewn shore (or
some better constructed metaphor),
but I haven't been to the ocean in…

I can't remember when.
Writing. Writhing. Best not look
at that too persistently blank page.
Has the fire in my belly turned
at last to sleet? I suppose I'll find
something to do with the rest of my life.
pjthompson: (Default)
Writing blocks, for me, can take a couple of different forms. Sometimes I become blocked for a week or two because my Muse is trying to tell me that I've taken a wrong turn somewhere with a current project. He's making me stop until I figure it out, back up, and get off the wrong path. Once I get clear on that, things generally start moving again.

Another kind of writing block is more insidious and harder to cure because it involves the recognition that I've taken a wrong turn inside myself. I stop writing when I get out of balance, but it's sometimes hard to realize that's happening. Fortunately, these reassessments of my life's path occur only every ten years or so, and the good news is that I've gotten much cannier about recognizing them. In my misspent youth, I'd sometimes spin my wheels for months, even years on one horrible occasion, mostly in a state of denial. Denial is the road to nowhere, pretty much.

So, how to fix myself rather than the project I am working on? Not always easy, but admitting there is a problem is a crucial step. Usually, in the midst of that whole reassessment thing, it's required to sit down somewhere quiet, to let the doubts and fears and questions and wants and hopes and aspirations and whatever crowd around. Once they do, it requires more quiet time to listen to their various complaints, let them sink down into the deep levels, and see which of them are valid and which of them are just more wheel spinning. It requires asking them, asking myself, what I really want. What's important to me, and not necessarily the great wide world.

This is not a society which values quiet time and passive receptivity. We are doers. We believe in going out and hunting down our solutions rather than letting them pad in on soft paws and lie beside us. We don't like mixing our metaphors, either. If we're on the damned road, we want to stay on the damned road. If we're out in a forest clearing sitting around with wild things—well, we don't want to do that. It's too passive. And, besides, wild things are scary. What if they attack us, try to eat us? What if we're like that guy who went into the wilds of Alaska and relied too much on books on nature craft rather than being taught true nature craft and wound up eating poison mushrooms and dying alone and in agony?

But sometimes that's exactly what you have to do. Well, not eating the poison mushrooms part, but the going into the wilds and sitting around the campfire.

This is not a time of year that lends itself to quiet time. It's become this mad, rushing thing; a crazed pursuit of some perverted perfection of consumerism, getting caught up in doing things a certain way and being the ultimate hostess. But it should not be. The Winter Solstice was always a time of sitting around the fire while the cold rages outside, of taking an accounting of the year and the harvest just past, of feasting and expiating the gods so that they will bring the spring once more. It's a time of waiting for the world to be reborn.

After weeks of wheel spinning, I've finally started to make myself sit down, be quiet, and listen to the wild things as they tentatively, shyly come padding in to lie near my fire. They are as scared of me as I of them, but they do not try to eat me. (Or feed me poison mushrooms.) They have already begun talking to me, going deeper. And I've finally started to listen.

Stay tuned.
pjthompson: (Default)
For better or worse, I hit 10k words (SMF) on the novel yesterday. One-eighth of a novel! Unfortunately, I doubt I'll be able to stop at 80k. I sure would like to, but things never seem to work out that way for me, so I'm not even going to speculate how long this one will be. I've been laughably wrong each time I've tried.

Once I'd given myself permission to let the magic flow in the story, it did. I went over all three chapters and fixed the airship portions to suit my new "awareness," and I'm much more satisfied, overall. Something inside me relaxed. The suck monkeys are still dancing back and forth on their legs and banging sticks on the ground, but I've managed to shoo them off into the distance.


Random quote of the day:

"If you stuff yourself full of poems, essays, plays, stories, novels, films, comic strips, magazines, music, you automatically explode every morning like Old Faithful. I have never had a dry spell in my life, mainly because I feed myself well, to the point of bursting. I wake early and hear my morning voices leaping around in my head like jumping beans. I get out of bed to trap them before they escape."

—Ray Bradbury


He's more fortunate then most, maybe, but I think there's some validity to this, at least for me. My one period of bad writers' block corresponded with a period in my life when I was no longer able to read fiction. I'd reached that stage in my writing development where I was too aware of the wheels of the writer's mind spinning and I could see the construction lines of each story, what decisions the writer made. Not coincidentally, when I was able to let go of all that and enjoy reading fiction again, my writing also came home to me.

I have nothing against game media, TV, movies. I like all of those. But they don't have the complexity and layers of the written (or narrated) word. By their natures, they are a more simplified form of storytelling and they just don't do it for me like . . . true stories.

People say we're heading into a post-literate world. I hope that isn't so because I think it would also mean we're headed towards more simplistic thinking and analysis. God(s) know we don't need any more of that in the world.

ETA: And I was just thinking that with current publishing trends, complex layers may be a thing of the past in books, too. ::sigh::
pjthompson: (Default)
I was going to blog about a writing malaise I've had all week—for a couple of weeks, actually. Then I heard this song and things were better. Things are always better when I listen to music, but this one is especially about the kind of malaise that takes all artist/craftspersons sometimes, and uh...it just helps to hear that "fellow feeling," even if it's not personally directed towards me. In an interview on NPR, Jakob Dylan said he wrote it for people who were trying to hold on, trying to get back in touch with their spark. I think he did a good thing. It's a gentle song that concludes:

Sometimes a high wall, is just a wall
Sometimes it's only there to make sure you feel small
Or may be there to save you from the depths of a much deeper fall

The truth will not set you free
It's ok to believe that you're not good enough
God is not angry, not blind, deaf or dumb
He knows how far you've come


The malaise may come back. It's kind of an endemic thing, especially at times when I'm trying to redefine myself and to let go of one part of my identity, one thing I've been living my life through, and trying to take up another. I am so not alone in this.

"You're not the only one who's failed to hang on to a moving star."

You're right, Jakob.

It's a great interview, btw. You can listen to it here:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4766510
pjthompson: (Default)
You know, I read a lot of fiction that some folks would consider junk. I don't consider it junk. It's entertaining: characters that work their way into my geewhiz and stories that give me palpitations. Not particularly literary. And after a day of research reading and writing and The Job, I don't have much left over for literary fiction, anyway.

But I need my daily fix of fiction, so in my last hour of consciousness for the day, I try to read something just for pleasure. This is an extension, I think, of the fact that I've always told myself bedtime stories before going to sleep since...well, I can't remember a time when I wasn't telling myself bedtime stories.

There was a stretch of about four or five years when I didn't tell myself stories before going to sleep. This corresponded with a period when I found it impossible to read fiction for pleasure. I'd been studying and struggling with writing so intensely that in every piece of fiction I picked up I could see all the mechanisms and gears working. It ruined it for me. I don't think it's a coincidence that this was also the time I had one of the worst periods of writers' block in my life. And I don't think it's a coincidence that I started reading fiction and telling myself bedtime stories and writing again all at the same time. Some mechanism in my psyche apparently needs all of these things to feed each other.

And I'm not going to look into that too closely. These mechanisms are delicate, easily broken, and as long as the little machine of creation is purring along, I'm just going to accept it for what it is and enjoy the ride.

Which is what I eventually decided to do with fiction, too. I may still see the gears whirring, but I say to myself, "Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain," and move on.

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