A writer who stops writing isn't. That's the problem with being a writer, you're only a writer if you write. You can be a teacher and have summer vacation. You can be a lawyer and not have a case. You can be a mother even if you're not doing anything, even if not doing anything is so rare as to be thought mythical. But writing and being a writer requires daily production and lately, I haven't had the time, energy or drive to write. Writers if they're professionals, write when they're not inspired. They write 1000 words a day minimum even if it gets edited down to two.
I've done that but lately, it's been more, other things had to take priority and so writing always came last. After a week of letting writing be last, I began to feel shaky about being a writer, knowing I'd logged only about 2000 words that week, an all time low even factoring in weeks I took off from writing and those when I gave birth! Reading and researching still count toward growing one's skills as does editing, but to be a writer, you have to churn words the way Michael Phelps swims laps. You can't be a writer if you don't write, you can only be a want-a-be-writer if you make it a hobby.
So I spent the day looking for something, anything to carve out a column from, and found my writing senses decidedly dulled, blunted by the lack of use, as if brain atrophy had already taken over when I'd jogged those mental muscles for 365 days a year for now going on 7 years. It doesn't take much for the brain to stop playing with words, just neglect which turns to sloth which turns to never. I can easily recall days when columns hung low like ripe fruit, but today, the harvests are few and the labor much.
Fortunately, I belong to a writer's forum where the leader/president of the writing group discusses common aliments of writers, and saw myself in his piece. His advice? Write the blah blah blah until something better shows up. Pushing through the fog of writer's block is not because the author/writer doesn't have anything to write, but because the drive/ the heart of writing seems blunted and stunted. The writer doesn't feel like writing. His prescription? Pushing through by punishing your brain, writing an extra hour or an extra 1000 words.
So I've started here. I'll be over on the cloud working on Penelope until I get to 80K.
Showing posts with label writer's block. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writer's block. Show all posts
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Writer's Block and Spiritual Dryness
When I can't think of anything to post, there is a moment of absolute panic in my brain, like nothing will ever come forth that is smart, funny or interesting again. I've said all I can say, it's all been poured out and the well is empty.
Writing on paper, I crumple up page after page. Reading for inspiration reminds me of the fact that I am not inspired. Then, the real desperation sets in, as I grasp at everything and anything, trying to do life such that I can then turn it into an article. That only works if I actually forget I'm doing to create an article and start doing for real. As long as I strain to create an experience to write about, the experience remains false and the words, uninteresting.
No one writes about boredom because boredom is a great pain. It is also the plague of the modern age. We seek stimulation because we want something we know not what, and think if we just click on the right link, we will feel less dull, less disconnected from the world, from others. We want so much to belong. We do not anymore understand the alienation we have being in this world because we no longer consider the reality of our own fallen nature, we no longer acknowledge that the world or ourselves were created to be something fuller, better, more beautiful than what we are as a result of sin. We do not understand the holes in our hearts or lives because we no longer recognize them as holes. We think those holes have always been there, they will always be there, they are simply part of who we are and what we are, like belly buttons, so we drift from page to page, from activity to activity, hoping at some point to feel more of that aliveness we know we're supposed to have.
Creative boredom is the acute feeling that you will never create again, and to any artist, it is akin to purgatory. You may know the feeling will pass, but at the moment, the feeling feels permanent. This feeling is of course, vanity, as much if not most of writing is willing one's self to put words to paper, rather than waiting for inspiration to flash and drive the prose. Even the art one previously created seems alien, like someone else did that, because the person now trying to create, could not approximate what was done then.
It may seem silly to compare not having the thrill of crafting a whole world or a painting or whatnot, with receiving graces and blessings and spiritual gifts via a disciplined rigorous prayer life, but the artist is a creator and God is the ultimate artist, ergo lacking the creative spark to create is in a sense, losing a touch of the Divine that one dearly dearly loves. Not having it at one's fingertips is akin to forgetting how to play a particular piano piece or throw a baseball or ride a bicycle, we don't think we shouldn't have this ability, we know we had it, ergo it is frustrating to not have it now. It isn't that it is lost, only that it is veiled and we do not know how long we will have to endure this separation from that particular divine gift.
In prayer life, spiritual dryness also results in a panic, a sense that the emptiness will always be empty, the disconnect will never be resolved. You stare into your soul and see the cavernous hole and wonder how in Heaven's name, it can be made holy. Prayer feels dull and routine. You do it anyway, hoping at some point, you will forget yourself in the process and grace will take over. But the spiritual dullness, like the creative dry spell, is an odd sort of gift, demanding that the soul persevere in the process absent the joy of inspiration. It strengthens the will to obey, to grow, by not giving the simplest of rewards, the "feeling" of peace/grace that can come from prayer.
One has to be secure enough in one's faith to know, this dark night of the soul is by design. This dark night of the soul is a rare gift given to illustrate the soul's devotion to God. The dryness of inspiration in the artist life is also a time to till the mental soil, feed the brain, trust that the talent will reveal itself again if one only persists. But modern living distrusts stillness, distrust waiting, distrusts not doing, ergo it has trouble recognizing that this stillness in art or in prayer life, can be the fertile soil for much deeper work. It is a hard thing to accept. It is harder still to trust.
The easier thing to do is give a fuller voice to any doubts, worries or anxieties that come with being a creator. "You were never any good." "No one will read this." "You turned everyone off." "No one cares about what you write." All of those ugly doubt locust thoughts that usually get packed in a box and sent to the farthest corner of the brain, sense weakness and come crawling out to eat at whatever is left of the heart. They will only feel satisfied when the artist gives up and they can burp smugly and say, "Told you so." "You should never have tried in the first place."
The spiritual dimension of the attack on the artist seems clear when one considers these same sorts of mental pests plague any soul when they feel they've somehow wondered out into the dessert and God seems very very far away. My best advice? Pray. Work. And don't worry. The inspiration will come when you are least expecting, like falling in love, you will be struck by beauty and seek to create it. Rest. You may be exhausted. Worrying about not being able to create will not help you become creative. Allow time to grow your creative juices and trust that they will come.
Lastly, start creating. Anything. Use colors or clay or legos, write a letter, a poem, or a stupid parody, Don't worry about if anyone will like it, children create to enjoy the creating process. Write because the words are like blocks and you want to create a really cool castle with them. Draw because you love the color. Dance because you love the song. Pray because you love the God who made you.
The doing for its own sake, is the whole point.
Writing on paper, I crumple up page after page. Reading for inspiration reminds me of the fact that I am not inspired. Then, the real desperation sets in, as I grasp at everything and anything, trying to do life such that I can then turn it into an article. That only works if I actually forget I'm doing to create an article and start doing for real. As long as I strain to create an experience to write about, the experience remains false and the words, uninteresting.
No one writes about boredom because boredom is a great pain. It is also the plague of the modern age. We seek stimulation because we want something we know not what, and think if we just click on the right link, we will feel less dull, less disconnected from the world, from others. We want so much to belong. We do not anymore understand the alienation we have being in this world because we no longer consider the reality of our own fallen nature, we no longer acknowledge that the world or ourselves were created to be something fuller, better, more beautiful than what we are as a result of sin. We do not understand the holes in our hearts or lives because we no longer recognize them as holes. We think those holes have always been there, they will always be there, they are simply part of who we are and what we are, like belly buttons, so we drift from page to page, from activity to activity, hoping at some point to feel more of that aliveness we know we're supposed to have.
Creative boredom is the acute feeling that you will never create again, and to any artist, it is akin to purgatory. You may know the feeling will pass, but at the moment, the feeling feels permanent. This feeling is of course, vanity, as much if not most of writing is willing one's self to put words to paper, rather than waiting for inspiration to flash and drive the prose. Even the art one previously created seems alien, like someone else did that, because the person now trying to create, could not approximate what was done then.
It may seem silly to compare not having the thrill of crafting a whole world or a painting or whatnot, with receiving graces and blessings and spiritual gifts via a disciplined rigorous prayer life, but the artist is a creator and God is the ultimate artist, ergo lacking the creative spark to create is in a sense, losing a touch of the Divine that one dearly dearly loves. Not having it at one's fingertips is akin to forgetting how to play a particular piano piece or throw a baseball or ride a bicycle, we don't think we shouldn't have this ability, we know we had it, ergo it is frustrating to not have it now. It isn't that it is lost, only that it is veiled and we do not know how long we will have to endure this separation from that particular divine gift.
In prayer life, spiritual dryness also results in a panic, a sense that the emptiness will always be empty, the disconnect will never be resolved. You stare into your soul and see the cavernous hole and wonder how in Heaven's name, it can be made holy. Prayer feels dull and routine. You do it anyway, hoping at some point, you will forget yourself in the process and grace will take over. But the spiritual dullness, like the creative dry spell, is an odd sort of gift, demanding that the soul persevere in the process absent the joy of inspiration. It strengthens the will to obey, to grow, by not giving the simplest of rewards, the "feeling" of peace/grace that can come from prayer.
One has to be secure enough in one's faith to know, this dark night of the soul is by design. This dark night of the soul is a rare gift given to illustrate the soul's devotion to God. The dryness of inspiration in the artist life is also a time to till the mental soil, feed the brain, trust that the talent will reveal itself again if one only persists. But modern living distrusts stillness, distrust waiting, distrusts not doing, ergo it has trouble recognizing that this stillness in art or in prayer life, can be the fertile soil for much deeper work. It is a hard thing to accept. It is harder still to trust.
The easier thing to do is give a fuller voice to any doubts, worries or anxieties that come with being a creator. "You were never any good." "No one will read this." "You turned everyone off." "No one cares about what you write." All of those ugly doubt locust thoughts that usually get packed in a box and sent to the farthest corner of the brain, sense weakness and come crawling out to eat at whatever is left of the heart. They will only feel satisfied when the artist gives up and they can burp smugly and say, "Told you so." "You should never have tried in the first place."
The spiritual dimension of the attack on the artist seems clear when one considers these same sorts of mental pests plague any soul when they feel they've somehow wondered out into the dessert and God seems very very far away. My best advice? Pray. Work. And don't worry. The inspiration will come when you are least expecting, like falling in love, you will be struck by beauty and seek to create it. Rest. You may be exhausted. Worrying about not being able to create will not help you become creative. Allow time to grow your creative juices and trust that they will come.
Lastly, start creating. Anything. Use colors or clay or legos, write a letter, a poem, or a stupid parody, Don't worry about if anyone will like it, children create to enjoy the creating process. Write because the words are like blocks and you want to create a really cool castle with them. Draw because you love the color. Dance because you love the song. Pray because you love the God who made you.
The doing for its own sake, is the whole point.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Writer's Block Break
I worry when I take a break from blogging, that whatever it is that inspires writing will pack up its things and leave no forwarding address. But the past few weeks, I've stared at the page and the page has stared back and even pouring out my heart feels repetitive.
So I'm taking a break. I'm forcing myself to not blog (I'm sure I'll think of 6 topics in the next day because of it), but this blog will fall silent for the next two weeks. It will force me to 1) help get people ready for school and 2) allow me to store up stories...and let them bake a bit.
See you on August 25th.
So I'm taking a break. I'm forcing myself to not blog (I'm sure I'll think of 6 topics in the next day because of it), but this blog will fall silent for the next two weeks. It will force me to 1) help get people ready for school and 2) allow me to store up stories...and let them bake a bit.
See you on August 25th.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
You Know it's Writer's Block When...
10) None of your imaginary friends will play with you.
9) Trolling the Internet in desperate hopes of inspiration seems reasonable.
8) so does deliberately giving children markers without paper.
7) Everyone in your house seems way to calm, collected and normal for comfort.
6) No matter what you do, the page does not love you.
5) Start reading your old posts to see if anything merits a rerun.
4) You begin asking family members if they want to "guest blog." They are all backing away slowly, making no sudden moves.
3) Reading tips for ending writer's block don't bring hope.
2) Exercise and laundry start to seem oddly compelling.
1) You're reduced to using a cheap writing device, making a list and writing a meta-blog about writing, complaining about the problem that is causing the problem.
9) Trolling the Internet in desperate hopes of inspiration seems reasonable.
8) so does deliberately giving children markers without paper.
7) Everyone in your house seems way to calm, collected and normal for comfort.
6) No matter what you do, the page does not love you.
5) Start reading your old posts to see if anything merits a rerun.
4) You begin asking family members if they want to "guest blog." They are all backing away slowly, making no sudden moves.
3) Reading tips for ending writer's block don't bring hope.
2) Exercise and laundry start to seem oddly compelling.
1) You're reduced to using a cheap writing device, making a list and writing a meta-blog about writing, complaining about the problem that is causing the problem.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Prayers for Writers
A fellow blogger is struggling with writer's block. I know I hate when that happens to me and so I started to post, "Pray to Saint Anthony to find your muse." Then, for fun, I thought "How would you petition other saints to help get through this sort of a creativity block?"
St. Rita (I know it's obvious), because this feels impossible.
St. Martha: That I not be anxious about this.
St. George: That I slay this writer's block soon.
St. Thomas More: That I write truth.
St. Catherine of Sienna: That I write with passion and fire.
St. Christopher: That I find a way out of this world of lost thought.
St. Augustine: That I write with depth.
St. Francis of Assisi: That I write beauty.
Leave your own in the comments section.
St. Rita (I know it's obvious), because this feels impossible.
St. Martha: That I not be anxious about this.
St. George: That I slay this writer's block soon.
St. Thomas More: That I write truth.
St. Catherine of Sienna: That I write with passion and fire.
St. Christopher: That I find a way out of this world of lost thought.
St. Augustine: That I write with depth.
St. Francis of Assisi: That I write beauty.
Leave your own in the comments section.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Losing My Oasis
One of the things that keeps me joyful as I try to raise these ten people is writing. So when I can't think of anything to write, a bit of a panic sets in, what if that was it? What if I'm never as interesting or profound or funny or clever...what if no one reads this...what if I lost what was lent because the struggle for words would be healthier for my soul than not? Paranoia and arrogance all in one breathtakingly poor pitiful sentence, coupled with writer's block and a computer that keeps moving the cursor such that any thoughts I do scrape out onto the page get jumbled and misspelled and derailed before they are completed, will do that to me.
Not having something to write feels like becoming tasteless salt, it feels like a form of brain death that must be fought vigorously. I tried reading; hard stuff (James Joyce), stupid stuff (Internet), watching television , (the Super Bowl), classic movies (Westerns with my Dad), I tried listening to classical music, playing classical music, coloring in and outside of the lines, game playing with my kids, housework, hot baths and hot tea, push ups and yoga, chocolate, noise, prayer and silence and still, whatever seeds of thought were in my brain lay still and undiscovered, layered over by countless mundane and important things, errands, chores, need to do tasks, tests and doctor's appointments, tax forms and thank you notes, dinner and basketball practice, Saint Valentine's day plans and birthday presents to mail. The winter snow blankets the outside and inside, no green shoots are to be seen, just tracks that have been tread and retread, marring the pristine landscape.
My only hope, to take this brain that is tasteless salt and throw it out onto the canvas. Hopefully, being still salt, it can thaw the ice and one day soon, inspiration will grow again.
Hoping detailing all my attempts to come up with something will allow me to feel less blocked so I can write something.
Not having something to write feels like becoming tasteless salt, it feels like a form of brain death that must be fought vigorously. I tried reading; hard stuff (James Joyce), stupid stuff (Internet), watching television , (the Super Bowl), classic movies (Westerns with my Dad), I tried listening to classical music, playing classical music, coloring in and outside of the lines, game playing with my kids, housework, hot baths and hot tea, push ups and yoga, chocolate, noise, prayer and silence and still, whatever seeds of thought were in my brain lay still and undiscovered, layered over by countless mundane and important things, errands, chores, need to do tasks, tests and doctor's appointments, tax forms and thank you notes, dinner and basketball practice, Saint Valentine's day plans and birthday presents to mail. The winter snow blankets the outside and inside, no green shoots are to be seen, just tracks that have been tread and retread, marring the pristine landscape.
My only hope, to take this brain that is tasteless salt and throw it out onto the canvas. Hopefully, being still salt, it can thaw the ice and one day soon, inspiration will grow again.
Hoping detailing all my attempts to come up with something will allow me to feel less blocked so I can write something.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Brain on the Fritz
Sunday I used a re-run because I couldn't think of anything to write. Since I'm still suffering from writer's block, I thought I'd try a list but I couldn't think of anything to write in the list, so I thought I'd try a recipe but my brain is fried and fresh fried stale brain isn't appetizing.
Then I thought I'd tell you a funny story about my kids but they were very helpful today and there was no story. So I'm here with Monday night and an empty mind.
It's been a long dry spell and I've tried reading books on writing humor, writing prompts and the brain just says "Gone Fishing."
Ten Things I'd write about if my brain weren't on vacation:
10) Why I hate the soccer/sucker mom season. I despise the mad scramble for shin guards. Evening practices after six for first graders is insane. Having to pretend that there is no score when everyone knows there is one, also insane. No kid ever repeats the mantra, "We don't keep score." if they won, but everyone does if you lose. And the most important part of any sport is always, who brought snack and what did they bring?
9) In an attempt to restore order to chaos and repeal the first law of thermal dynamics, I have resolved to fill one bag for charity and one bag for trash every day until the house no longer feels as if it is imploding with stuff no one uses and no one fits.
8) Why does no one hear the morning alarm clock but me?
7) I miss chocolate....and ice cream....and orange juice and apples and pancakes with syrup. 13 weeks to go.
6) Can't wait to see Megamind. Hope it's good. It looks hilarious.
5) Why it is that hearing that it's not that I'm crazy or stupid because I disagree with passing bills one doesn't bother to read and which require massive pay-offs, kickbacks, waivers and specialized deals for specific constituencies and which do cost more than advertised, not do what they were designed or sold as being able to do or being designed to do, it's just that I'm scared and mislead doesn't exactly make me feel warm and fuzzy towards the President or those who engaged in this sort of legislative malpractice.
4) The problem with successfully completing home repairs is, bragging seems out of place and yet, warranted. Hey! Guess What! I fixed two doors. Yes I made my kids and my husband inspect and try out the door I hung myself --drilled the holes for the screws and everything. The door works the way doors are supposed to work...film at eleven.
3) Not being able to write is like having a giant impenetrable wall in one's mind that reduces every experience to "so what?" even if the experience is grand or moving or traumatic, it is like being held in a mental stasis field but with all the emotions rolling around and the observations, but no way to really share them in a story form.
2) 13 weeks from the due date....my brain just exploded.
1) All parental pain has meaning. The other night my daughters were perpetually popping out of bed. After an hour of "Good Night." "Good Night, I love you." "GOOD night." "Good NIGHT!" and "GET TO BED." and "GOOD NIGHT!" My two year old son hearing all this repetition, turned and said, "Good Night."
I'll try to get my brain back on line by the end of this week. Thanks folks.
Then I thought I'd tell you a funny story about my kids but they were very helpful today and there was no story. So I'm here with Monday night and an empty mind.
It's been a long dry spell and I've tried reading books on writing humor, writing prompts and the brain just says "Gone Fishing."
Ten Things I'd write about if my brain weren't on vacation:
10) Why I hate the soccer/sucker mom season. I despise the mad scramble for shin guards. Evening practices after six for first graders is insane. Having to pretend that there is no score when everyone knows there is one, also insane. No kid ever repeats the mantra, "We don't keep score." if they won, but everyone does if you lose. And the most important part of any sport is always, who brought snack and what did they bring?
9) In an attempt to restore order to chaos and repeal the first law of thermal dynamics, I have resolved to fill one bag for charity and one bag for trash every day until the house no longer feels as if it is imploding with stuff no one uses and no one fits.
8) Why does no one hear the morning alarm clock but me?
7) I miss chocolate....and ice cream....and orange juice and apples and pancakes with syrup. 13 weeks to go.
6) Can't wait to see Megamind. Hope it's good. It looks hilarious.
5) Why it is that hearing that it's not that I'm crazy or stupid because I disagree with passing bills one doesn't bother to read and which require massive pay-offs, kickbacks, waivers and specialized deals for specific constituencies and which do cost more than advertised, not do what they were designed or sold as being able to do or being designed to do, it's just that I'm scared and mislead doesn't exactly make me feel warm and fuzzy towards the President or those who engaged in this sort of legislative malpractice.
4) The problem with successfully completing home repairs is, bragging seems out of place and yet, warranted. Hey! Guess What! I fixed two doors. Yes I made my kids and my husband inspect and try out the door I hung myself --drilled the holes for the screws and everything. The door works the way doors are supposed to work...film at eleven.
3) Not being able to write is like having a giant impenetrable wall in one's mind that reduces every experience to "so what?" even if the experience is grand or moving or traumatic, it is like being held in a mental stasis field but with all the emotions rolling around and the observations, but no way to really share them in a story form.
2) 13 weeks from the due date....my brain just exploded.
1) All parental pain has meaning. The other night my daughters were perpetually popping out of bed. After an hour of "Good Night." "Good Night, I love you." "GOOD night." "Good NIGHT!" and "GET TO BED." and "GOOD NIGHT!" My two year old son hearing all this repetition, turned and said, "Good Night."
I'll try to get my brain back on line by the end of this week. Thanks folks.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Between Writer's Block, Summer and Vacation, Nothing Got Done
Lately, if you've noticed a dearth of postings and a lot of reruns, it's my brain's fault. It went on summer vacation and neglected to tell me. The daily consumption of diet coke doesn't seem to have the same caffeine inducing powers it holds in the winter. Summer just slows me down all the way around. I like floating in the pool rather than swimming laps; and strolling rather than jogging, running or even brisk power walking. I'm a nert gradually becoming more "in"nert as the dog days of summer progress.
Still, it's not that I'm not thinking or doing or thinking of doing, it's just never the list of what needs to be done that takes priority. If someone says, "Hey let's go to a movie, library, hike, go-carts, insert fun thing here," I'm there and I'll even help get it going; it's just the self initiating part of me seems to have hung up a semi-permanent sign at least for the three months the kids are off school, "Gone Fishing."
There was a time when I would have understood the wisdom of storing up experience, rather than wanting to perpetually pour it all onto a page, but that was before I discovered my brain was in reality, lost in the 100 acre woods.
My writing ego whines and demands that I respond with Tigger like reflexes to the temptation to become Pooh. And I realize, at least part of my brain is as neurotic as Rabbit while sounding as pompous as Owl. Having never been passive about anything, the instant I start slowing up on even generating material, the nervous writer part of me starts worrying, "Why?" Did I use up all my reserves? Will I ever be funny again? Have I lost it? Did I ever have it? And she nags as I go about the day, wanting me to eat more fish and drink acai juice and do Sudoku and crosswords to reanimate that part of my head that spins a tale and won't let go until I sit down and write, but sitting down to read, I find the words keep spilling off the page before they ever make it to my eyes. I sit down, I fall asleep. After about a week of a dry spell, the writer part of me got anxious.
Quick Sherry, start organizing something: a party, a trip, an event. Go outside. Organize the inside. Do Something! Read a really hard book from that list of "good" books you haven't read yet. Watch a serious movie that other people consider important. Listen to classical music while exercising. Go! Go! Go! Do! Do! Do!
Until she has me tied up in knots worrying that I will never write good stuff again. "Probably a good thing." says my Eeyore.
And every action that I do that doesn't then result in inspiration makes the writer part more irritated. "Well that didn't work, try something else." Until I got fed up and turned off the computer and said, "Enough. I'm going to go eat some cherry chocolate chip ice cream." "For inspiration?" My writer self asks nervously. "No." I answered, "Because it will taste good."
And somewhere, later, when I'm not trying, the writing returns and the saner part of me like Christopher Robin shakes his head at the rest of us running about, searching for a thing to say and a reason and at how all that bluster and activity was time better spent swimming or making a pie or just allowing the ideas to drift along the way leaves scattered on a sluggish little stream flow. "This is a good thing." the writer brain says as it allows the ice cream to drip a bit. "However, you should have thought of this first."
The rest of me knows better than to respond "Silly old bear."
Still, it's not that I'm not thinking or doing or thinking of doing, it's just never the list of what needs to be done that takes priority. If someone says, "Hey let's go to a movie, library, hike, go-carts, insert fun thing here," I'm there and I'll even help get it going; it's just the self initiating part of me seems to have hung up a semi-permanent sign at least for the three months the kids are off school, "Gone Fishing."
There was a time when I would have understood the wisdom of storing up experience, rather than wanting to perpetually pour it all onto a page, but that was before I discovered my brain was in reality, lost in the 100 acre woods.
My writing ego whines and demands that I respond with Tigger like reflexes to the temptation to become Pooh. And I realize, at least part of my brain is as neurotic as Rabbit while sounding as pompous as Owl. Having never been passive about anything, the instant I start slowing up on even generating material, the nervous writer part of me starts worrying, "Why?" Did I use up all my reserves? Will I ever be funny again? Have I lost it? Did I ever have it? And she nags as I go about the day, wanting me to eat more fish and drink acai juice and do Sudoku and crosswords to reanimate that part of my head that spins a tale and won't let go until I sit down and write, but sitting down to read, I find the words keep spilling off the page before they ever make it to my eyes. I sit down, I fall asleep. After about a week of a dry spell, the writer part of me got anxious.
Quick Sherry, start organizing something: a party, a trip, an event. Go outside. Organize the inside. Do Something! Read a really hard book from that list of "good" books you haven't read yet. Watch a serious movie that other people consider important. Listen to classical music while exercising. Go! Go! Go! Do! Do! Do!
Until she has me tied up in knots worrying that I will never write good stuff again. "Probably a good thing." says my Eeyore.
And every action that I do that doesn't then result in inspiration makes the writer part more irritated. "Well that didn't work, try something else." Until I got fed up and turned off the computer and said, "Enough. I'm going to go eat some cherry chocolate chip ice cream." "For inspiration?" My writer self asks nervously. "No." I answered, "Because it will taste good."
And somewhere, later, when I'm not trying, the writing returns and the saner part of me like Christopher Robin shakes his head at the rest of us running about, searching for a thing to say and a reason and at how all that bluster and activity was time better spent swimming or making a pie or just allowing the ideas to drift along the way leaves scattered on a sluggish little stream flow. "This is a good thing." the writer brain says as it allows the ice cream to drip a bit. "However, you should have thought of this first."
The rest of me knows better than to respond "Silly old bear."
Monday, June 30, 2008
Reasons I didn't Post Sunday
There are many reasons for not writing in a blog on a regular schedule, not the least of which is that moment when one tries to disguise a grocery list as a humor piece. I haven't reached that point yet, but this week was close.
So Sunday, I didn't post. It's not that I didn't try. I tried writing about my child that turns into Moaning Myrtle whenever I ask her to do a chore. She complains, stomps her feet and then in a fit of inspiration, says, "I need to go to the bathroom." Then she disappears. But it turned out to be a one joke wonder.
Next, I tried to explore the issues of a brave new world, as my son who Never dances, not with his mother, sisters, Aunts or Grandparents, went to a Quincinera and danced the night away with a girl who ASKED him. I have tried to be respectful and not give him, as his best friends did, a new meaning for the words, Spanish Inquisition.
Then there's the fact that we threw a birthday party for my six year old. Her birthday date was actually 90 days ago, so this was her sixth year's birthday observed. We had a fairy princess party, complete with a castle and pin the tail on the unicorn and musical thrones (chairs with blankets thrown over them). Rain put the kebash on flying races outside but otherwise, they had a great time except when the birthday girl got mad when she didn't win musical chairs. She stomped out of the room and into the closet and slammed the door. Letting my oldest take over the music and running of the games, I went to fetch the very sad Tinkerbell. "I hate musical chairs! I never win at anything!" She sulked.
"You're being a bad sport."
"I want to be a bad sport."
"Fine, then you'll miss the rest of the games." I shut the door and went back to the party. One of the parents there gave me a look. "She's crying." I explained.
They looked shocked. "It's her party and she'll cry if she wants to."
Five minutes later, The Birthday Princess Fairy Tinkerbell returned to play Duck Duck Goose.
Lastly, I have taken on the Fall Carnival at my kids' school. The day of the Festival? My due date for number 9.
Why?
Motivationally, it's really fun. Who is going to say they are more busy than me?
It's a compelling arguement. Even my pastor called to say, "Sherry, this certifies that you are insane."
It also allows me to preemptively get my hours for the school taken care of via summer meetings and planning. So, if you're in the area, come to the school carnival on September 27th. It should be a lot of fun. I'll try to write a whole piece for Tuesday.
Best wishes on a great week folks.
Sherry
So Sunday, I didn't post. It's not that I didn't try. I tried writing about my child that turns into Moaning Myrtle whenever I ask her to do a chore. She complains, stomps her feet and then in a fit of inspiration, says, "I need to go to the bathroom." Then she disappears. But it turned out to be a one joke wonder.
Next, I tried to explore the issues of a brave new world, as my son who Never dances, not with his mother, sisters, Aunts or Grandparents, went to a Quincinera and danced the night away with a girl who ASKED him. I have tried to be respectful and not give him, as his best friends did, a new meaning for the words, Spanish Inquisition.
Then there's the fact that we threw a birthday party for my six year old. Her birthday date was actually 90 days ago, so this was her sixth year's birthday observed. We had a fairy princess party, complete with a castle and pin the tail on the unicorn and musical thrones (chairs with blankets thrown over them). Rain put the kebash on flying races outside but otherwise, they had a great time except when the birthday girl got mad when she didn't win musical chairs. She stomped out of the room and into the closet and slammed the door. Letting my oldest take over the music and running of the games, I went to fetch the very sad Tinkerbell. "I hate musical chairs! I never win at anything!" She sulked.
"You're being a bad sport."
"I want to be a bad sport."
"Fine, then you'll miss the rest of the games." I shut the door and went back to the party. One of the parents there gave me a look. "She's crying." I explained.
They looked shocked. "It's her party and she'll cry if she wants to."
Five minutes later, The Birthday Princess Fairy Tinkerbell returned to play Duck Duck Goose.
Lastly, I have taken on the Fall Carnival at my kids' school. The day of the Festival? My due date for number 9.
Why?
Motivationally, it's really fun. Who is going to say they are more busy than me?
It's a compelling arguement. Even my pastor called to say, "Sherry, this certifies that you are insane."
It also allows me to preemptively get my hours for the school taken care of via summer meetings and planning. So, if you're in the area, come to the school carnival on September 27th. It should be a lot of fun. I'll try to write a whole piece for Tuesday.
Best wishes on a great week folks.
Sherry
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Visits from the Writing Fairy
At three am, I am the most brilliant writer on the planet. Or I could be. Every night, the writing fairy visits around that time and wakes me up with plot twists for the book that I’ve been working on for over a year, or ideas for blog shorts or concepts for columns. I’ve tried leaving a pencil and paper next to the bed but that means waking up and writing. Most of these evenings, the conversation in my brain goes a bit like this:
“And you could write a piece on the gargoyle…your daughter’s current obsession with gargling every beverage she’s offered or procures…”
“That’s stupid.”
“No…really, there’s the pun… gargle/girl…you like puns…and the fact that one time her brother laughed and so she laughed and the milk shot out…”
“That’s just gross.”
“And then the time she tried to gargle spaghetti.”
“Okay. Solid foods should not be tried even by professionals.”
“See? It’s a good idea.”
“I don’t know. It’s hard to stretch to more than 200 words.”
“Just write it down with the pencil.” She offers eagerly.
I look around. At some point in the day, someone needed a pencil and I gave it to them. Getting a pencil means getting up.
Alas, inspiration does not care about my need for rapid eye movement, or the fact that I’m six months pregnant and sleep is a precious commodity with a market value greater than the current asking price for a barrel of oil in my life’s version of Wallstreet.
“If you don’t write it down, you’ll lose it. Look, I’ll start your column off this way, here’s the first line…”
“I’m getting up. I’m going to the bathroom, I’m getting a drink of water, but I’m Not firing up the computer. I’m going back to sleep.”
I get up. I do the things I said I would do. I get back into bed.
The writing fairy is back. She’s been busy thinking about deus ex machina as a underpinning element of the book. She’s come up with all these examples and even has helpful resources I need to check out. I should email my brother for scenes of the Mediterreanean. I should write that scene where Helen and Hector and Priam and Paris are playing a game of some sort, tiles or dice, rather like gin, on the high top of the tower of Illiam and see on the horizon, the very first ship.
“Oh…that’s good. I can see that scene…but I don’t know what games they played in ancient Troy.” My will is crumbling.
“There’s always the internet…and you have those two books you haven’t read on Sparta and Ancient Greece…” The writing fairy senses weakness.
I look at the clock. It’s not decent. I can’t even rationalize this on the grounds that I wanted an early start on the day it’s so late. Irritated, I find a crayon and jot down a few notes on the pad. It’s 3:23 am. “I’m going back to sleep. Just, please, please, please, visit me tomorrow when I sit down at the computer after lunch okay?”
“It’s now or never. Tomorrow, these will be all gone unless you write now.”
And I know it’s true. I ruminate over all the times I’ve had ideas I knew were great to write about that are gossamer threads by the middle of the afternoon. Telling myself that I only think they’re great because I can’t remember doesn’t help.
The bed seems like an extravagant place to be wasting time. Stubbornly I lie there and it’s already too late. I think about how I could order the chapters in the book and the scaffolding that I need to lay in for the middle. I think about uninterrupted time at the computer that is 100% guilt free, as I am neglecting no one but myself.
The scenes are painted before me in lush detail. The dialogue is even good and keeps going. I’m trying to make myself repeat the words but it’s moving faster than I can. The crayon isn’t helping.
I’m up. I’m in the kitchen. The computer button is pushed. In the thirty seconds it takes for the machine to warm up, the writing fairy has left and I pull up the page and stare at the white sheet and wonder…what was it I wanted to say? Gibberish pours fourth and I keep typing. Time slips away and suddenly, an hour after I started, I remember, it’s really late. Saving and feeling as virtuous as if I’ve gone to the gym, I return to bed. The writing fairy returns with more ideas but I’m tired.
“These ideas are BETTER than the ones you had before…”
“Really?”
“Really, you could do a theological piece for the paper on the spiritual gifts of summer…”
“And get paid?”
“And get paid!”
And I scribble a few more things with the red crayon before the brain hits a solid wall. As soon as I turn off the light, I’m dreaming.
The next morning,I look at the red markings and wonder if I can make them out. I start to remember what I already wrote and it seems tired and awkward, adolescent and trite.
The next time I’m thoughtful about writing, it’s after 12 noon. I fire up the laptop hoping there’s something worth saving from my late night indulgence. I try to remember the ideas that I let slip by but all I can think of is breakfast this morning and how today, my toddler tried to sing happy birthday while eating fruit loops with milk with her mouth open, and even worse, she taught the baby and her older brother how to join the chorus.
As I stare at the screen with an odd mixture of Ancient Greece and the theological implications of summer and expectorated circular cereal, all I can think is... ”Man! I could use some sleep.”
“And you could write a piece on the gargoyle…your daughter’s current obsession with gargling every beverage she’s offered or procures…”
“That’s stupid.”
“No…really, there’s the pun… gargle/girl…you like puns…and the fact that one time her brother laughed and so she laughed and the milk shot out…”
“That’s just gross.”
“And then the time she tried to gargle spaghetti.”
“Okay. Solid foods should not be tried even by professionals.”
“See? It’s a good idea.”
“I don’t know. It’s hard to stretch to more than 200 words.”
“Just write it down with the pencil.” She offers eagerly.
I look around. At some point in the day, someone needed a pencil and I gave it to them. Getting a pencil means getting up.
Alas, inspiration does not care about my need for rapid eye movement, or the fact that I’m six months pregnant and sleep is a precious commodity with a market value greater than the current asking price for a barrel of oil in my life’s version of Wallstreet.
“If you don’t write it down, you’ll lose it. Look, I’ll start your column off this way, here’s the first line…”
“I’m getting up. I’m going to the bathroom, I’m getting a drink of water, but I’m Not firing up the computer. I’m going back to sleep.”
I get up. I do the things I said I would do. I get back into bed.
The writing fairy is back. She’s been busy thinking about deus ex machina as a underpinning element of the book. She’s come up with all these examples and even has helpful resources I need to check out. I should email my brother for scenes of the Mediterreanean. I should write that scene where Helen and Hector and Priam and Paris are playing a game of some sort, tiles or dice, rather like gin, on the high top of the tower of Illiam and see on the horizon, the very first ship.
“Oh…that’s good. I can see that scene…but I don’t know what games they played in ancient Troy.” My will is crumbling.
“There’s always the internet…and you have those two books you haven’t read on Sparta and Ancient Greece…” The writing fairy senses weakness.
I look at the clock. It’s not decent. I can’t even rationalize this on the grounds that I wanted an early start on the day it’s so late. Irritated, I find a crayon and jot down a few notes on the pad. It’s 3:23 am. “I’m going back to sleep. Just, please, please, please, visit me tomorrow when I sit down at the computer after lunch okay?”
“It’s now or never. Tomorrow, these will be all gone unless you write now.”
And I know it’s true. I ruminate over all the times I’ve had ideas I knew were great to write about that are gossamer threads by the middle of the afternoon. Telling myself that I only think they’re great because I can’t remember doesn’t help.
The bed seems like an extravagant place to be wasting time. Stubbornly I lie there and it’s already too late. I think about how I could order the chapters in the book and the scaffolding that I need to lay in for the middle. I think about uninterrupted time at the computer that is 100% guilt free, as I am neglecting no one but myself.
The scenes are painted before me in lush detail. The dialogue is even good and keeps going. I’m trying to make myself repeat the words but it’s moving faster than I can. The crayon isn’t helping.
I’m up. I’m in the kitchen. The computer button is pushed. In the thirty seconds it takes for the machine to warm up, the writing fairy has left and I pull up the page and stare at the white sheet and wonder…what was it I wanted to say? Gibberish pours fourth and I keep typing. Time slips away and suddenly, an hour after I started, I remember, it’s really late. Saving and feeling as virtuous as if I’ve gone to the gym, I return to bed. The writing fairy returns with more ideas but I’m tired.
“These ideas are BETTER than the ones you had before…”
“Really?”
“Really, you could do a theological piece for the paper on the spiritual gifts of summer…”
“And get paid?”
“And get paid!”
And I scribble a few more things with the red crayon before the brain hits a solid wall. As soon as I turn off the light, I’m dreaming.
The next morning,I look at the red markings and wonder if I can make them out. I start to remember what I already wrote and it seems tired and awkward, adolescent and trite.
The next time I’m thoughtful about writing, it’s after 12 noon. I fire up the laptop hoping there’s something worth saving from my late night indulgence. I try to remember the ideas that I let slip by but all I can think of is breakfast this morning and how today, my toddler tried to sing happy birthday while eating fruit loops with milk with her mouth open, and even worse, she taught the baby and her older brother how to join the chorus.
As I stare at the screen with an odd mixture of Ancient Greece and the theological implications of summer and expectorated circular cereal, all I can think is... ”Man! I could use some sleep.”
Monday, December 10, 2007
Real Writer's Block
“What are you doing?” my husband asked as he approached the computer desk, sandwich and milk in hand, eager for an hour or two of Civilizations IV.
“Trying to write a column for a contest.” I replied.
“Doing what exactly?”
“Writing about family life. It’s a contest and the winner gets $300 bucks. The entry fee is $11. See?”
He glanced at the screen. “You aren’t going to use our real names are you? You can’t write about our camping trip! We’d look like idiots, setting up tents at 10 o’clock at night, pushing the button on the SUV every two minutes to give us light, the baby crying, the kids howling for food, me throwing pop-tarts and cokes at them for dinner, and the nearest bathroom a 6/10 of a mile away.”
“You left out the giant cricket on the toilet seat.”
“No.”
“Okay, I’ve got another idea.”
“Like what?”
“How about when Lisa found a snake in the bathroom while she was potty training…”
“You can’t write about that, people will think we live in a vermin infested home!”
“For $300 dollars, we could call Orkin.”
“I caught that snake for you, thank you very much.”
“And I was very grateful. It’s a good story. It has a happy ending.”
“Do you want my mother to read this?”
……
“Okay. Starting over. How about when David was the solo in the Christmas pageant and knocked over his music stand during the introduction? Or the time the coach threatened to hot glue his shoe laces together if he didn’t tie them?”
“Must all your stories be embarrassing about us?”
“No, I could write about how I totaled the car the day it was paid off. I could also write about the time we took all of them to your brother’s rehearsal dinner and they all threw up…”
“Absolutely not. Look, I’m proud of you and your writing, but I’m just not sure I’m ready for us to look like the Bumpuses from next door to the whole world.”
“We won’t really, we’ll just look like, well, us.”
“That’s what worries me.”
“You know, I might not win.”
“What do you mean you won’t win? We’re not funny enough? I’ll be insulted if we don’t at least place.”
“Why don’t you play CIV IV? I’ll watch.”
“Trying to write a column for a contest.” I replied.
“Doing what exactly?”
“Writing about family life. It’s a contest and the winner gets $300 bucks. The entry fee is $11. See?”
He glanced at the screen. “You aren’t going to use our real names are you? You can’t write about our camping trip! We’d look like idiots, setting up tents at 10 o’clock at night, pushing the button on the SUV every two minutes to give us light, the baby crying, the kids howling for food, me throwing pop-tarts and cokes at them for dinner, and the nearest bathroom a 6/10 of a mile away.”
“You left out the giant cricket on the toilet seat.”
“No.”
“Okay, I’ve got another idea.”
“Like what?”
“How about when Lisa found a snake in the bathroom while she was potty training…”
“You can’t write about that, people will think we live in a vermin infested home!”
“For $300 dollars, we could call Orkin.”
“I caught that snake for you, thank you very much.”
“And I was very grateful. It’s a good story. It has a happy ending.”
“Do you want my mother to read this?”
……
“Okay. Starting over. How about when David was the solo in the Christmas pageant and knocked over his music stand during the introduction? Or the time the coach threatened to hot glue his shoe laces together if he didn’t tie them?”
“Must all your stories be embarrassing about us?”
“No, I could write about how I totaled the car the day it was paid off. I could also write about the time we took all of them to your brother’s rehearsal dinner and they all threw up…”
“Absolutely not. Look, I’m proud of you and your writing, but I’m just not sure I’m ready for us to look like the Bumpuses from next door to the whole world.”
“We won’t really, we’ll just look like, well, us.”
“That’s what worries me.”
“You know, I might not win.”
“What do you mean you won’t win? We’re not funny enough? I’ll be insulted if we don’t at least place.”
“Why don’t you play CIV IV? I’ll watch.”
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