a prize for writing

searching for the invisible

Ah, the muse. I need really to get me one of those. Something or someone I keep chained in the basement (which I don’t actually have) to tap into for inspiration whenever I find myself dry – like blood for the vampire.

All summer, I’ve had trouble writing new scenes. Seeing them, as writer’s say. The how and why of it is nothing I could ever begin to explain. Why do we see made up worlds in the first place? If truth is stranger than fiction, with the abundance of wild and true stories in the world, the non-writer (non-creator) might wonder why anyone would devote years of their lives on the make believe. (And, so frequently, sacrificing time with our real-life friends and family to be spent with the people that live in our heads.)

All I can says is its because they don’t feel make believe. Not this far into it. Mostly, latlely, its as though I’m working on a documentary – or penning a biography. I know a scene or piece of dialogue is right when it feels in my head like a fact. When I can see every detail of the room and the characters go about their business like I’m not even there. Like I’m not in camouflage, tucked in the corner with my pen and pad, my video camera trying to take it all down. Trying to get all the facts straight. So that I can go home and write about it when it’s over.

So what do you do when they stop letting you in the front door? When they figure you out, catch the reporter listening in on their conversations, the paparazzi in the tree out the window making their picture. And they pull down the shades. Cut the phone lines. Stop big brother from watching before you get the real dirt on them. The what it is they have hiding that makes all the rest of your facts seem like just junk for the tabloids.

Here is what my book has so far: the bones. Scenes sprinkled throughout the storyline with these holes where the real meat goes. And all I’ve got are these clues. Little scraps of things taped in a notebook that I keep trying to make sense out of. And it’s not really working.

So the writer’s block continues.. and don’t nobody it’s because I’m not trying.

a trip to the book store

While at Barnes & Noble: $24 for a book on how to name characters? Seems to me, if you need this, maybe you shouldn’t be writing. See also, How To Write Funny.

writer’s block…

I haven’t written a single new word of my novel in almost two months. People are asking (so I’ve stopped replying to emails.) Last night, I skipped workshop because there was nothing new to read, nothing the group hasn’t already heard a dozen incarnations of. It’s not that I’ve stopped loving my story. (It’s like a child, I have no other option.) But this world in my head, I either see it or hear it. Right now, I see it. Fantastic. This is getting me nowhere….

Writing like teeth…

Bob Schnieder / Changing Your Mind

I don’t know why its so hard. The living creatively part is what’s easy: make something new every day. Done and done. But this business of actually creating something worth showing, worth reading out loud, that part I keep putting off like a root canal. (continued below)

Tomorrow is Thursday. Workshop day. I’ve had a month off to rest, to work on writing a new scene (at the very least, a new page) at a leisurely pace. With the time and attention I usually moan about wishing I had. But the most I’ve squeezed out is a clever sentence or two. Totally random. Totally not having anything to do with anything. And, probably, whatever scrap of paper I wrote them down on, I wouldn’t be able to find now.

What I have isn’t writer’s block. It’s a case of the waiting-for-night-before-term-paper-is-due adrenalin rush. That bad habit picked up in college I never could drop. My workshop instructor is probably right: if it weren’t for these weekly meetings, I’d maybe never write anything. Ever.

But why is that?? If writing is something I love, what’s with the need to trick myself into it by creating faux deadlines? Anymore, it’s the only reason I still take the workshop: for the deadlines. I might as well be paying someone to put a gun to my head. In fact, that might help….

Anyone else? Or I am alone in my freakdom here?

things taped to paper

imagine this is texas, he says.

and now for something upbeat

your hand’s going to rot off, he says.

it’s just a house…

Neal takes the screwdriver out of his pocket, works at removing a glass knob from the door. The rotted wood gives and Neal yanks the entire piece out in one pull, leaving a splintered hole in its place. On Jude’s face is a cringe, like this hurts. Neal rolls his eyes. “It’s just a house,” he says, “Not something alive.”

“A corpse isn’t either,” Jude says. “Still, you wouldn’t rip a thing off one like that.”

drawing pictures of birds

As of today, this project has officially been under construction for a million years (admittedly, this number might be exaggerated.) My updates are becoming few and far apart. The book, as it stands, is a measly 100 pages – so why does it feel like so much more? The artwork is all but completely stalled. Never mind the day job. Never mind the family and friends, or attending to my car’s service engine light. I should be further along by this point. There should be more to show for all my hard work. There’s not.

I did, however, manage to scan in a few new pieces from the collection. They are as close to finished as I can imagine for now. My plan is to have a showing in Los Angeles this summer (but don’t hold me to that.)