Recently in writing Category

My head's been in a strange place of late.

While my shoulder heals well ahead of schedule, my sleep still falls victim to it's ache. My normal sleep habits - a mess at the best of times - are now completely fractured.

It's no secret that I've been had hell's own time writing recently, to the point where I had lost all care or interest in it. But over the last couple of weeks, I've begun to feel the return of some faint muse.

Characters are starting to regain their voices. Only, they are doing so in the middle of the night.

Every night this week, when I'm just down far enough into the well of sleep that I can't drag back out without struggle (or caffeine), I start thinking of things I need to write. Characters, stories, themes, settings.

I actually got up one night over the weekend, with this piece of dialog in my head:

"Where'd this come from," she asked me, running a finger over the faintly puckered skin above my right ear.

The scar itself was numb, but the skin around it was oddly sensitive. It tingled when she traced it's jagged outline.

"Walked into a door," I said.

She stroked my scalp, the day and a half of stubble making a faint scraping sound.

"I like it," she said.

It wasn't much, but it was enough. I could visualize the woman - her short, stylishly cut hair in some perfect honey shade, her mellow voice, her skin tan and just beginning to show her fourty years. I knew the narrator; a sort of stock character out of my head - big, road-worn, a bit taciturn, and with dark secrets in his past. I knew how they wound up together, and where they were (her bed, with late afternoon sun through expensive curtains, fading light on sex-tossed covers the color of caramel. I had her entire house in my head, her colors, her expensive, understated taste. I even knew what car was parked (somewhat crookedly, like she'd been in a hurry) in the carport beside her house.

I knew the conversation, up until he opens his mouth, pauses, and then begins to tell her his story. And then it ran out. I didn't know what the story was. Or to be more specific, while I knew what story he'd tell her, I didn't know what THIS story was, that I was telling.

I wrote it down, and saved it. A small victory; the first bit of fiction that's gotten all the way out of my head and onto (virtual) paper in more months than I can remember.

But it's been that way every night. Last night, a pair of characters wandered into my head and tried to talk to me. A female young traveler, and the mate of some craft, making a lonely traverse. I don't know if this was a ship crossing bodies of water, or some spaceship crossing unimaginable gulfs, or an airship in some steampunk past-future. But I could hear her voice, and hear him tell her how everyone else on the ship slept, his low rank leaving him on the bridge.

They never got to the point where it became a story; just a setting, faces, emotions (pride, loneliness) and an physical environment of cold and isolation.

Today, I tried to write a bit of that down, but I had nothing. I couldn't summon the scene, merely it's description. Like all the veins of creativity I've encountered between sleep and wake, it was small, and not found again once lost.

Inspiration, for me, is profoundly elusive. I have never found a way to turn it on, and so often find it slipping. The muse of distraction speaks more loudly, always, than that of creation. But at least I begin to hear those whispers. I've missed the voice of creative inspiration.

A short story in progress. This is as far as I am, and now I'm at that point where I have to choose between endings before I go on; the complicated one that'll turn this into a novella, or the easy one that'll leave it a reasonable length.

*shrug*

I've done a first pass edit to fix typos and made minor re-writes, but it's still raw.

This is the first chapter of a short story I'm working on.

Very raw, no re-working yet, but just because it's the first thing I've had to post in ages.

"I don't belive in writer's block", Neil Gaiman said. "I belive that what writers get, is 'stuck'."

"Writers, you see, are very good at convincing people of things. What that means is that when they get stuck, they prefer something grand and dramatic; 'I have writers block' sounds very much better that 'I'm stuck'."

The quote above - mis-quote actually, because I'm quoting from memory and can't possibly have gotten it right - was something Neil said at a reading last year in Palo Alto. And it got a huge laugh, I think more from the writers in the crowd than anyone else. Because writers know how true the statement is, that we're very good at convincing people of things.

However, I don't agree with him about the block.

It's very glib, for example, for musicians to assert that it's easy to play an instrument. It's easy for those annoying people with perfect pitch to tune a guitar. That's because they happen to have been born with a gift, which they then developed So, sure, it's effortless for them.

The thing, though, is that not everyone has that pitch. Some have to work very long and very hard to develop it. I can, barely, and with a great deal of work, get a guitar vaguely close to 'in tune'. That's taken years, and a lot of practice at detecting differences in pitch. I had to teach my brain to sort of what my ear couldn't.

Some people are born storytellers. They drop out of the womb screaming, and from that moment, the language needs to get out. Gaiman is one such; he bleeds stories. He has more ideas that any three normal writers, and can't stop having ideas. He had to become a writer, because what else, in these days, can someone like that do? It was either than or be the guy at the end of the bar who, for the cost of a pint, will tell you his and anyone else's life stories.

Some of us learned this craft the hard way. And it never, ever comes easy. Tobias Wolf, in a talk he gave in Menlo Park, remarked how he envied those writers for who 'the story just writes itself'. Because, he said, not a single word he ever wrote came easy. He sweated and worked over every syllable.

For me, this is something that comes only when my brain goes into a sort of linguistic overdrive, and when I can then direct that into typed characters on a screen. Usually, I can't. When the inspiration comes, as often as not, I have no way to stop and put it down, or lack the focus to retain an idea for more than moments. Sitting down to write is almost never productive; ideas rarely flow.

Part of this, certainly, is simple discipline; I can't seem to find a way to sit down every day and type. If I did, the routine would help, lubricating the creative mind by making the simple act of typing coherent paragraphs routine. By decoupling the physical act of writing from the creation itself, I'd find less inertia in beginning.

So is this writer's block? Or is this just a bad habit; is this just a time management issue?

I'd argue with Neil; if he sits down and stares at a blank sheet of paper in his typewriter and feels defeated, feels his mind drain as empty as that white sheet, that's The Block. Neil's talking about that moment in a story - and any writer has been there - when you say, crap, what happens now? how do I get from point A to point C? What's my B? And I've been there; when I was writing the last section of Wanton, I hit a hard wall in the last scene. I couldn't get the characters from 'hello' to 'goodbye'. That story was a runaway freight train for me before that point; I knew at every step what was happening next. But I found myself up a tree with no way down. I (metaphorically) tore my hair, called myself a hack, wanted to throw my computer through a window (which isn't easy with a sparcstation). I walked away. And then I came back, threw away my re-writes, got out my first draft, and found the hinge point where the wall came in. I backed up a paragraph or two, and started over. And it came together as well as anything I've ever written.

Stuck isn't the same, though, as block. Because stuck can be solved by simply back-tracking or re-thinking (and I say 'simple' as if it were easy; it's not easy). Block is different. Stuck means you don't have quite the right tool, or can't choose between several. Blocked, though, means you have no tools. None at all.

That's how it feels to be profoundly blocked; you open your writer's toolkit and find nothing but dust, spider nests and the detritus of scorched and broken adjectives. You find no theme, no allegory, not even well-worn plot device. And no matter how many times you open that box, you continue to find nothing.

It's a profoundly frustrating feeling. As if you'd misplaced something, and can't for all your brain wracking and pacing and retracing of steps, recall where it is.

That is the feeling I've had for many, many months; paths well worn back to that empty toolbox, and almost always, finding nothing.

There's no single solution to the problem. Today, I solved it by sitting in my car by an empty suburban park, someplace where I found no internet connection. I solved it by playing music down low, turning off my phone, and beginning by using someone else's words to build momentum.

And yet I've said nothing; still, it's better than saying nothing silently.

I had a dream the other night, about a girl I used to know. Not a girl I know in real life, but perhaps a composite of many. But in the reality of my dream, we had long history.

We were sitting someplace - a bar, or coffee house.

For some reason we were smoking; I think because in the noir of my subconscious, it was what the scene needed.

I lit a cigarette and passed it to her; took one out for myself, looked at it, and then put it back. later, I thought.

We talked about memories. I traced table-top scars with my finger, imagining what violence or carelessness had made each one.

This should have been different, I said. But I couldn't find the words to tell her what I meant. She sipped from a glass of something dark, and brushed her sandy brown hair back from her forehead.

She looked at me sadly, shaking her head.

I should go, she said.

No, not yet.

She stood, and I stood with her; our heads almost knocking together in our awkwardness. I reached to catch her, to prevent a fall that wasn't actually happening. I left my hand on her hip for a beat, and then two, and then slowly she moved closer to me.

Her mouth tasted like sweet spice and cigarettes. She closed her eyes as we kissed.

I want you, I whispered into her cheek. She said nothing, but I could feel her answer with the confused certainty of dream - It's too late.

Her skin was warm against my palm as I lifted her shirt; I slipped fingers into the waist of her jeans, feeling somehow if I could touch her, I could keep her, make hermore than memory. I could smell her skin.

Please, I said. She said nothing; she was fading into haze, a ghost of memory.

Wait, I said, to empty, smokey space. I'm not finished.

I woke to pale, cold sunshine through my fly-specked window, the bed empty beside me. I flexed my hand and resisted the urge to put it to my nose. I know no scent would cling.

Who are you, I asked the phantom of my dream.

I spent last night trying to write; my family were out, and I was alone, and reasonably free of urgent must-do tasks after having worked most of the weekend.

I had in mind a short piece of erotica, something inspired by a scene in an episode of The Shield (the phrase 'take it' has a way of inspiring my erotoc imagination). I have characters in mind and the barest bones of a story.

Alas, I had a can't-sit-still moment. I felt like I'd been pounding Pimp Juice all evening;Iwound up fidgeting and twitching, couldn't stay in my chair long enough to actually keep my hands on my keyboard. Instead, I did laundry, washed dishes, and then finally managed to watch the season two opener of Torchwood (James Marsters snoggin' John Barrowman; I mean, come ON, how can you not love this show a little?).

At least I got something started, though, so we'll see. By boss is on vacation, and that used to be a good time to write, back when I had a little leeway to goof off; but who knows, maybe I'll find a couple of hours this week for producing slacking.

In other news, my truck is due back somewhere around the end of the week. I miss it like a walrus misses his bucket. I'm drivin' a tan mini-van right now, and I could not feel more out of place than I do in this vehicle. The only good thing about vans is that when the seats come out, there're a great place for a mid-day shag, but who has time for a mid day shag anymore? Plus, I just put a better stereo with ipod integration in my truck, and I'm about to tear off my own ears from having to listen to the radio.

I think I've been trying to get something written for at least two week. Even testing the new beta version of ecto3, I wasn't able to manage anything more than test test, test.

It has been, to say the least, nuts.

There have been school plays (and much applause), trick-or-treating with teenage girls (the smell of girls and candy in my truck), hockey games (the sharks lost, but I finally got a sharks jersey), award ceremonies at the county department of education (who, it turns out, have quite the collection of art, one piece of which is now by my daughter). There have been friends in need, emergency house repairs, and kids games that don't work on Leopard.

And that's not to mention work.

Work, though; well, one might touch wood (Shhh! no giggling!) and say things are getting better. Or at least getting ready to get better.

We finally got another guy in my group, which we desperately needed - and this new guy's lookin' like a rock star, one of those gifted CAD engineers who loves this kind of work, AND has the technical chops. And we have a new director, and for the first time since I reported to Jeff (Ray knows what this means), we have a top manager who fucking gets it. He knows already who's carrying the load (my team) and who's not (that other team who sit next to my team, and no, if you're reading this, I don't mean you. Unless it's YOU in which case, yeah I do).

This is why I try not to tell co workers I blog. One of them asked me about a Bukowski quote in my sig bar: "Writing chooses you, you don't choose it." And he asked me if I'm a writer, and what I write. "Dark, violent noir" is what I said, because I didn't want to mention blogging at a group lunch, and I didn't want to say "erotica featuring drugs and depravity" which is nearer the mark.

But possible improvement aside, we're still bailing as fast as we can to slow the boat sinking. Which doesn't help one's creativity or general well-being.

My head's been full of snippets of writing lately. I can feel something trying to get out. Snippets of dialog I can't quite seem to bring from brain to keyboard. Characters who walk on stage and are gone again before I know who they are.

I wondered as I sipped strong black coffee and listened to people next to me tell boastful stories. I began to tell myself a story about them, pieced together without words, from glances and smiles and almost-touches. I entertained myself until last call and after, until closing time.

I overheard the handsome young barman then, as I picked up my coat and hat. He was saying "...my fiancée..." to other late-night patrons, with an open-handed sweep in her direction.

Young love, I thought. Romance, and possibility, everything life has laid before them like a shining path.

"Fuck the both of you," I thought, and walked out into a bitter, dark night.

The setting above was true, a pretty girl who looked like Fred from the teevee show Angel, playing with her hair as she talked to a friend of mine who tends bar. The word fiancée was indeed used later, when he introduced her, and I loved her instantly when she said hello. She had a little betty boop voice that made want to hear her say daddy.

But the slice on monolog was a character who started speaking in my head as I drove home. I don't know who he was or why the young lovers inspired his wrath; but I wanted to find out. I wanted to know the rest of his story.

It wasn't there. Just what you see, more or less as I heard his voice say it at 1:30 am last night on a freeway under dark, clear, starry skies. His story was lost, like someone you meet in an airport lounge and listen to for twenty minutes, while you await flights to different ends of the world. Like someone you meet and wonder about after.

I need to find a character again who speaks to me long enough that I know him, or her; that I can let them tell mea a story. It's been far too long since that's happened, but I can almost feel it, almost hear it.

And time, of course, to let them speak when they arrive. Because they will not wait. They will not hear me say, later, tell me later.

I just finished reaidng Stephen King's On Writing.

It's one of those books several people have told me I should read; so may I can't even remember them all. Doxy, I think, and maybe miss syl, and others (circe?); the latest was elizabeth spankington.

I tend to be highly resistant with things like that. If you want me to do something, i likely won't do it. The more you want it, the less likely you'll get it (no, i'm not at all contrary, why do you ask?) So even when it's something I in fact am interested in, often I either will put it off, or get it and then put it away and not listen or read.

For some reason though when E asked me the other day if I'd read it I clicked 'purchase' on amazon before I even thought about it.

It's an interesting book; fascinating, frustrating, uneven, brilliant in some ways, irritating in others, not unlike the rest of King's body of work.

For those who don't know it, On Writing is a combination Memoir and writing manual.

I wrote a great post the other night, filled with insightful linguistic philosophy; all about the difference between symbolic meaning in words themselves, and the cultural meaning, the psychological meaning; the way words carry not just inherent sets of meanings that are closely defined, but also a reciprocal meaning, a meaning the hearer or reader adds in for him or herself, and how this complicates communication.

It was beautiful; it flowed with an effortless elegance from thought to virtual paper, expressing something I've been striving to say for a long time.

Only, I was full of darvocet at the time.

Yesterday I tried to edit it and it was unclear which language I'd been typing in; or to be more accurate, the words were generally english but in syntax, I was dealing with a language more akin to orc.

So I'm left wondering, what the hell was I saying? The only thing worse than a fickle muse is one who's hopped up on goofballs.

I feel like all I've been writing about lately are objects of lust - material objects, not the lickable, suckable kind (nevermind that someone wanted to lick my new washer).

Which makes this all seem one-dimensonal. Karl has a new object of material desire is all this blog seems to be about.

I'm a big fan of lust. I think it's just about the best thing in the human condition. There is nothing quite so glorious as working lust up to the point where one's READY - TO - EXPLODE; and then getting the object of said lust right at that frantic, frenzied peak.

But when that thing is, well, a thing, of silver or iron or shiny-bright plastic, no matter the lust, no matter the usefulness of the object, it is, still, only an object and only as good as it is useful

The funny thing is, though I so often blog about things I like or want, I'm not all that materially driven. Most of what I care about, of the many things I own, are the ones that solve a problem in some particularly good way. My coffee maker which looks cool in shiny stainless, but more importantly makes a damned fine cup of java to get my brain working in the morning. My knives, bright steel or dull carbon, chef's knives, pocket knives, switchblades and tactical folders, all of which do a job for me on a daily basis.

My Jeep and my motorcycle please me for aesthetic reasons, but more importantly, they move me from here to there in ways quick and efficient; I can go over almost anything and park almost anywhere in my jeep, I can slice through traffic and park where I will on my Triumph. They have limitations and impracticalities, but they do exactly what I want them for.

I love that they please my eye; I keep them because they do the job well.

I own fine audiophile components, home entertainment centers, video game consoles. I like these things, and I use them, but in the end it's the art and the play that matter, the music, the movies, the games, not the things. They solve a problem.

I struggle between the lustful desire for pretty things and the desire to keep my life simple, clean, easy, functional.

One of my dreams is to live somewhere to basic, so physically simple, that everything goes and I'm down to what I absolutely need. The gypsy life with no roots, no more belongings that I can fit in a wagon, a van, or best of all, a boat. The nautical existence draws me and I struggle with the idea; give it all up, strip my life down and go, vs the comfort and plenty of my daily life. Because that comfort and plenty is a cage of sorts; I am a keeper for the things I own and the space they take up. A slave to the material goods that make up my life.

One of the things I struggle with is art. I long to collect, to own; I want beautiful things, from jewelry to sculpture to hand-made clothing like my best Aloha shirts. From original paintings to framed prints to odd posters collected over my lifetime. I love these things, yet so often, owning art seems somehow wrong. And it traps me again, for I must provide space and shelter and protection for the fragile, beautiful things I own.

My other lusts are simpler. For those lusts are pure, focused desire, for things that are not things; living, moving, thinking, speaking, lust is for the entire organism, not simply as an object but as a complete person.

Lust isn't free of complications. No, it's got outrageous complications of it's own. But it's not the same. For when I choose to take on a role of owner, keeper it's not the trap of ownership of a thing, it's a choice shared, and a reciprocal role.

Those, in truth, are the lusts I'd rather be writing about; fictional and real, fulfilled and unfulfilled. I'd rather spend my energy describing my heart's dearest and most salacious desire. Though for some reason, that sort of writing flows only occasionally, where the lust itself is never-ending. That writing requires a special touch from the muse.

However, the muse who inspires material lust seems always nearbye, and so I write as I am able, and talk about shiny rings, bright red washers and fast cars rather than sweat-glstening skin and the musky smell of love; I describe my desire for a garment or a vehicle rather than the wrenching physical need a simple touch can bring, when said touch is from the right person.

Though who knows; tomorrow that muse may come back to visit and I may find it easier to write about stolen moments of embrace and finger-bruised skin, about the familiar scent of desire and the need one can feel like a white-hot knife in the belly.

Maybe.