Fear and loathing and ecstasy
I have a writing hangover. I think it's a good thing.
For almost a week now, I've been sticking to a writing schedule - every evening around 7pm, I sit down and hit those keys. And it has been, well, hard. Writing is hard! I know, it's not exactly a unique revelation. Except, to me, it sort of is. I always thought I should do it, and I always thought when I did, it would automatically be amazing, and I'd have tons of stuff to write about because my life is so very exciting, and I have a unique point of view and I read a lot so I know how sentences go together and I can hold the mirror up to nature and shed astonishing light on any number of subjects. Right? Totally!
Only, it wasn't like that. When I started writing I had only one goal: words on a page for two hours a day. I can do words on a page. (e.g., this blog.) What I ended up writing, though, was real stuff that has happened to me. How is this different from journaling or keeping a diary? It's not. And after writing my life for a week or so, it occurred to me that my life is pretty boring, if not downright depressing. Maybe not TOtally depressing, but, you know: I work. I come home. I eat dinner with the family. I watch TV with friends. I watch TV by myself. I break car mirrors, I take my car to the shop, I obsess over why my friends from college who I saw again at the wedding didn't email me back after I sent them pictures I'd taken of them at said wedding. It's not... anything I want to share, necessarily. It's definitely not something I want to have critiqued. I critique my life enough as it is, thank you. (Conclusion: the characters are amazing, but the plot lacks forward momentum.)
Also, I've joined this writer's group. I missed the first meeting cuz that was the day I broke my car. The group alternates critiques every other week, so this week is a non-critique week, but next week there is one, and well, if I'm really going to participate, I kind of need to put something out there. Hence, I have to write something I wouldn't mind sharing. I've got hubris but I'm not going to pretend I can write a novel, so that kind of leaves poetry or short story.
That's easy enough, right? WRONG. I started to worry. Do I have any imagination? Can I make something up, start to finish? Just sort of... out of nothing? I can't lie, it made me very depressed. Why was I bothering, and isn't it a bit late in the game to start trying to do this again? I'd started strong with two hours, and then a couple of nights later it was just an hour and a half, and then an hour. I'd write and get disgusted and stop. Yesterday I considered just quitting, and continuing to live a life of quiet desperation.
Circus Jeff has been writing a lot about memory (among other things) on his blog, Odin's Aviary (www.jeffwills.blogspot.com.) In this case, memory saved me. I remembered feeling this bad, back when I was in college and writing plays. I'd gotten through it then, so maybe I could get through it now. And at the peak of my anxiety I made a conscious effort to take the pressure off. No one says you have to sit down every day and write something good. You just have to sit down and write something.
My mom and Stephen King helped too. Stephen King because he's recently published a new collection of short stories, and my mom because she went to the library and got it, read it, and handed it over to me. As my mom said, "He gets a lot of crap for what he writes, but damn, the man can write." I read the first two stories at lunch yesterday, and another while waiting for a prescription at CVS. My mom is right; they're good.
Driving home from CVS, I had an idea. It was dumb, but fun. My thinking went like this: This idea is dumb. But I like it. And I don't have any other ideas, so I have to write this one, or I'll quit and never try to write anything other than corporate meeting notes again. I got home, I sat down, I wrote for two hours.
And now I have a story. While it has characters and a beginning, middle and end, it's definitely not done. The ending in particular needs work, and well, a bunch of stuff in the middle does too. I think I still like the beginning. I know I like the characters. Did I rip the premise off from a favorite sci-fi writer? Sure. Is that allowed? Definitely. Go ask Shakespeare if you don't believe me. (He probably won't answer right away, being dead and all.)
So now, I come to something else Circus Jeff eloquently addresses - I want someone to read it! Right now! I want praise for facing my fears and writing something! I remember this feeling too. And it's a trap, Skywalker. Even I admit the story's not done, and probably sucks. No way in hell should I give this to anyone else at this stage. My fragile ego would shatter into itty bitty pieces at the first even slightly negative comment. Maybe later after I've gone back and fixed problems. Or maybe after I've gone back, fixed problems, let it sit for a month, gone back again, buried it in a dark basement and written something completely different and better. Yeah, that sounds like a plan.
And now to the hangover: I wrote from 8pm to 10pm. I put off watching Buffy Season 4 to do it. And then, I wanted to watch Buffy. Cuz, it's Season 4, the one with the Initiative, where Faith wakes up and switches bodies with Buffy and Willow's got the relationship with Tara and then Oz comes back... you know, good stuff. So I watched Buffy until 11:30. And then I couldn't sleep because I WROTE A STORY! Outcome: I didn't get enough sleep last night, and now I'm woozy and groggy. But like feeling sore after going back to the gym, it's good pain.
Yay.
For almost a week now, I've been sticking to a writing schedule - every evening around 7pm, I sit down and hit those keys. And it has been, well, hard. Writing is hard! I know, it's not exactly a unique revelation. Except, to me, it sort of is. I always thought I should do it, and I always thought when I did, it would automatically be amazing, and I'd have tons of stuff to write about because my life is so very exciting, and I have a unique point of view and I read a lot so I know how sentences go together and I can hold the mirror up to nature and shed astonishing light on any number of subjects. Right? Totally!
Only, it wasn't like that. When I started writing I had only one goal: words on a page for two hours a day. I can do words on a page. (e.g., this blog.) What I ended up writing, though, was real stuff that has happened to me. How is this different from journaling or keeping a diary? It's not. And after writing my life for a week or so, it occurred to me that my life is pretty boring, if not downright depressing. Maybe not TOtally depressing, but, you know: I work. I come home. I eat dinner with the family. I watch TV with friends. I watch TV by myself. I break car mirrors, I take my car to the shop, I obsess over why my friends from college who I saw again at the wedding didn't email me back after I sent them pictures I'd taken of them at said wedding. It's not... anything I want to share, necessarily. It's definitely not something I want to have critiqued. I critique my life enough as it is, thank you. (Conclusion: the characters are amazing, but the plot lacks forward momentum.)
Also, I've joined this writer's group. I missed the first meeting cuz that was the day I broke my car. The group alternates critiques every other week, so this week is a non-critique week, but next week there is one, and well, if I'm really going to participate, I kind of need to put something out there. Hence, I have to write something I wouldn't mind sharing. I've got hubris but I'm not going to pretend I can write a novel, so that kind of leaves poetry or short story.
That's easy enough, right? WRONG. I started to worry. Do I have any imagination? Can I make something up, start to finish? Just sort of... out of nothing? I can't lie, it made me very depressed. Why was I bothering, and isn't it a bit late in the game to start trying to do this again? I'd started strong with two hours, and then a couple of nights later it was just an hour and a half, and then an hour. I'd write and get disgusted and stop. Yesterday I considered just quitting, and continuing to live a life of quiet desperation.
Circus Jeff has been writing a lot about memory (among other things) on his blog, Odin's Aviary (www.jeffwills.blogspot.com.) In this case, memory saved me. I remembered feeling this bad, back when I was in college and writing plays. I'd gotten through it then, so maybe I could get through it now. And at the peak of my anxiety I made a conscious effort to take the pressure off. No one says you have to sit down every day and write something good. You just have to sit down and write something.
My mom and Stephen King helped too. Stephen King because he's recently published a new collection of short stories, and my mom because she went to the library and got it, read it, and handed it over to me. As my mom said, "He gets a lot of crap for what he writes, but damn, the man can write." I read the first two stories at lunch yesterday, and another while waiting for a prescription at CVS. My mom is right; they're good.
Driving home from CVS, I had an idea. It was dumb, but fun. My thinking went like this: This idea is dumb. But I like it. And I don't have any other ideas, so I have to write this one, or I'll quit and never try to write anything other than corporate meeting notes again. I got home, I sat down, I wrote for two hours.
And now I have a story. While it has characters and a beginning, middle and end, it's definitely not done. The ending in particular needs work, and well, a bunch of stuff in the middle does too. I think I still like the beginning. I know I like the characters. Did I rip the premise off from a favorite sci-fi writer? Sure. Is that allowed? Definitely. Go ask Shakespeare if you don't believe me. (He probably won't answer right away, being dead and all.)
So now, I come to something else Circus Jeff eloquently addresses - I want someone to read it! Right now! I want praise for facing my fears and writing something! I remember this feeling too. And it's a trap, Skywalker. Even I admit the story's not done, and probably sucks. No way in hell should I give this to anyone else at this stage. My fragile ego would shatter into itty bitty pieces at the first even slightly negative comment. Maybe later after I've gone back and fixed problems. Or maybe after I've gone back, fixed problems, let it sit for a month, gone back again, buried it in a dark basement and written something completely different and better. Yeah, that sounds like a plan.
And now to the hangover: I wrote from 8pm to 10pm. I put off watching Buffy Season 4 to do it. And then, I wanted to watch Buffy. Cuz, it's Season 4, the one with the Initiative, where Faith wakes up and switches bodies with Buffy and Willow's got the relationship with Tara and then Oz comes back... you know, good stuff. So I watched Buffy until 11:30. And then I couldn't sleep because I WROTE A STORY! Outcome: I didn't get enough sleep last night, and now I'm woozy and groggy. But like feeling sore after going back to the gym, it's good pain.
Yay.
posted by walkinhomefromthethriftstore at 5:43 AM
2 Comments:
YAY!!!!!!!!!!1!!!!UNO!!!!!
Also: Thanks for the plug.
But mostly:
YAY WHFTTS!
Thanks man!
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