Lazy, hazy days of summer

 I laughed when I read the last few posts by my blog mates, something I always do when I'm searching for a topic. After many years on this blog, I've written about almost everything, often multiple times. And right now I am facing the very issue being described by these recent blogs. Call it writer's block, procrastination, distraction, whatever. It's also stalling, because I have not one idea in my head, either for the blog or for a book. I am between writing projects. The final, FINAL page proofs of my Amanda Doucette novel are done, and everything is now in the publisher's court. ARCs are being prepared, along with catalogues, distribution and promotional material - all that stuff they do. My brain is on summer vacation. In the past, when I have no deadline or next project in the works, I write a fun short story that's been percolating. In the old days, there was always something percolating and no time to give it attention.

Not this time. All I have are vague ideas for the next books, and I won't do anything about those for now. 

I've been writing all my life. It's in my bones. As my colleagues have noted, unless you love writing or are driven to tell stories, you probably wouldn't be doing it. So I'm going to trust that this blank brain is just me taking a break and revelling in the freedom after years of deadlines, rather than some more permanent sign of mental vacuity. I expect that at some point, a story will pop up that I will have to write down. Will it take a month, or several months? Who knows, but I suspect all this freedom from creativity and the absence of fictional friends in my head will get boring.

Charlotte's idea about dusting off an old manuscript and trying to find it a home intrigued me briefly. Like most writers, I have two or three books that never found a home and eventually I got discouraged and put them in some forgotten basement drawer. Are they salvageable?. Do I like them well enough to haul them out and see what can be done with them? Once again inertia (stalling) interferes. I don't know exactly where they are stored electronically (a floppy disc, a memory stick, or a dead computer?) and whether I can even access them with my current software. They could be in WordPerfect. I don't know where the hard copy is either. And if they weren't good enough to land a publisher back then, why would they be now? I probably would have to make huge revisions. Do I want to commit that time, possibly all for nothing? Do I care enough?

You see where this endless mind meandering is going. Back to my lazy summer. Waiting for the muse to visit again, whispering something exciting in my ear.

Living with Writer's Block

 I've been trying for months to finish a 4,000-5,000 word essay for a special journal issue on Edgar Allan Poe and his impact on mystery writers. I have done my research.  But somehow every time I sit down to finish, something else comes up. Something I have to take care of right now. 

The essay is due. The co-editors are waiting for the draft so that they can provide feedback. I finally know what I want to say. I intend to finish today. But for some reason I decided -- after pausing to listen to a discussion about CDC's current recommendations -- that I should schedule my second Covid booster for this afternoon. Then I'm having dinner with a friend (because it would take time to cook and we need to catch up). After that I will come home and finish my essay and send it along. Tonight. . . or tomorrow morning.

Writng this essay should have taken no more than a day or two. But it has been like pushing a boulder up a mountain. 

I've had this experience occasionally in the past -- sometimes when I'm trying to start a book. It is hard to explain unless one believes there is such a thing as "writer's block." 

My own experience is that it is related to either uncertainty about what I am about to do and/or the direction that I intend to take. This is the difference between being a pantser or a plotter. Unlike the pantser, who can jump in and enjoy the process, I plod. In my moments of existential self-doubt when I begin a new project, I wonder if I can even do what I have said I will do. So, I am show I can write another Lizzie Stuart novel in a couple of months. But I have struggled to finish the Poe essay until I finally found the quote that brought it all together. 

In the case of the historical thriller I am trying to write, I can imagine what it will be. But I can't get there. I am so concerned with getting it right, that I can't get it down at all. I think I am on the verge of breaking out of my box, but maybe not.

At least with the essay, having editors who are waiting for me to stop holding them up has forced me to move on. As for the historical thriller. I have the first 50 pages for my agent and the synopsis in progress. I've got to finish this weekend and send it to him. 

The psychology of my "writer's block" requires that I be completely fed up with myself for not getting the work done. Then I need to either have a deadline or be able to apply my own pressure to finish the first draft. 

And -- this is the payoff -- once the draft is done, I am ready to revise. I love revisioning. That is the best part of writing. I have never had writer's block when I am revising. I wish I coulc say that about the first draft. 

Maybe a hot fudge sundae would help. 

Random Thoughts on Writing

I (Donis) have been doing my best to write over the past months - though it's hard to concentrate these days. I'd plead that I've had writer's block, but I've thought for years that “Writer’s block” is not really a thing. If you’re stuck, put something down, some reminder, or thought, a place-filler, or just a blank. Recently I read about an author who writes the word “bagel” when he can’t think of anything else. This allows him to keep moving. He can always go back and find the perfect term later. Believe me, even Shakespeare’s first draft looked like the dog’s dinner.  I live by this philosophy, especially lately, since I am not only not bringing my A game when I sit down to write, I’m not even up to my W game. But you must plug on. Later, after you have something to work with, you rewrite, and then you go back and do it again. And again. I think that most authors are never really satisfied with what they’ve created.  As for me, I’ll tinker with a book until I absolutely have to turn it in for the last time. Years after the book is published, I’ll find myself coming up with fresh ideas for a scene and wishing I could go back and work on it some more.

I once read an essay that postulated that a person’s thinking patterns might be formed by the geography of the place he grew up. I don’t know if that is true. However, I have observed that people are happier in some places than others, possibly due to where they were reared. My husband was raised on the wide-open Great Plains, and becomes claustrophobic in heavily wooded country. A friend from the Ozark Mountains once told me that she loves the woods. She feels protected and secure in wooded country, and exposed and vulnerable on a treeless plain. Many a city-raised person is disoriented in the wilderness, and vice-versa for someone who grew up in the country. It’s what you’re familiar with, I suppose. I read a piece in the newspaper several years ago about an unusually long period of sunshine in Iceland, which is normally has cloud cover for some 300 days a year. An interviewee said that the clear sky was nice at first, but after a week, she was beginning to feel nervous and unhappy. I’m sure there is a story idea lurking in there somewhere.

If I’m going to spend two or three days of my life reading a novel, I would prefer to like at least some of the characters. I try not to spend too much time with real-world people I dislike, after all. I once read a well-known book by a Very Famous Author and found the mystery quite interesting and the writing excellent.Very Famous Author really knew how to invoke a setting and construct a plot. The characters were  well drawn, but they were  all so unpleasant that even though I really wanted  to know how the story turned out, I had trouble finishing the book. I finally skimmed through just enough to get the gist and then read the end. I take a lesson from this experience and try to create characters who the readers will enjoy spending time with. Not to say that all the characters should be nice. Where’s the fun in that? I  do enjoy seeing evil people get their comeuppance.

Writing is just a job, let's not get dramatic

When does being creative become a job?

I'm presuming that everyone who dips into these pages is either actively involved or actively interested in the process of stringing words together in some semblance of order.

So when does that act of stringing words together transform from an art (hobby, pastime, wish, ambition) to a means of employment.

I don't mean the moment when you are paid for the first time. I mean at what point is the creative process deemed work like any other? In other words, it becomes merely what we do.

I've held that view for some time, probably because even before I made a living (of sorts) from writing books I was making a living (a regular one) from writing news and features. Thanks to that, I have shown open disdain for any notion of the muse alighting upon a fevered brow and, its stablemate in the big book of author's myths, writer's block.

As the late Terry Pratchett once said - and I believe I have quoted here before - writer's block was created by people in California who couldn't write. (Sorry, Californians, I think you're lovely)

That doesn't mean we can't get stuck, of course we can. Those of us who don't plan run the risk of wandering down a blind alley with our stories. But what do you do if that happens in the real world? You turn around and go back, because somewhere you have made a wrong turn. You don't stand there and wail, 'I can't go on any further. This walking business is just too hard!', then collapse on a chaise longue, your palm pressed to your forehead and sip absinthe, there always being a handy couch and some strong aniseed flavoured liquor available up a blind alley. Well, at least in Glasgow.

So, no - I don't believe in writer's block. If something's not working then fix it. We are the creators of our little world of words and we can change whatever the hell we want. If things have come to a standstill creativity-wise in whatever we are writing then it probably means we've gone wrong somewhere back along the road. And as we made that stuff up, we can remake it up.

It could also mean you are writing entirely the wrong thing. I've been there.

There's an old adage that writer's write. Authors far more successful and wiser than I (me? Who knows? I'm no English professor) often advise that writing every day, no matter what, is the way forward. It doesn't have to be good, it just has to be written, as they say. Today's nonsense is tomorrow's bestseller, with a little work and application.

And there we have another point - what is needed is such application, not inspiration. Inspiration is the initial idea. I often visualise Peter Benchley thinking something along these lines: I think I'll write a book about a great white shark terrorising an island community. And I'll call it MUNCH! Okay, maybe the title needs a little work but I will now sit down and get the damn thing written and fame and fortune will follow. Maybe I'll get to meet that young guy Steven Spielberg some day - I did so enjoy 'Duel'.

That's the inspiration, that's the muse crash-landing on the old napper - that tiny little electrical impulse in the brain that sets the creative juices flowing. After that it's down to hard work, even when you don't feel like it.

When I was in newspapers I couldn't say to my boss, 'You know what? I'm just not feeling it today. Is it okay if I don't write these stories?'

I would have been told in no uncertain terms, no doubt in some choice Anglo-Saxon, that such a position was untenable in the workplace. 

The same would be said if I was a carpenter or a plumber or an electrician, all creative pursuits in their own ways.

So here's my advice in a nutshell: just as a journey is begun with a single step, so writing a book (play, short story, script) commences with one word. Then another. Then another. Don't agonise too much over them, just pile them in. If you're a planner you should know where you want the story to go. If you're a pantster - like me - you may have some semblance of an idea. It might be vague but you should have some sort of notion. 

If you're lucky it will flow. If you hit a roadblock just treat it as such and either go through it, over it, round it - or back up.

Get that first draft done, ideally as quickly as possible. It might be as rough a badger's butt but at least it's down and then you can work at it. Don't listen to authors who say their first draft is always what's printed. If that is the case - and I am always sceptical - then it in no way demeans your work. Never mind what they're doing - concentrate on yourself.

Incidentally, I may appear to be lecturing. I'm not - everything I have said above is something I've said to myself many times in the past and in fact it was the very same talking to I have myself at the turn of the year.

Now.

I'm off to pile some words into my current project. I've been at it for two weeks and I've got 26,000 words done.

The problem is, to paraphrase Neil Simon, I haven't thought of a story yet.

Untangling a plot

It's Tuesday evening and I'm sitting on my dock in my Muskoka chair with a glass of wine, trying to write this blog. The scene is idyllic. I have always loved the peace of the lake - the lapping of the waves, the muted sounds of birds in the trees, the bump of the canoe against the dock - and I find it very inspirational for writing. I bought this cottage almost twenty years ago as a writing retreat.

I am now at the cottage for a two-week stretch without interruption. The family visits have ended and although I have scheduled one visit with friends half-way through, these two weeks are to be my writing time. Time to make some serious headway on my much-neglected novel. I have been floundering around in the plot for some time, not staying in the groove long enough to figure out where I am and where I'm going. It's time that changes! I have a research trip booked to British Columbia in three weeks, and I need to know more about what I have to research.

My peaceful place

Yet right now it feels as if this novel is a tangled mat of threads that I can't figure out how to knit together. I have added a bunch of "what if" future ideas and initiated a number of complications that eventually have to go somewhere, but I feel lost in the tangle. 

Two days ago, I started to untangle the mess. When confronted with all these loose threads and potential plot ideas, I try a number of techniques. I write down the threads in point form, and I stare at them. I ask "what would/ could/ should happen next?"" in each thread. I write down the major characters and where they are in the story, and ask where they need to go next. How can I push each part of the story forward? And how can I keep (or make) their stories intersecting? Usually once I stare at the points long enough and play with the questions long enough, I get an idea. I pull on a thread. I develop it, and it starts to emerge from the tangle into a plausible step forward. It exposes another thread, which I pull apart from it and lay out. In much the same way one tackles a huge knot, this story slowly untangles, thread by thread, and separates into storylines. I'm not done yet, but I have worked my way forward through the knot, and I have some threads to follow.

I know I will encounter more tangles, or these separated threads will tangle back up again, but for now I have a way forward and I am excited. This takes work and concentration, and maybe two weeks with almost no one to talk to and nothing to distract me.

Drop by in two weeks for my next post, and I'll let you know how much I've succeeded! 

Suspended Animation

As we near the end of pandemic isolation, I feel my life is in suspended animation. Like many others, I am having trouble organizing my thoughts. My writing is ... well, it just is. It doesn't seem to take off these days, and I can't say more about it than that. I venture forth from my house more since my vaccinations, timidly, blinking dazedly in the light. I don't know what to do for myself. I can't quite get that old mojo back.

And yet there is a peacefulness to the situation. In fact, there is something of a feeling of gestation about it.  My writing mind is quiet, but something is going on in there, just below the surface. I hope when I am able to return to a normal life, I will be refreshed and full of wonderful, bright new ideas. That’s how I’m looking at it, anyway.

There is a certain freedom in helplessness. When all possibility of a decision is taken from you, there is nothing to do but go with the flow.  One evening, many years ago, I was crammed under a dining room table, along with my mother, brother, and sister, waiting for a tornado to hit our house.  Having grown up in Oklahoma, I have been through more killer storms than I care to remember, and yet I never got used to them.  I was always terrified out of my mind when the sirens went off.

Once when I was in my twenties and living in my own apartment, the sky turned green and my front window bowed in, and I swear to God that the next thing I knew I was standing in my mother’s house five miles away.  I must have gotten into my car like and idiot and driven over there through the wind and hail, but I never exactly knew how it happened.  I was apparently so panicky that all I could think was that I wanted my mommy.

But I digress.

Let us return to the huddle under the dining room table, which occurred a few years later. The tornado wound right through the back yard.  The electricity went off, the house began to rattle and bounce, and it became perfectly obvious that there was no escape.  And suddenly all my terror and panic went completely away, because there was nothing we could do to get out of this.  

Miraculously, the house was not hit. But to this day I remember that feeling of peaceful resignation, and wonder if that is what it’s like at the moment of death.

Of course, I used the experience to write a novel. Never let a good feeling of existential angst go to waste.

Pray for Rain

A few images from Oklahoma

Donis here...more or less. I never really believed in writer's block. Anybody can write something if she'll just sit down in the chair and start typing, and the resulting product can turn out pretty well.

I do very much believe in writer's drought, however, because I've had personal and painful experience of it, more than once. I'm undergoing a severe drought right now, in fact. I returned from my week-long flash tour of Eastern Oklahoma libraries on Sept. 17, then my husband went into the hospital for yet another operation on Sept. 20. I spent the night at the hospital, then left the next morning about 8:30 a.m. to go home and shower and get ready for a creative writing class I'm teaching at Arizona State U. Before I even left the house Don called me from the hospital and said the doctor had come in and told him that everything looked good and he could go home that day! So I went right back up to the hospital after my class and helped him pack up and fill out discharge papers and brought him home late that afternoon. His post-op doctor's appointment was Friday the 29th, and he had all the the tubes and staples taken out. The lymph node biopsies came back clear. Yay! He's still pretty sore, not tip top yet. He's not cleared to drive for another two weeks, and back to the doctor in six weeks. In the meantime, I'm trying to get my lesson plans for the class in some order.

Am I writing? I am not. I don't know why, except that my brains are not working that way right now. I've been known to produce amazing amounts of work while in the midst of some crisis, so why I can do it sometimes and not others I do not know. Of course, I maintain that intellect isn't the defining element in writing, anyway. Often I find myself creating wonderful scenes or characters, and I have no idea where they came from. I certainly didn't think them up - they sprang from my forehead fully formed. I have an intimation that our brains don't create thought, but are more like radios, and only receive and transmit thought that is out there somewhere.(Who thought it? I don't know. God? My higher self?  The collective consciousness?  How can you know?)

So, I suppose it only makes sense that sometimes we can tap into something mysterious and brilliant, and sometimes the equipment is on the fritz and we just can't.  You can't make it come.  You can only be patient and keep trying.  I read somewhere that "more than success, the gods love the effort."

During times of drought, I cling to that thought as I pray for rain.

Follow Your Heroes

Once in a while, I get asked to speak to young people about writing as a profession. When the time comes to offer career advice, I ask them, Who are your heroes? Why are they your heroes and why can't you be a hero like them?

I ask those questions because when I look back on my life and see the direction it's taken, I realize that my way forward is along the path illuminated by other writers. Reading about inventors and moguls was hit or miss, so I was never destined to be a business tycoon. However, the biographies of literary greats like Ernest Hemingway, Edgar Rice Burroughs, and F Scott Fitzgerald spoke to me. I understood their struggles. A favorite source of inspiration was The Red Hot Typewriter, a biography of John D MacDonald, and my takeaway was his blue-collar approach to his craft. He wrote every working day from 8-Noon, 1-4, and during his career he published over forty novels. In 1964, he published five! Using a typewriter! No whining about writer's block from him.

Another hero, though he's excoriated by the literary world, is Harold Robbins because of his steadfast application at putting words on paper and spinning bestselling yarns. And there's Anita Loos, a screenwriter who defied conventions to become a pivotal force in the movie business and invented that Hollywood staple, the romantic comedy.

Not all worked out for my heroes. It's no spoiler if I tell you that the lives of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Robbins went off the rails during their later years. On the other hand, while literary critics like to talk about the burdens of artistic genius and its toll on the writer's psyche, Burroughs, MacDonald, and Loos kept pecking away at the keys well into their sunset years.

What brought these thoughts to mind is that I'm close to finishing one project, the next and long overdue installment of my Felix Gomez series. Now I have to decide what next to dig into. Those of you who've written a book know what it's like to stand on the ready line for another long march. No matter my approach, it takes a year to eighteen months to write the first draft. I've tried schemes, like Chris Fox's 5,000 words-per-hour method, to shorten my turn around time, but when I do that my result is a pile of mush that needs serious editing so I gain little. I wish I had the focus of Cindi Myers who can crank out four-to-six novels a year. People who've attended a writing retreat with her say she easily produces 15 thousand words in a weekend. And it's quality work since since she's won numerous awards to include a Colorado Book Award. Another slayer of the word count is Kevin J Anderson who's hammered out more than fifty bestselling novels. I've been at WordFire parties and when the rest of us are about to start yet another late-night cocktail, Kevin says he's got to go write. That's dedication.

My heroes.

Confronting that vast empty space

Hah! It worked. Barbara here, and actually on time for my Wednesday Type M blog post. Two weeks ago I posted that I was always forgetting because I had a very casual relationship with the calendar and the days of the week, so I had vowed to put an alert into my electronic calendar. The result? Here I am.

I might add that I am also looking for any excuse to avoid my current writing project. I have not yet reached the "cleaning the refrigerator" stage, but that might yet come. Writing first drafts is incredibly hard work, especially when you are staring out over that vast expanse of emptiness, knowing you have to fill it with roughly 90,000 words, and knowing a deadline hovers overhead, ready to crow in your ear or peck at your heels.

The first in the Amanda Doucette series

As part of the original contract for this novel, signed over two years ago, I had to dream up a title and "synopsis" for the book, along with those for the two previous books in the contract. At the time, that third book seemed awfully far away, and every writer knows a synopsis for a hypothetical book three years out usually bears little resemblance to the book that eventually gets written. Better ideas come along, or the idea, hastily dashed off, does not stand up under closer scrutiny. Furthermore, I am mostly a fly by the seat of my pants writer who finds outlines tedious and confining and who prefers to leap in and see where things go.

So here I am, with the two previous books in the Amanda Doucette series written – the first released in last September and the second due out this coming September – and running out of excuses to confront the third book. I have a title, PRISONERS OF HOPE, that is not likely to change and I know vaguely what theme I want to explore and probably who will get killed to kick things off, but Ive been keeping my options open in case better ideas come along in the writing.

About a month ago I leaped into the opening scene and wrote forward for about forty pages before hitting a wall. I did not know where this story was going, I didn't know what the characters should do next or why anyone should care. I have three main characters to play with (and a dog, but she doesn't get to tell her own story), which is one reason the pantser approach is such a challenge. One of the tricks I devised for unlocking a stalled story is to check what one of the other characters is up to. So I bravely soldiered on with my second character, until he too hit a wall. I fussed and fretted, took long walks, cleaned the house (well, sort of), and finally realized I had to brainstorm ahead. In other words, sketch out a dreaded outline, at least to get me out of this dead-end into which I had stumbled.

Georgian Bay, the setting of Prisoners of Hope

As soon as I started looking ahead and applied myself to the overall picture, I realized I needed to boot one character out of the story, at least temporarily. Her presence was clogging up the scenes and dialogue between the two more important characters through the first forty pages. Secondly, I changed my mind three times on who needed to die, all in the interests of generating juicy suspense and creating lots of questions. Then I brainstormed the next twenty scenes in rapid succession, ending up with an outline of what will likely happen in the next hundred or so pages. That is all I need for now. By page 150, I should be well into the story and lots of characters and subplots will be milling around, providing fuel for my imagination for the next 100 pages or more.

This morning I printed out my outline and wrote the first two scenes in it. Everything went fairly smoothly and what a relief it was to have something to remind me where I was going and why. I'm not saying I will ever learn to love outlines or even that I will actually follow this one if a better idea flies into view, but at least I am moving forward in the maze with some confidence that I am not in a dead-end.

I will keep you posted on how it all works out for me. How do other pantsers feel when they confront that vast empty space and realize they are lost?

Vampires

by Rick Blechta

No, I’m not thinking of switching to the horror genre, nor trying my hand at penning a YA novel (although I have always been a fan of Bram Stoker’s Dracula). I am also not talking about those LED thingies on all our appliances and electronic devices that you just can’t turn off unless you unplug the whole damn thing, in which case you’d spend half your life bending down to plug/unplug nearly everything you own.

What I am referring to are those people who just tend to suck the life and joy out of everyone surrounding them.

You know the type: high maintenance people with big needs, never very much help with anything and usually with constant complaints about nearly everything.

It’s easy to collect them, especially if you’re any kind of an empathetic person. I am and I do. These sorts of vampires can suck you dry of any energy or enthusiasm in one brief phone call. Maybe the legends of blood-sucking night creatures actually revolve around the sort of person who seems to have perfected self-misery and shooting themselves in the foot.

I had an email from someone the other day, and I am well aware that emails from this person are usually very negative. It’s as if they sense where my weaknesses are and the home in on them like a guided missile. I was just about to sit down and work on my very “sluggish” novella project. Now is the time for it to get into hyperdrive and really start humming along. I know what I want to write and it’s dammed up inside my head, threatening to gush out whether I want it to or not.

But I opened the email anyway. I know, I know. It’s like that horror movie where you know something awful is hiding in that closet, but you watch helplessly as the character insists on opening the door.

Instant despair. I just sat there blinking like an idiot when I finished the lengthy missive. If I really was going to be the terrific friend I’d like to think I am, I would have hopped on a plane and gone out to help sort out a life filled with turbulence due to a lot of misery. I can’t help it. I’m an empath and really feel that I could help. It’s a close friend, and well, it’s hard to turn away.

Knowing I couldn’t do that, I picked up the phone. By the end of that lengthy conversation, I was completely depressed and stared at my computer screen for a good five minutes, mind completely blank and feeling like I just wanted to go back to bed. Perhaps that would have been a good idea: start my day over.

Yeah, you’re probably thinking that I should just not turn on my computer’s mail program when I sit down to write. Problem is, I have to know what my design clients are up to. A new job may be in the offing, or there might be a problem with something I’d sent off to the printer the day before. I have good reasons to watch my incoming mail.

In thinking about it since, I realized that I have to steel myself against taking ownership of other people’s problems. If this means losing friendships, so be it. This empathy thing can easily become a very full-time job.

Its side effect of sapping one’s creative energy, however, has gotten me thinking.

Why is creative energy so much more fragile than physical or lower-level mental energy? On the day in question, I went on to be very productive doing the (admittedly rote) assembly of a large graphic design job I was working on (adding images to an already conceived layout). And I did a large amount of work out in the kitchen on some meat-curing I’m involved in. I shoveled snow. I vacuumed the upstairs.

But as for my grand writing plans? Zilch. Nada. The circus had left town — at least for that day. I tried again later in the evening with nothing useful happening. It was as if my writing idea vault suddenly had a big fat lock on it. Even though I knew what I wanted to say, it just wouldn’t come out.

Next morning, I stayed away from the computer for a couple of hours and had a very profitable time writing. It meant, though, that I had to get up at 6:00 when clients are never in their offices. The house was quiet, and the phone wouldn’t ring unless it really was an emergency.

It was lovely.

So here’s my question folks: why is creative energy such a fragile and whimsical thing? Any ideas? Please share them! I, for one, will thank you.