Out of Reach
Since I started a publishing company, which was insane, I’ve had a sort of writer’s block. I hate to use that term because it’s a little gay and a lot stupid, but there’s not much choice.
Recently, as I’ve spent six weeks pretty much housebound and on disability, thanks to a trauma-related injury, which is insane, I’ve come to respect the better things in life. I’m eating breakfast again instead of racing through the door with cold coffee and nothing but my fingernails to sustain me, I’ve come to respect women, I’ve struggled with plants I’ve had for 12 years that hate my new apartment, I’ve managed to live closely with a flatmate for several months without jamming a fork in his eye, I’ve learned that many of the people around me really are friends. All of this is, yes, insane.
Sorry to keep saying that, but it’s my word for the day. I always hope for a complicated, high-brow word, but I’m a slave to whatever is randomly selected. Last Monday, my word for the day was “and.” I’m waiting for “nice,” because that’ll be fun. The most overused and, therefore, snide word we have. That’s nice…fucker.
I worry, these days, about being snide. I worry about what people think, which I shouldn’t do. My cynicism is an issue, because I’ve finally come into an age where I feel it’s not a back-handed compliment when people say I’m cynical. Used to be, I’d take that comment and be proud of it. You bet, asshole, and it’s all because of you. And your pig wife. God, you come into the room and my skin just wants to fall off.
Now people say I’m cynical and I reply the same way, except a bit more defensively. Instead of youthful condemnation, I have aged into indignation. Why have you made me cynical? Why did you marry your pig wife? I am distressed that my skin wants to fall off everytime I learn that you have not yet been crushed by a falling piano or raped to death by a legion of escaped convicts. I crave for freedom from cynicism.
That freedom comes when you’re trapped in your apartment and only encounter close friends who greatly pity you. The only strangers I’ve met in the last few weeks have been the retarded, cross-eyed cows at the prescription counter in Giant Food. As my doctor’s desperately throw drugs at me, I’m now at a point where I don’t even acknowledge strangers, really, so those insane monsters manning the counter barely even register.
But I’m not here to talk about injury or drugs. I’m here to talk about writer’s block. I started the publishing company in 2005 and, by September of 2006, I put out our first book. January 2005 to September 2006, as you know, is approximately 74 years, 14 months and 62 days. During that time, I ripped the lining out of my mind, body, soul, and shoes. I had to kill duplicitous friends, spend my entire life savings, burn loved ones on altars dedicated to strange, forgotten gods, and stare hard into light from dead stars. In the end, I put out something I loved. And it hasn’t made any money but, you know, tra-la-la. Being an American and, therefore, condemned to the fourth circle of hell, I am often consumed by the fact that I have not yet made millions of dollars and been given the right, by Mr. Jesus Christ and Our Lord and Savior George Bush, to eat the brains of children, drink from the skulls of enemies, and fuck babies. That is what America is about. That’s where the golden-paved streets go. That is why we all must reach the top: A row of suits that look the same and a free credit card that says: Stick your cock in that boy’s ass, yee howdy, yippie-ki-yay.
Maybe I’m being cynical.
Maybe I want to clean my skull out with a spoon every morning when I read The Washington Post
A quick tangent for today’s headlines, at the risk of dating this article, and since the Post just arrived: Saddam is gonna die. Okay, whatever. I never cared. Dems could gain both houses. Used to be that was nice, but now it’s really just same as the old boss, isn’t it? Suburbs could drive elections. Brilliant. Who came up with that one? Concentrations of voters may drive elections! We’re calling up more troops as the war in Vietnam escalates, evangelicals are raping boys (the American Dream, man!), the Arctic ice caps are melting like they normally have done throughout history but everyone’s upset about it, and on and on…
My flatmate gets the Post. He thinks it’s funny to pay for a newspaper that’s (1) free online and (2) bad.
Not that there’s much choice. The Post is one of the nation’s best papers. Which sort of tells you about America, huh? I’m less indignant about him getting the Post and more by its presence in the flat.
I might just be in a snit because they haven’t reviewed our book, despite monumental efforts and empty promises. But they will, because my plan for the coming week is to go down to their offices with weapons. I want to see a review on Sunday or hostages start dying!
Okay, okay, Nacho! Just relax. We’re sending in bottled water and pizzas if you let one of the copy editors go.
Act two – the pretty girl who writes the obits falls in love with me, Stockholm Syndrome style, but it’s all a ruse and she betrays me in act three. BAM BAM! Right in the back. Oh, down I go. Camera pans up through the smoke and there she is, flimsy dress, halo of light behind her highlighting her auburn hair, holding the big gun shakily in both hands with a horrified look in her eyes. The big tough cop – I’m thinking Ving Rhames in a very different talky, emotional role – takes the gun from her and she falls into his arms. No dialogue here, we fade out to the street – post apocalypse chic, after I’ve been throwing out bombs and shooting police cars – and pull away with light music playing. The situation resolved… For now! A hand reaches up from the grave and… No, wait. I’m mixing genres.
Anyway, it’s not unexpected. These are the typical trials and tribulations of a small press. I have no idea how anybody has done it, because it really does make me want to fall down screaming sometimes. Just cry and moan until I get enough pity from my female friends to get laid.
So, anyway, addressing the writer’s block. I’ve not been successful. The various exercises from hacks and retards and, dare I say, fuckwads online say shit like: Clear your head of distracting thoughts.
Okay…so, kill myself? Huff ammonia? I don’t really get that exercise.
I like this (from http://www.spacejock.com.au/WritersBlock.html):
So, when I get stuck for ideas or feel the whole book is a waste of effort, here’s what I do. (I use my writing software, but paper will do.)
Um…writing software? Why do you have writer’s block if you have a computer write for you? Here’s my take on writing software: As both a hack, failed, unpublished author and a publisher, the moment I hear of anyone using software to write their novels I want to tell them what for, by golly. Pip pip! What-ho! Get a grip, kids. Jesus Goddamned Christ…writing software.
First, create blank chapter headings for the next few chapters.
Okay. Blank chapter headings. Whatever that means. Like blank pages, maybe? Chapter 72: The Case of the <BLANK>
Now add 2 or 3 blank scenes to each. Don’t worry about how long these are going to be, or whether you need one or four of them per chapter. You’re just showing your brain the small steps involved.
Scenes? Now we’re writing screenplays.
Starting at the blocked chapter, jot down one-line description for the blank scenes. You’re just filling empty spaces right now, so it doesn’t have to be amazingly exciting.
Okay! I can do that. Here we go: Sex in this chapter. This chapter ends with lousy cliffhanger. Gunfight. Sex, again. Long but very literate description of her pussy, use colors and compare to spring or autumn. Gunfight.
As you progress you might find yourself moving away from your plot. If it’s more interesting – good. (Writer’s block is usually the result of trapping your characters in a dead end.)
Wait! Dead ends are good! Like Da Vinci Code. And then a ROCK FELL FROM THE CEILING!!!! <end chapter> <new chapter> But it was a small rock and he was okay.
Suddenly you will write down a scene description which makes fanfares sound, bells ring, etc. You KNOW how this one goes! Don’t write it immediately, just write more detailed notes for it. Over the next day or two it will stick in your mind, and you’ll be able to refine it. Hold yourself back and don’t write it yet. If you like you can stop outlining other scenes now. Instead, go away and play this vivid scene through your mind. If you’re itching to write it down… well, there goes the writer’s block 😉 Never forget this: You’re writing a novel, not reading one. What happens next is completely in your hands, but it’s this freedom which can make you freeze like a rabbit in the headlights. Do you leap left or right?
Okay, let’s see if I can make sense of that. (1) Your block is broken, so try to stay blocked because you suck, please, god, don’t write anything except one line sentences for blank “scenes” in blank chapters. (2) Stop writing. Go away. (3) Okay, nevermind, go ahead and write. See if I care. Fucker. (4) But you do suck. (5) Tell me about the rabbits, George.
When you sit down to write this stand-out scene it may not be as grand as it was in your imagination. Don’t worry, that grandness will come after multiple revisions. You will probably rewrite the whole thing several times before your book is complete – and this article was about unblocking the creative juices, not writing a first draft which just happens to be the best novel the world has ever seen.
Jesus, man, get off my back. “I don’t mean to hex you now that you’re coming out of writer’s block, but…well, it’s just not good.”
Juices.
After you’ve written that stand out scene (SOS) you can go back to modify the scene descriptions leading up to it, perhaps adding references to events in the SOS. As you’re rewriting these descriptions you will come across one which rings bells, sounds fanfares, etc. That’s the next one you should focus on.
Come at once…we have struck an iceberg…SOS…
The moral of the story is … write scenes which are busting to get onto the page, and skip the ones which seem like a chore. If you’re bored out of your skull writing them, how’s your reader going to feel? Another tip: there’s no need for long, boring transition scenes. Reader… Use the same trick on any other boring parts and your novel will fly along, and so will you.
It is about the Da Vinci Code!
So here’s my advice, based on the above: Take a break. Have a beer. It’ll work itself out. You’re going to fail anyway, so it’s not like there’s any pressure on you.