Friday, August 08, 2003
Warning: Over the past few weeks, I've been going through a rough bout of writer's block. Some people will insist that such a thing does not exist. I am here to say it does.
What follows are my own random thoughts on the creative process. I thought it might help me to work through this. Read at your own risk.
The creative process is a funny thing.
I have always thought of it as a journey, which is odd because I never know when it starts and it always takes me a while to figure out I'm on it. And even when it's over, there's always some little voice that whispers: What? You think we're done?
As a writer, I've come to accept that everything I experience in life makes for good material. Things I would never have the nerve to talk about become the subject of essays, arguments I've never reconciled become scripts and old traumas resurface as new plot ideas. It is through writing that I have learned to laugh at myself, and the silly little scenarios I have created.
There are times I find myself with so many things to write about that my head simply spins. I'll hear a snippet of conversation, or a particular word will strike me as intriguing and I'll build on it until an idea starts to take shape. Then, inevitably, I'll be busy doing something else, a completely new thought will pop into my head and – BANG – the two thoughts collide. It sounds bizarre, but this is how each and every one of my ideas have been conceived.
When I'm hot, there’s nothing I enjoy more than settling down in front of the computer and letter my fingers loose on the keyboard. Four years of typing homeroom have paid off huge - I have hands that can keep up with my brain. I'll often have three or four things going at once, and move between them at will. Ideas come when I'm driving, working, walking the dogs. Characters appear out of nowhere – seated in cafes, riding their tandem bicycles or loading groceries into their trunks. The air is practically buzzing with intricate plots. It's a writer's paradise.
And just when I think I'm finally over that petty amateurish notion of 'writer’s block', it hits. Suddenly, my brain is encased in mud. I cannot see properly, and I cannot seem to wrap my head around a single idea. It's as if I am paralyzed, simply waiting to be struck by a brilliant idea. It seems so unlikely that days earlier I had been on fire, and now I can't even strike a match. No matter how many books on writing I read (and I've even read the book On Writing), I cannot seem to extricate myself from this pattern of hurry up and wait.
Writer's block is my own personal hell. And lucky me, it comes in two stages:
First comes the earth-shattering fear of never being able to write again, which renders me incapable of doing anything save eat and watch TV. And knit. Knitting is actually a result of a long period of writer's block, where I felt I should at least be doing something. Knitting is good – it is calming and incredibly rewarding. Over the past few nights I've made a scarf, and the beginnings of a baby blanket for a friend. But I digress.
The second stage of writer's block comes at the most unexpected moment. I'll be lying in bed or shopping for groceries, when all of a sudden the fog lifts. I start thinking about characters, and allowing them to take form in my head. I dress them, employ them and imbue them with all sorts of traits. Satisfied, I tuck them away for use in a later story. It's always characters, mind you, never story ideas at this stage. Around this time, I'll pick up a book and the reading frenzy will begin. And while this is all a part of my writer's block, I must admit I love this stage. It's the only time I feel guiltless about doing nothing but reading. Right now I'm savouring Kate Remembered, by A. Scott Berg. Wordfreak is waiting in the wings, and I've already decided to re-read My Name is Asher Lev after that.
And from experience I can predict that someday soon the urge to write will return. It always does, so I'm not quite sure why I doubt it during Stage One. If only I could learn from my past and see beyond the present. Life would be so much simpler.
But where's the material in that?
Yet now, as I write these words, I realize that this entire blog endeavor has been about taking control of things – of finding beginnings where before there were none. So there will be no more waiting, no more knitting and no more excuses. From here on in, I'm going to enjoy the journey – the long uphill climbs, the spectacular views from my brief stays at the peaks, and even the tumultuous trips back down into the valleys. I will embrace the process, and rather than moan about it, I will write about it.
Huh. Look at that. I already did.
What follows are my own random thoughts on the creative process. I thought it might help me to work through this. Read at your own risk.
The creative process is a funny thing.
I have always thought of it as a journey, which is odd because I never know when it starts and it always takes me a while to figure out I'm on it. And even when it's over, there's always some little voice that whispers: What? You think we're done?
As a writer, I've come to accept that everything I experience in life makes for good material. Things I would never have the nerve to talk about become the subject of essays, arguments I've never reconciled become scripts and old traumas resurface as new plot ideas. It is through writing that I have learned to laugh at myself, and the silly little scenarios I have created.
There are times I find myself with so many things to write about that my head simply spins. I'll hear a snippet of conversation, or a particular word will strike me as intriguing and I'll build on it until an idea starts to take shape. Then, inevitably, I'll be busy doing something else, a completely new thought will pop into my head and – BANG – the two thoughts collide. It sounds bizarre, but this is how each and every one of my ideas have been conceived.
When I'm hot, there’s nothing I enjoy more than settling down in front of the computer and letter my fingers loose on the keyboard. Four years of typing homeroom have paid off huge - I have hands that can keep up with my brain. I'll often have three or four things going at once, and move between them at will. Ideas come when I'm driving, working, walking the dogs. Characters appear out of nowhere – seated in cafes, riding their tandem bicycles or loading groceries into their trunks. The air is practically buzzing with intricate plots. It's a writer's paradise.
And just when I think I'm finally over that petty amateurish notion of 'writer’s block', it hits. Suddenly, my brain is encased in mud. I cannot see properly, and I cannot seem to wrap my head around a single idea. It's as if I am paralyzed, simply waiting to be struck by a brilliant idea. It seems so unlikely that days earlier I had been on fire, and now I can't even strike a match. No matter how many books on writing I read (and I've even read the book On Writing), I cannot seem to extricate myself from this pattern of hurry up and wait.
Writer's block is my own personal hell. And lucky me, it comes in two stages:
First comes the earth-shattering fear of never being able to write again, which renders me incapable of doing anything save eat and watch TV. And knit. Knitting is actually a result of a long period of writer's block, where I felt I should at least be doing something. Knitting is good – it is calming and incredibly rewarding. Over the past few nights I've made a scarf, and the beginnings of a baby blanket for a friend. But I digress.
The second stage of writer's block comes at the most unexpected moment. I'll be lying in bed or shopping for groceries, when all of a sudden the fog lifts. I start thinking about characters, and allowing them to take form in my head. I dress them, employ them and imbue them with all sorts of traits. Satisfied, I tuck them away for use in a later story. It's always characters, mind you, never story ideas at this stage. Around this time, I'll pick up a book and the reading frenzy will begin. And while this is all a part of my writer's block, I must admit I love this stage. It's the only time I feel guiltless about doing nothing but reading. Right now I'm savouring Kate Remembered, by A. Scott Berg. Wordfreak is waiting in the wings, and I've already decided to re-read My Name is Asher Lev after that.
And from experience I can predict that someday soon the urge to write will return. It always does, so I'm not quite sure why I doubt it during Stage One. If only I could learn from my past and see beyond the present. Life would be so much simpler.
But where's the material in that?
Yet now, as I write these words, I realize that this entire blog endeavor has been about taking control of things – of finding beginnings where before there were none. So there will be no more waiting, no more knitting and no more excuses. From here on in, I'm going to enjoy the journey – the long uphill climbs, the spectacular views from my brief stays at the peaks, and even the tumultuous trips back down into the valleys. I will embrace the process, and rather than moan about it, I will write about it.
Huh. Look at that. I already did.
