Poking at the Writing Thing…
Following the dusty trail.
There are times when the writing seems to drag on without end.
Never arriving at a solution, or a story that offers a complete package. As though picking away at the outer margins of an undefinable issue.
Never ceasing to evade me is that desired arc, that start, middle and end needed for all stories. It’s as though all I can provide are snippets.
To be clear I have my first book in Amazon and piles of short stories. On the scale of: ‘writer vs accomplished writer’, or from one to ten. I put myself on the two, on a good day maybe even three. In other words a struggler for over fifty years.
I’ve read and heard that many Irish authors are quite adept at writing stories that seem to fall off a cliff at the end, or take utterly unexpected turns in the plot. Things that if most of us were to attempt might fall flat on our faces. I refer to myself mostly. Not for me to assume for anyone else.
Bits and pieces of this and that which, when put together as one, remain as inconclusive and disparate as alphabet soup. They are together but still they don’t offer a clear picture. For a while it worked when I ventured out across the blank page, scribbling mostly meaningless stuff, and then all of a sudden I spot a thread.
I can often take that and construct a body that seals a deal, confirms a pain, keeps on breathing happily forever more. But lately, all I get is an endless ringing in my ears, as though something is taunting me. ‘You mean you can’t even come up with a simple ‘ he did, she said, all gone home, end of story? What’s the matter with you, anyway?’
No, I’m not asking to be like Hemingway or King. A Lamott! How much fun would that be? I’m not asking to copy or lift another’s hard earned chops. All I’m asking is that I can start a yarn, spin some kind of evolving plot. You know, happiness, then danger, then an attack, finally a counter attack in the end, the girl rides off with the guy or vice versa into the damn sunset.
Come on, how hard is that?
I mean, for Christs’ sake just do it! What? What’s the big damn deal here, pal? What keeps me from doing what I just outlined? Yes, there is something there. A block, though I hate that word, block is appropriate in another way. There’s a block, something that reaches out and short circuits my best efforts at breaking loose from these tethers that hold me down.
What is it? I lately tend to think it’s a mental anomaly, a glitch in the circuitry. Yes. Something that purposely high jacks my positive outlook needed for spelling out the story. I believe this happens somehow. I’ve gone over everything and come up dry.
Things like my health, (it’s ok), my wife (she’s great), my kids (they’re wonderful), my sibs (wonderful), my financials (dismal), Max, my beagle (a joy), my neighbors (one is a delight, the other my wife just had a huge fight with, not good).
So these are honest appraisals that ask for analysis, I prefer: they call for awareness and or consideration. All in all, not bad. Not overly so. It’s livable. But then I think of all those great writers whose lives were pure hell and torment. Men and women who, for countless issues, put themselves through impossible situations and still produce genius!
My point being that who cares how shitty one’s personal life? There are those who go philosophical and suggest that the greater one’s inner hell, the more beautiful the prose. Is this something you might agree with? I’m not terribly sure about that one. Maybe that has more to do with just how deeply invested the writer is emotionally into the mentioned issues.
The more invested in the personal, the greater the obstacle in one’s writing. I know guys who have a wife and three lovers and seem to live a life of, if not overly joyful, definitely passable. No, in no means am I encouraging such behavior. There are those who drop dead after a life of strife and self-imposed hell, yet could write like the best. Too much stress.
My now deceased cousin, more like an uncle who’s liver finally gave out, wrote incredible stuff while ‘under the influence’. I personally know song writers and musicians who fuel the muse, their bodies with all sorts of substances and produce incredible material. But again, we’ve all heard those interviews given by many of the old guitar gods from the sixties who want to make very clear that when high, they couldn’t produce anything worthwhile.
So which is it? Oh, I know. Probably a mix. Takes all sorts of course.
One might ask: are there any, you know, ‘normal’ writers? Are there? Valid question after you stop to consider just how many writers seem to operate with a deck not quite full. Can we live life with a deck not full? I’m sure we can and that most of us do so all the time.
I’m not referring in this case to writers who prime the mental pump by abusing stuff. This is more pointing to that person one meets on the street is bound to have issues. Most say something about being neurotic, which very well may be the tip of their ice berg.
Oh, you better believe I’m in that group. There’s no shame. In fact, often times I wonder just how huge my ‘ice berg’ is under the surface. Scary almost! You know what I’m saying.
It’s the ones that claim they have no such afflictions and that ‘you and me’ are fine and everyone else is nuts. Just stating that there is something to be said about not being perfectly sane and the resultant quality that flows from one’s pen.
It’s a simple fact that there are those who simply come off as normal as hell and write wonderfully. The flip side being that there are probably just as many good writers who are completely off their rocker. Who decodes this stuff and who can say any of this with certainty?
Might just be one huge mixed bag.
One might ask: ‘what kind of writing are you talking about?’
Good question.
Probably all writing. I’d risk a little by saying, however, that one who is tasked to write detailed instructions as to how to fold sheets properly, or a manual how to maintain the lawn mower might be most immune to the prickly writing hedges I’m referring to here.
Maybe when we write romantic stuff, of course philosophy, of necessity religious things, even political, in other words, truly creative stuff. These are the areas and many more of course, but you get the idea, in which what comes out on the page is the stuff that comes from tapping our most personal depths. Odds of encountering off-center writing are greatest.
The suggestion then is that this is the kind of writing that will stick to a readers ribs! Now. Who wants to raise their hand and say they belong to this arguably huge group?
I will. I did so long ago.
Oh, nothing profound here by any definition. Simply another small effort at clearing away some of the smog. In my case, that stuff that keeps me from doing what I most want: write with a higher quality. Sure, and why not? Asking for too much?
Enjoy it fully!
