Here I sit, writing. Writing about writing. Writing for the sake of writing. After months and months of being unable to string words along, I’m compelled to write and write and write and write. Never mind not having anything to say at the moment.
Bear with me. I’m writing this as it comes.
I remember, as a child, having a spare pack of loose leaf paper. I put it in a three-ring binder, numbered the pages and set out to fill every page with words. It was amazing. I had my parents buy me blank books. I liked the challenge of having but so many pages to say what I wanted to say and end it. There was a particular one with an impressionist painting of some sort on the cover. I carefully carved the title of my “novel” on it and inside was one of the rare occasions I wrote neatly for myself. I cherished that story of solving mysteries with my closest friends and a sentient time machine. Years passed. I though it was stupid. I destroyed hid it.
It wasn’t until a few years ago that I finally destroyed it. I didn’t want it to be a discovered work if and when I became published, pre- or posthumously.
Since 1992, the gap from early 2012 and the flash of creativity that was Asunder was the longest stretch of me not being truly creative. A lot of the entries in 2012 were forced. I only had two entries this past January. TWO. Have you ever experienced a part of yourself going missing? It was a peculiar feeling.
I’m enjoying this return whilst I can. I’ve been around long enough to know posting daily isn’t going to be a thing. Life is going to get away from writing about life. And the days when I wake up, go to work for 12 hours and then peruse the Internet until it’s time for bed. Because that’s life some days.
The creative writing is what I’m excited about the most. It felt like that part of my brain had been shut down. It crippled me daily. It’s extremely frustrating to know damn well what you’re doing but not be able to do it. It’s especially frustrating when your career depends on that part of your brain being on.
I’m looking forward to making the most of it being on and, since I was off yesterday and today, I’m starting with diving back into Brown River Blues.
Before getting to the part I needed to change, I started reading it from the top. I found an essay on Chuck Palahniuk on writing and I compared my ideas to what he said. I agreed with him and I was relieved when I saw that we were on the same page when I started writing. (Don’t get me wrong: Brown River Blues is far from being transgressional fiction … although I do have a trangressional work on the back burner with the working title of The Collectors.)
When I reached where I need to rewrite, I realized that it wasn’t just a simple change: Two chapters need an overhaul. They set up some of the later action in the piece and were created back when the novel was a 25-part short story that had a completely different plot. I left them alone for all this time because they worked. Until I asked myself why the action in those chapters happened. Because it was close enough.
Close enough isn’t acceptable. These hands haven’t created words for more than 20 years for close enough.
I limped around for at least a year on close enough. I close enoughed myself to writing hell last year. It’s time to prove that I didn’t flit around on close enough for the past 30 years. I’m glad this block has ended and it’s time to get back in gear.
It’s writing time.