Category Archives: Writing

Flurry Of Creative Movement

On Saturday night, a little bird spoke to me for a moment about a proposed collaboration first suggested to me last September. In true creative fashion, I have since been overwhelmed by a slew of ideas and visions regarding this proposed collaboration, but I have nothing to hang them on, not even a definite go-ahead on the project. I’ve just been scribbling them down in note form so far. Most will likely end up unused, but they can always find an alternate life in a story somewhere I suppose, said by other characters in other situations.

I use the phrase “in true creative fashion” because in my experience, when an idea is proposed or is conceived, I find the first few days staggeringly obsessive. I dream about the topic; I find myself looking at the world as if I were one or several of the characters; I research on-line and in books and wrap my head around as much information as I can, whether I knew something originally or not. Many of the artists I know operate in a similar fashion. We become enraptured with a new idea and explore it as deeply and as broadly as we can, sometimes to the exclusion of other projects. No, it’s not healthy; we know that. It’s just so hard to fight that first-love burst of energy that fills us and keeps us going, partial nourishment and a partial drug, too.

On a completely different note, I found black sandals to go with my new black concert dress.

Grrr

Two. Two posts, one long and poetic, one the highlights of the poetic version. Gone. The first due to a power outage which rendered my work unrecoverable for some reason, the second due to Blogger screwing up.

It started out as such a lovely day, too.

Shortcut

Well. Apparently whoever’s driving this thing knew a back way around that roadblock.

One of the two projects I’m editing/reviewing has been done. (And for the two of you who are wondering, I did the one I got first: the comic script.)

I’ve also written 1,600 words and have moved my Great Canadian Novel protagonist from the dead stop she was at to Europe. Blink, blink. I’m probably about as stunned as she is.

Back into the fray!

It’s That Simple; It’s That Hard

Caitlin says:

I will sit in this chair, in front of this iBook, until at least 5 pm. I may write. I may not. But I will spend the day sitting here in this chair in front of this iBook. Beads of blood may appear on my forehead. My back may ache. But I will sit here.

Stop trying to write, and frelling write.

I know it’s that simple. I know it’s that intricate.

Except today it’s reviewing and editing other work, and I’m just staring at it and nothing’s sinking in. Which is not at all the fault of the authors. The connection between my eyes and my brain appears to be under construction, and the route is closed until further notice.

It’s roadwork season in Autumn’s brain. Who says we don’t reflect our physical environment?

The Fun Part Of Selling Oneself

I’ve just spent four hours designing a business card and a brochure for my writing services.

Damn, but I sound professional. I mean, I read my brochure, and I’d hire me. I need to tweak it a bit, though – I think I’ll end up creating two versions, one for companies and one for individuals, so I can target my audience better rather than referring to one here and another there.

The best part? It has continuity with my web site and my web log through the use of colour and the owl motif.

The almost-as-best part: this counts as writing. t! challenged me to write an opinion piece today, but I think this rather slips in under the creative writing wire. Hire me! I’m confident, capable, and I can help you. The tricky part? Telling people they need help without making them think they’ve been accused of being incompetent.

Stalking Authors

When I’m feeling singularly uninspired, I meander about and look at what other writers think and feel about writing.

Jane Yolen is an author I’ve been reading since I was about eleven. On her For Writers page, she says that [t]he Muse is an ornery creature and rarely comes when called. She wears feathers in her hair and birkenstocks on her feet and is often out in the woods when you are home at your keyboard. Which is all too true.

She quotes Gene Fowler: Writing is easy: all you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until the drops of blood form on your forehead. Of course, she goes on to point out that writing isn’t agony, and the majority of the time I’d agree with her; I’m not one of those people who thinks that an artist has to suffer in order to create, or to be able to create, good art. Every once in a while, though, yes, it really does feel that hard. Yolen also quotes Roland Barthes: The author performs a function; the writer an activity. It suggests that an author has a job, but a writer is the job. (I don’t remember ever reading anything so inspiring when I read Barthes a few years ago, but I might have missed something.)

However, the nicest thing on the page was this:

A writer has many successes:

Each new word captured.
Each completed sentence.
Each rounded paragraph leading into the next.
Each idea that sustains and then develops.
Each character who, like a wayward adolescent, leaves home and finds a life.
Each new metaphor that, like the exact error it is, some how works.
Each new book that ends–and so begins.

Selling the piece is only an exclamation point, a spot of punctuation.

Which is remarkably inspiring.

O Wall

I somehow fell out of the writing habit about a week ago, and now I’m really facing a wall.

My darling husband, when I told him I’d need to go to France in order to keep writing the Great Canadian Novel with any sense of verisimilitude, offered to take me to Quebec City for a long weekend. It’s the closest we can get to France. I was touched.

In the meantime, I’ve staring blankly at my laptop and feeling singularly uninspired. I scribbled down notes for four (yes, 4) short stories last week, but evidently they’re not write-now stories.

I’ve gone back and done some rewriting and touch-ups and doodled some plans for future stuff to happen in various storylines, but overall, there hasn’t been much concrete production. I re-read the substantial beginnings of an urban fantasy novella about dreams versus reality and I’d love to pick it up again, except the main character’s name is Trinity. With the whole “What is the Matrix?” thing going on, no one will ever believe that I wrote half this novella six years ago. Just change the name, I hear some of you suggesting; and while on the surface that would seem to be a solution, for me (and likely many other writers) it’s impossible. The character’s name is Trinity. She opened a door in my mind one day after a long day of work and came in fully-formed, falling onto the sofa, practically asleep on her feet. It would be like asking you to change your next-door neighbour’s name after living next to her for six years.

I’d say it’s frustrating, but I don’t have the energy to feel frustrated. Forlorn, yes. But not more than that.