riotthill

Write like the plague is gnawing at your heels. Find the words that nurse each sentence, be careful not to breath too heavily upon your paragraphs, and dispose of your dead as soon as the body carts arrive at the door.

Does this sound extreme? Perhaps, but when one puts away the ‘art and science‘ of writing, and just writes, the results might very well be a healthy survival rate.

Which brings me to a point that is only slightly related. What to publish, where and how. I have been giving much though to the current transition, growing pains if you will, of the state of the publishing industry.

There is much talk about self-publishing. Write up your story, sign up for a blog and post it. Or sign on to one of the sites that will publish your story in e-book format for others to download. Or explore the possibility of print-on-demand for hard copy… the real deal of a book with covers and perhaps even a number someone might put in a library somewhere — good traditional bones.

Oh boy, what about quality? What about the editing process, the melding of minds to polish the thing to its most appealing form. Well, what about it?

The best, the healthiest may very well survive to attract the attention of serious readers, those types who eat words for breakfast, lunch and dinner. They know a good story when they see one. They see the worth of good editing, polished plot, character development, an underlying message of universal appeal. Something with staying power. A classic. A story to embrace like an old friend arriving for a good long visit.

Then again, there is always the self-satisfaction of simply writing. Perhaps you’ve written something no one should ever see. Perhaps it just needs to be said, without care that it will ever be read. Perhaps that’s the state at which inhibitions slough off like an old skin, words dance and sing themselves into existence, immune to the plague of doubt, of judgement — both internal and external — to survive and thrive, to live healthy, wondrous lives, whether in print or in the clouds.

cross published at Red Room

First thing on my mind when I woke up was dreams, but those illusive little critters, whatever, whoever, wherever they are, slipped right through my thoughts and escaped. I know they are around somewhere, floating through the dust, probably hovering at the corners… you know, something you see at the corner of your vision, but when you turn your head, it’s gone. You wonder if your eyes play tricks, your imagination.

And now I am here, in total, wondering what to write, why I can’t when my hands are itching across the keyboard, my eyes guarding each word as it appears upon the screen.

Read a beautiful blog today — it contains fish, montages of life and a hoard of wonderful stories of faded pictures and sketches and songs whose translations are obscene.

It is called, appropriately enough, Excavations linked to my Ca’ancartti notebook — if you rifle through the pages, you will find it.

It’s a self-mindf**k, I think, wanting to write down everything, but saying nothing, just ramblings and outlines that go nowhere and self-doubt that catches on the edge of a deep well, stumbles, falls and falls and falls. There is no splash because there is no bottom.

If I became an acrobat on the way down, I could twist and turn and open my eyes. It is very light at the top, a tiny circle of brightness. My arms swing upward without direction, my hands grasping desperately; the light is energy, it stings my hands like burning rope, but I claw at it, hoist myself upward — remember, I have become an acrobat on the way down. I have used the safety net and bounced myself up, high, through the circle of light and into the open air.

I can breath.

I can think.

I can feel the dark silence around me, warm, but I refuse to leave the light that has captured me. Now I want to dream of flying. I want to re-visit my old dreams, remake them, tell them who I am… to write them into life.

(cross-posted at Redroom)

I find myself struggling daily to find words enough to scribe across the blank screen, a struggle, I’m positive I share with many. This whether it be for blogging, articles or the great novel screaming to find its way into the light from the cavernous depths of thought. (Wasn’t it Michelangelo Buonarroti who claimed that art already exists, it simply awaits the right strokes to free it?) Yet, there are those who seem positively and unendingly inspired, who simply sit at the keyboard and the instant fingers make contact, the words, sentences, profound and provocative ideas stream onto the page. Their strokes seem to have discovered with ease, the art of expression.

How does one find topics to write about? It’s not that each and every one of us isn’t creative, thoughtful, original. We are. I suspect it has more to do with inhibitions and self-consciousness than lack of ideas. You wake up in the morning, ideas, words, entire stories spilling out with each step, attending you like a faithful servant, anxiously waiting your next command, but suddenly vacating the premise, abandoning you to manage on your own just when you need help and support the most.

Frequently one sees the debate put forth that pen and paper are less an impediment to getting those words and thoughts into some sense of cohesiveness, than keyboard and virtual notepad. Yet I find, when the moment is hot and steamy, the keyboard is ever so much faster. Clumsy fingers, clogged pen and — where has my notebook gone? — the very idea of writing become a shoe trapped by a quagmire of mud, impeding the flow or words into sentences, into paragraphs, into — ‘my god, did I just write that exquisite sentence?’

But that’s just it isn’t it? The previous paragraph digresses from the topic, the struggle to write. I read yesterday something about finding your ‘ideal reader’. The analogy was used that when one writes letters or emails to a friend or loved one, the inhibitions fall away, the words, the expressions fly across the pages, sorting themselves into meaning, humour or the next quotable phrase. The idea is that whenever we write, we should do so for that perfect reader, the one who has been defined by age, by gender, interests, intelligence or colour of eyes. It probably works, I know it works, as proved to myself just this very morning. I’ve answered a dozen emails without thought, a quick glance to structure, eliminating those embarrassing spelling mistakes and typos and hurling them through the aethers at a single keystroke, confident in the knowledge that the recipients will not only read what I have written, but enjoy it and most probably reply. Yet here, when I must write something of importance, something of permanence, I find I pause. How do I express what I want to say? Will others understand, will they agree, will they continue to read to the end or throw the thing out in disgust or boredom and anger?

I could write about bees, and how we depend upon these tiny creatures for our survival. But then, I’m not a beekeeper, nor a scientist who would know all the facts. I could write about the all the people who have returned this past holiday weekend to their cottages, but what do I know about their lives, their loves, their health or income or conflicts. Which one hates his boss? Who amongst them is cheating on a spouse, awaiting a new child, struggling with a tooth ache, or planning his next assassination? Perhaps I should involve myself in some philosophy or another. How did the ancients view their world? Should we continue to pray even if we discover suddenly that God is dead? Or, perhaps I will deny all that I sense, for it is deception you see, it is the dream world that discovered the universe, prescribed its elements and invented the concept of humanity.

I’ve struggle over the words above, hesitating before the next phrase, deleting this, re-writing that, tinkering, doodling, making coffee, anything to avoid the commitment. Posting the final creation seems so permanent — oh dear, what if somebody, ideal reader or not, reads this and makes judgement? I think now, I shall put down my virtual pen, allow my thoughts to wander into worlds of fantasy, of fact, of tragedy and comedy, and await the next great spark of inspiration.