Tag Archives: my first book

For everyday, ordinary.

Writer’s block. I highly recommend three books. They were recommended to me. I’m just passing them on. I present them in the order I read them. These are the three classics, in my library of writing books. My hard copies are all on loan, and I don’t expect them back. Just keep them in circulation.

The first is Writing Down the Bones, by Natalie Goldberg. This book transformed how I approach my daily practice. In fact, I didn’t actually have a daily practice, prior to reading this. My first year of writing, I had a regular practice, but not daily. And, I focused on producing manuscripts.

Natalie completely changed my approach. She taught me to write from within a journal. Some people can produce lots of great books, just working up manuscripts. But, that’s not her approach. And now, it is neither mine.

The next is The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield. A book to disabuse the aspiring writer that there is any short path to success. It is work. It can be brutal. Get used to it. It is a job, like any other. Grind, in order to succeed.

The last is The Artist’s Way, by Julia Cameron. I have had a funny relationship with this book. First, Wen Ling had to hit me over the head with it (only figuratively), to get me to read it. I wouldn’t. Then, I actually began this book before The War of Art. But, I finished the latter, first. Then, after my diagnosis, and as my last year of software-engineering played out, I ignored the title on my Nook. My symptoms had overwhelmed me. I could sense that Julia’s book would require more effort than I could provide, in that moment. So it sat waiting for the right conditions, before I would open it.

I came back to it naturally, as I renewed my creative effort. I had just spent the better part of two years writing, or, as I imagine it, thinking physically, about all the stuff happening in my life. Wen Ling and I had separated. Then, I discovered I had this health challenge. Followed by an adjustment period. Journaling helped me to come through all of this with an optimistic and accepting attitude. Somewhere around November/December of 2012, I began to think creatively, again.

Initially, I wanted to return to the book I had abandoned, before my symptoms had begun to dictate my days. I had already discovered the first of five principles for dealing with my symptoms. (More on this in my next post.) I had had just an absolutely great concept for a book. But, when I tried to pick it up again, something was missing.

I found it difficult to resume that relationship. Too much had passed in the interim. The story felt distant, to me.

I needed new inspiration. This is when I turned to The Artist’s Way. I have seen a number of reviews, by people who say it is just a bunch of ‘New Age Hooey’. I completely disagree.

Julia Cameron will ask you to do some strange stuff, in the way of weekly exercises. For instance, one of the exercises I undertook was to pray for creativity. Now, understand, I am an atheist. But, I did the exercise, because I was serious about unlocking my creativity.

The book contains Julia’s philosophy, in twelve lessons, each with exercises. These twelve chapters are intended to be followed, in order, one chapter per week. And, Julia tells people that the exercises must be followed. You can’t unlock your creativity just by reading about it.

Well, I had a deep burning intention to do just that. This atheist prayed, and did a lot of the other exercises, too. I even adopted the attitude that I would take on the all of the difficult assignments, to better challenge myself.

Somewhere in week seven, my creativity unlocked. I began my current project. I’ll go back and finish the The Artist’s Way, someday. I think the people who pan the book are just too stiff to be exercised.

Writer’s block is no match for honest effort, and these three books. I recommend them all. Julia asks the most of the reader, in terms of follow-along practices. Brand new writers, I might tend to steer toward Writing Down the Bones, instead. Natalie appeals to the youth in all of us. The War of Art most resembles a pep-talk. Sometimes we need a good pep-talk. This would be a great book for a newly crushed writer, after sharing their first bad work. Pick yourself up. Get back on that horse!

These three books are better, for blocked writers, than what I will share. Instead, beginning in my next post, I will spin a tale of what happened after I took all three to heart, and tried to write a book as my health continued to deteriorate. This past year was my most challenging, yet. But, by applying the idea that my disease was just a form of writer’s block, I discovered some adaptations that have allowed me to find the energy, and the mental clarity, to begin my book. I couldn’t say this, even one month ago. Back then, when I told people I am writing a book, I never hid the fact that I wrote everything in my journal.

Now. I am beginning my book. It is no longer confined to my journal. I am back to working up manuscripts. In addition to journaling. (I would love for readers to share their favorite books on writing, in the comments section below. Or, blog about yours, and share a link to your physical thoughts, as a comment/pingback.)

Where? I am.

I will start by telling you where I am.  People, who know I am writing a book, often ask.  Well.  How far along are you?  How many pages have you written?  I can tell my answers leave them silently wondering.  So, today is just a progress report.  I know it seems weird that I need to begin my discourse on writer’s block with a progress report on my book.  I wish it was easier to explain.

***  ***  ***

You see.  The problem is that my book is embedded in my daily journal.  Every day, a new page.  Here is how I now organize them.

I have a Journal folder.  Journal is broken down by years.  Years are broken into months.  And months, into days.  Days are pages.  All things, else, are folders:

Journal/

2011/

.

.

.

2014/

      2014-01/

      2014-02/

      .

      .

      .

      2014-08/

            2014-08-01

            2014-08-02

            2014-08-03

            2014-08-04:  This is the name of today’s page.  August 4th.

I find this particular YYYY-MM-DD format highly intuitive, because, the alphabetical is chronological.  No need to look for things.  My memories are embedded in time.  It’s easier to remember what I wrote by recalling what I was dealing with, when I thunk that thought.  And, it is easier to scan my work if it is sorted chronologically.  It synchronizes my eyes with my brain.

But, mind the zeros.  The zeros are necessary to retain order.  This would not work if I had named the 2nd as 2014-08-2.  Because, I would have a crisis brewing by the 10th.

My journal is all digital now.  But, I have volumes of spiral bound notebooks dating before 2011.  That year, writing by hand became difficult.

2011 is mixed between paper and digital.  It is the year my symptoms grew loud.  My new book actually starts around January of 2013.

Because, by then, I had received a diagnosis, and had the better part of a year to come to terms with what was happening to me physically.  By 2013, I was ready to move beyond it, as a subject for my journal.  I had accepted my new situation.  By the time 2013 was new, I wanted to write the book I had started, before my symptoms came, to occupy my thoughts.  But, that unfinished, old book, and those motivations, seemed too distant.

Writer’s block

I know what I should be doing.  I should be writing a book.  I mean, I have all the time in the world, given that I don’t work, due to my disability.

That’s what I have been telling myself this past year.  And, believe me, I have been trying.  But, it is time for me to begin speaking about what has been holding me back.  My book is the paramount focus of my writing efforts. But, I also have this blog.  And, I want to say things.  But, I’m telling you that this is not enough.

My daily output was dwindling.  I could see it in my journal.  It was evident here, on my blog.  And, it wasn’t from a lack of effort.  I was just finding it difficult to say the things I wanted to say.

Now, it would be wrong to refer to this problem of mine as mere writer’s block.  It was certainly a part of the problem.  But, it wasn’t even close to being a good, or proper, understanding.  And, I can only tell you this now, because I have been learning so much, this year.  For instance, I could not have even known where to begin, just last week.  Because, last week, this narrative had not yet emerged from within my fog.  I could see the shape.  I knew I was close to it.  But, I couldn’t properly describe what I saw.

So, I’ll begin as though I am discussing writer’s block.  And hopefully, after I go on to reveal how much more there was to my case of the dreaded condition, I’ll remember to come back to it, in summary.  This tale will play out over the coming days, here, on my blog.

If you want to know how to defeat writer’s block, I will tell you how I defeated mine.  I can’t promise that this would work for you.  Your circumstances are probably different.

When I began.

This blog.

I thought, then, that I knew what I wanted to write.  But, I actually had some difficulty in achieving my objective.  I can see several reasons for this.  I will identify and discuss them here, and in upcoming posts.

My first problem is that, although I have been writing daily, none of it seemed appropriate for my blog.  So, my early practice was to post stuff from my journal that seemed worth sharing.

Now, here, I would like to introduce a subject.  I will call it my writing conscience.

My writing conscience has been nagging me to write specifically for my book.  And, write for this blog.  But, I was battling unseen forces.  And, sometimes you can’t clearly see your enemy until you gain the upper hand.

A funny thing happened, while writing.

I was just called by a pollster.  She asked my permission to engage in a few questions on current topics.

I told her.

No.  My opinions do not aggregate well.  I am a unique perspective.  I am a writer.

I was surprised at how spontaneously, powerfully, and politely, I conveyed my thoughts,  before hanging up.

I loved that I didn’t wait for her response.  Saying no feels good, when it means saying yes to something more important.

I think I am going to use this line for the forceable future, until my message gets out there, on metaphorical paper.

My opinions do not aggregate well.  I am the aggregator.  I am here to make sense of your data.

This evening has been different.

Than yesterday, and the day before.

Same pain.  More energy.  But weak.

I didn’t expect much when I approached today’s writing.  It felt perfunctory.

Then, I got going.  In the past, I would flail for days, anticipating a revisitation by my muse, sometime after my symptoms would inevitably recede.

I would write for days, waiting for creative insights to return.

However, today, although I still feel crappy, my mojo reappeared.  I wrote a thousand words, most destined for some place in my story.

I am excited, because these past six months, I have been writing in my journal about these episodic symptoms that set back my mind, every time.  I knew I needed to overcome these ill effects.

Somehow, I trusted that the seemingly endless weeks of deep concentration would eventually pay off.

My second post back from today, I attributed my new ability to brain-rewiring.

My book is being physically wired into my brain, by my mind.

A first-time writer has more to overcome than a published author.  Both are telling a story.  But a new author has to figure out how to tell a story, before doing so.

A nascent writer’s brain is pure potential, until the secrets of success unlock themselves from past habits of thinking.

Until everything else in life became secondary to my book, I couldn’t appropriately focus my thoughts.

Until I could focus my mind, I couldn’t envision how to achieve that first draft.

Today, I can trust in the process.  Just write every day.

 

Elaborating on yesterday’s post.

While I retain the ability to think about my story, during this latest episode of symptoms, the willingness to write is diminished.

I can think about my story. I can have new insights. But it is still a challenge, in this state, to find the energy to develop the narrative.

That’s what I’m trying to overcome, right now. That is why I’m posting these brief thoughts.

Traction overcomes inertia.

Now, this is progress!

After I woke, I napped for three hours on the couch.  I am in that exhaustive phase, where pain is something in which I am immersed.

But, I vaporized some Blue Dream.  And, with it, and the extra sleep, I am alright.

There is something noteworthy in this experience.  Although I am dealing with the pain and the fatigue, I haven’t lost sight of my narrative.  This is my first experience of being knocked back, by my symptoms, but not out.  In the past, this is where I would have forgotten everything I was thinking.  In the past, my remaining strength would have bounced me between the couch, and my bed.

Today is different.  Today, I can still think about my book in a way that moves it forward.

I see this as behavioral evidence of brain re-wiring.  I started this book during the last few months of my employment.  And, I have been consciously developing a voice and a narrative during this last year.  My worst symptoms always seemed to make my creative work vanish.  Mentally, it would take days, or weeks, to get the creativity back, and more effort to re-develop the narrative, in my mind.

This is the first time I have experienced these symptoms and retained my creative faculties.

Shh. Shh. Writer at work.

The blog has not gone.

Quiet.  Writer.  Preoccupied.

My creative periods come in spurts, between bouts of symptoms.

My book is my focus.  I am writing my calling card.

In this moment, between symptoms, I can be intensely productive.

I am on disability.  But, I no longer believe my condition should hold me back.

My book, if she sells, will be evidence I can earn my own keep.

Silence is the foundation on which all noise is built.

Sacred Space.

Within, I work.

Things my characters would say.

I am recovering from an intense period of brainstorming that was very beneficial to the evolution of my writing.  But I am back, to actively telling a story.

I finally understand the text I am writing, as the synthesis of all the possibilities I wined and dined in my mind.  Is it fiction?  Check.  Is it memoir? Fuzzy check.

At one point, I thought I was exploring a new space called Fantasy Memoir.  I don’t know if there is such a thing.  There probably is, because when I think I have a good idea, if I look hard enough I will find others preceded me in that particular line of imagination.

But, I have also explored different options to speak my thoughts as non-fiction.  That, though, would require something different than what my spirit wants to say.  My spirit wants a Meta-Myth.

I have found that my spirit, when I judge that it is grounded in appropriate aspirations, typically identifies fruitful avenues.  And, my spirit is telling me to write a myth about myth.

This evening, I once again sat down to work on my manuscript.  And, I wrote a bunch of stuff that doesn’t belong in that piece.  But, it belongs in the story.  So, I have within my Scrivener project, folders for what different characters might say.  And, I am further breaking it down by having individual pages of possible statements and thoughts for each main character at the beginning of the story, the middle, and the end.

My writing style is haphazard, in the sense that I follow inspiration where it takes me.  To hell with the narrative, when great ideas come for individual moments.  So, I write them where I am, which is my draft.  And then, I have to pull them back out.  I just read what I wrote this evening.  It’s all great.  But, none of it seems to go together.

Tomorrow, I will re-organize today’s writing, as a warm-up activity, after my journaling, but before my story-telling.  I approach my writing as a potter explores hand-built pieces.  I am developing a narrative for all of the individual inspirations, that provide context for a truth I seek to convey.