Find the Write Mind

I’m an emotional guy. There, I said it, the secret is out. Let the macho of the world descend on me in their white hot fury of denial, as I am the mirror showing them their own souls, destroying that which they do not comprehend.

Actually, all people are emotional, it is just a question of degree, awareness and availability. In my case, I’m not one to fall apart in a crisis or crumble when bad news is delivered. I don’t tend to sob uncontrollably when upset or jump up and down when excited, though I have done both on occasion.

On the other hand, I am fairly aware of my emotional states. There was a time when I was always ‘tired’, my catch-all for any negative emotion and still an instinctual favorite. However, I have grown over the years and can now tease that tired feeling into various components - frustration, fear, despair, hopelessness, anger, worry, envy…and the list goes on. It’s like using a prism to break white light into all those amazing colors.

This is useful in my writing due to the fact that all those negative emotions get in the way of my sitting down and writing. In the past, thinking I was ‘tired’ meant I just needed to rest, possibly sleep, and then I’d be ready to get to it. But I hardly did, because my diagnosis was not correct so the treatment did not work. Now I’ve been working on identifying each feeling specifically and taking action to address it and move on.

Today it’s a combo of despair and self-criticism. It has been awhile since I posted an entry here and, as a result, the feelings are brought on by that downer inner critic voice, telling me to just give it up.

My response is to acknowledge it for what it is, that it is not valid, and to post. To write.

I was also thinking that Hemingway would probably hate this blog, all this fuzzy feeling talk. He’d tell me that you just grab your bottle of scotch, sit down and write. I do have to admit, the drinks did solve the emotion issue…but only for awhile.

So I’m fighting Hemingway today, talking about my feelings, sharing with others, and drinking Good Earth tea (I think that’s the most embarrassing part of this post).

And I’m writing.

~ Kirk

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I’m worn. I have home projects to complete, work is a tad bit stressful, the new puppy throws off my routine, and we have three functions Saturday to attend. I find myself wishing for a week with nothing to do at all.

Here’s where I could say I would love a week where I could just write, with nothing else going on. Since it wouldn’t be true I’ll be honest and say I’d most likely dread the pressure of actually having huge chunks of time to write. That, however, is for another day.

Right now I feel like giving up, calling it quits, throwing in the towel. And why? Not because I have a huge structural problem with the story. Not due to a life situation that is consuming any and all free time. Not even from a fading of interest.

It’s solely a result of the inner defeatist, the voice in my head that is the opposite of the encourager for whom I long. When I look at my story notes, I see the basic plot line, the characters, and whole scenes waiting to be incorporated into the whole. Then I hear the voice start telling me that there is no way I’m going to be able to assemble that mess, to construct a decent, coherent story out of it.

Simply, it says, “That’s not going to work out.” I’ve heard it often.

So here’s my response to that petty villain lurking in my subconscious. First, I expose him here for what he is, a voice from my past that might not have had the life he wanted and vented those feelings onto others. Second, I recognize that I am tired. Twelve Step groups have the acronym H.A.L.T., which means to proceed with caution anytime I am Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired. Finally, I will keep moving forward. It does not matter if I can’t see the whole story as assembled right now. I just need to take the next step.

I’m going to bed.

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Do I really need to say anything more?

First, it was losing a section of writing. There was a computer update and a reclaimed Word doc that I didn’t save, only to find the last piece missing from my writing. After some mental swearing, I felt an internal shutdown at the thought of rewriting that bit. ‘Now you’re starting all over,” the voice in my head scolded me, ‘just forget about it.’ It took a little work on reorient and tell myself I wasn’t starting over, that I had only lost some backstory and that the most important outcome of having written it was the mental clarity I had on my character, which I still carried. So just buckle down and keep going.

When I still hadn’t written anything the next day, I blamed it on the head cold. It’s at the point where my teeth hurt if I lean over too far - who the hell can write in such a state? (Well, I can, for one, if I’m not wimping out about it. I’ve written term papers in worse condition.) Really, if I’m honest, it was still the setback, with the cold for a new alias. When I had figured out my disguised basis for procrastination, I knew the answer was to just sit down and scribble out a bit of the story. So I put my butt in the chair, mentally reviewed where things stood, and played World of Warcraft.

This morning I knew I had to write something, get back in the flow, take action to avoid a month long shut down of creative impulse. This is where I was going to take my stand against the cycle of start and stop, of beginning and giving up. It was time. And then I started thinking that I needed to create a new blog post, that it had been too long, that I needed to start contacting other bloggers and podcasters, to create my network and find ways to monetize and build my financial empire! Then I would have all sorts of time to write, free of the burden of the J.O.B.!

I guess the third time is the charm occasionally. Those negative, insistent feelings were taking yet another tack, using my fear of failure of veer off in any direction but that of working on my story - but this time I knew it. I had to remind myself that this blog is not for fame or fortune. I only seek to share my experience, to both vent off my internal pressures and to find people for whom these snippets resonate.

This morning I sat down and wrote out the first act of my story, putting down as if I were telling it to a friend…”This guy, who works at this place, well, he has this problem…” It’s rough but it’s working out the path I need to move down. And it felt great! Now I can come here, put this down, and let go.

I wonder what will be tomorrow’s reason to not write…

~ Kirk

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If you’re anything like me, you’ve read your share of materials on writing. They cover all sorts of topics ranging from technical to literary to practical. The one I was thinking of today, that holds both promise and poison, is the writing schedule.

First I will address the poison. There’s a part of the schedule that seems like the Holy Grail, the elusive ‘if I could just get the right day and time it would all happen effortlessly.’ That’s my mental skew on it. That there’s a time slot just right for me. So many writers talk about their habit, almost as if it’s a drug. Such a time to such a time, every day. A recent book on writing by Walter Mosley, titled This Year You Write Your Novel, states you need an hour and a half every day.

So what happens? I grind to a halt when my specific conditions don’t map out as these authors and gurus suggest. If I can’t meet the formula then I can’t see how it will work out. Then ever-ready hopelessness is there, ready to jump back into the gap of doubt.

And the promise? Well, it really is about writing, about sitting down and doing it. So I have one rule: try to write something everyday. That’s it. I expect my time to come in the morning but life can get in the way. If something happens in the morning I shoot for after work. If that doesn’t work I’ll write just before bed (when the only time deadline is my state of fatigue). If the whole day goes to shit, then I’ll just have to start over the next day.

Today I was working on the main character in my story. My time slot was around 7-8 am and I worked out his family a bit, fleshing out a free-spirited but over-emotional mother and a thoughtful, more reserved, and deceased father. Tomorrow is back to work so I’m hoping for 5:30am-6:30am or so to build a bit more of my hero, but I’ll see what happens when I get there.

~ Kirk

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This morning was to be another day doing the work, sketching out ideas and characters, letting creativity surge forth, breaking free from my constraints I put in its place, erupting to new heights of brilliance, gushing flows of the story.

Instead, I woke to the spray of water in my basement as hot water broke free from the hose that connects to my washing machine, drenching the utility room and flooding one corner of our basement.

Five hours later I had cleared the area (my five shelf rack that holds all my tools being the most important), replaced the hoses and borrowed a wet-vac to attempt to pull as much water from my carpet as possible. And it wasn’t too bad. In fact, after the initial shock of waking up to that emergency I calmed down and methodically did what needed to be done. There’s still the damp carpet issue, the drying of tools and restocking the utility room but all-in-all the problem’s been solved.

Except the problem that I was not able to begin my day with a bit of writing, which is usually the best time for me. I was aware that the moment had been taken, that my routine was abruptly changed, and that there was a small voice in my head affirming the sign from fate that writing was just not going to work.

I used to not be aware of that voice at all. I would find myself discouraged and give up for a time, never recognizing what was going on in my head. Now I know it, can hear it and identify it as an influence separate from other thoughts. Not in a split-personality-named-Fred kind of voice that tells me to do strange things. But it’s a left over thought pattern from long ago that still gets in my way.

Today, it was pretty quiet. Maybe I had some strength from successfully dealing with the water problem. It could just be having a new start at the writing. Whatever the case, I found thirty minutes in the afternoon, before heading out for Thanksgiving dinner with friends, to sit in front of the Mac, dreaming a bit about potential characters and plot lines, recording some of the more fruitful outcomes of my wool gathering.

Dinner was great. We were with the families of some close friends, enjoying great food and good company. I ate too much, didn’t drink too much and was able to get home early enough to jot down a blog entry. At the dinner table, I had one of the moments I love that results from engaging my creativity. Someone was relating a story called something like ‘Three Cups of Tea”, I believe originating from India, where the third cup means you’re family. And I had the momentary flash of some clueless fool, travelling, stopping for tea, taking the third cup, not having the faintest clue that he has just been adopted into an Indian family. That might just make a good comedy.

~ Kirk

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So this is the beginning.

I’ve been playing around with writing stories for quite some time without ever fully committing myself: an outline here, twenty pages there, character descriptions and ideas scattered throughout folders. Unfortunately, I have yet to actually finish one of these stories. As much as I hate to say it, my screwed up emotional state is to blame.

You see, I was raised to be rational, orderly, predictable and safe. To start things that had an obvious outcome. Not to leap into the unknown. Not to take chances. Not to explore. It was always about the goal rather than the process. So I finished high school, obtained my English degree from college, worked with kids a bit in a few different settings, got into construction and generally ended up on paths with a clear linear path to a defined, probable end result.

Then, about ten years ago, I started thinking up ideas. Story ideas. Book ideas. Movie ideas. Comic book ideas. They just showed up, insistent, clattering around in my head. ‘I have a degree in English,’ I thought, ‘I should be able to knock something out.’ So I tried my first attempt at a screenplay.

I had no idea the kind of wilderness that awaited me in that long middle, that involved undefined threading of plot and developing of character. I was quickly overwhelmed, not pleased with my imperfect beginning (but how could it not be such) and despairing of traversing the desert stretching before me. I took a few testing steps but quickly lost my way and retreated to the safety of the predictable. I thought I was forever turning my back on these stories, to walk away to live the life to which I had been bred.

How is it that stories can chase a person? I swear, there are times I wish they’d shut up and go away, retreat back to wherever they emerged from in the first place. Oh, I’d have a time of peace, of confident assurance that I’d made the right decision, that success in writing is too hard to come by and better left alone. In time, however, my brain would start up. A few different ideas from the news became a movie, a personal experience heard from a relative was suddenly a novel. And if only I could find a graphic artist, we could create this great new series! Not to mention that idea for HBO. They wouldn’t leave me alone and up to today I’ve struggled with a bipolar attitude toward it all.

Start and stop, start and stop, start and stop. Over and over and over. Frankly, I’m tired of it. Recently I returned to counseling (yeah, that’ll show up in future posts I’m sure) and realized that the middles are the bane of my existence but only because they tap into fears and insecurities, deep and embedding in my being. Each and every time it was my reaction that shut me down, not the work. On top of it all, it seemed I was on my own, with no one who could relate. I recently realized I have no outlet, no support, for those emotional reactions. My coworkers in construction sales, as much as I enjoy them, are not about to listen to me share about struggling with my creative process. Hell, who would?

So here we are. I figure that there must be others out there who are trying to plug away at a story, or any creative venture really, who has the same blocks rearing up as they strive to move through them. Already having a website arranged for another non-writing venture I put on hold, I had two thoughts. First, this will be the place I can vent and share my process, a kind of online journal dedicated to my writing process, if you will. Second, I hope others will find me here and will find they are not alone, having an opportunity to relate experiences of their own, encouragement to others, and any tips picked up along the way.

Even as I write this the usual doubts want my attention. My initial thought was to begin this blog when I had a writing schedule in place, everything just so, ready to create my masterpiece (or just finish something). However, I have an eleven week old puppy and a head cold. I feel exhausted, I get interrupted and Thanksgiving is around the corner. But I think that’s just the time to start, to begin with everything jostled out of place a bit, to shed my fantasy of perfection or the ideal formula. It’s really just time to do some writing and to share my process.

~ Kirk

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