Sailing

9:26 am    feet on the desk, coffee cup handy, keyboard on my lap---- morning light casting a pleasant glow---- good way to start the day. Been thinking 'bout developing voice, or finding voice might be more accurate.  A writer's voice should be authentic, shouldn't be a trumpet for some cause.  Are some people born with the courage to stand up and speak their mind, or is that trait nurtured by the right environment?  Stand up, speak, write, proclaim, question:  all that kind of activity stirs the pot, the pot of contentment and stability, the pot of appeasement.  This musing led me to remember a story we read in grade school, maybe the 4th or 5th grade, called A Man Without a Country.  I remember the illustration for that story in our reader: a young hearty man looking longingly at a shore,  a shore where he was never to set foot.  From what I remember this man had uttered words of disloyalty to the new brand new United States of America--- I do not recall what he was supposed to have said, but the words, the words, were considered treasonous.  His punishment was to board a ship and sail the waters of the world, never allowed to set foot on any soil.  Any soil.  He was permanently adrift, rootless, homeless, friendless.

We had been studying the American Revolution at the time of reading this story, so my young brain was cast in confusion. On the one hand we were studying heroes who used words to incite the people to Revolution, but once the Revolution was won, the man in this story could not use his voice to proclaim his opposition.  It's been a long time since I read this work, but the diptych of the Glorious American Revolution side by side with this cautionary tale to youngsters to not take their opinions, their voices, their words, too far, has stayed with me through the years.   And taking one's voice too far, of course, will be decided by whoever happens to hold the power.

The threat of being cast off has quite a chilling effect not only on the words spoken, but the thoughts pursued, the dare to color outside the lines kinds of thought, the whys, the what ifs.

Why am I thinking about a story I read so many years ago when I tackle the problem of voice in writing?  I think, dare I say, I think that cautionary tale worked on me so long ago, and all these years since I have been trying to find a way to speak my mind--- whether in writing or out loud--- and still have a place to call home.  At some point, though, I believe, we must be willing to join that man sailing around the world getting no closer than a port to plant our feet.  And that takes a different kind of courage.

Over Analysis

Writing is a strange process.  Yeah, I know you already know that.  But, to the uninitiated, when you hear that someone is taking a year, two years, ten years to complete a book, you think, what a dilettante.  May or may not be true, but it sure does seem that way.  Until you try it yourself. An idea might come to you, like a muse visiting and leaving a gift.  (Ah, the muse---- another time)  Some lucky ducks take that seed of an idea and weave it into some lovely tapestry, or at least something they can sell.  Others of us get a quick start and then stall. And stall.  Characters, plot, narrative thread.  Instead of telling a story like you would around the dinner table or over a few beers in the local tavern, you hem and haw and think, no, there's a better way to start.  Have him say this and her do that and make sure it all makes sense and makes the reader want to turn the page.  And then the words go silent.

Silent is where I end up too much of the time.  Maybe I have mentally beaten up my characters , asking too much for their narrow shoulders.  I have to back off. I have to let them behave naturally, as the human beings they purport to be.  And, for me, that takes time.  I have to leave room for them to tell me what they want to say and who they reveal themselves to be.  Sounds a little tales from the crypt, but the more you write the more you realize you have to be an instrument, a vehicle, let the story happen.  Unless you are writing a legal brief or a propaganda pamphlet, and even then you assume a certain voice.  In writing that falls under the genre of "Creative", whether fiction or non-fiction, the writer has to get out of the way.  Otherwise the reader will know that the story doesn't ring true.

We  (a group of writing friends and I)  have discussed the difference between the person who writes and the writer, or author.  There is a different persona once you commit these thoughts to the page (or screen). The 'writer' is a creation and is not necessarily the  one who looks a lot like you and goes about the daily business of life. There is a difference in that person once he or she starts writing.

I think we stall ( I assume that I am not the only one) when we think too much.  One of my favorite expression is: Over analysis leads to paralysis. Sometimes, we just have to step aside and let the words come.

Tracks

Cold wind pushes against me as I walk through the canyons of lower Manhattan to the subway, tears fill my eyes, leak down my cheek.  Down the hole I go.  And wait.  Subways in the middle of the day are strange and ugly places. The smell of garbage and urine, the sound of rats scurrying under the platform, and the fine black soot that covers the rails and hovers in the air filling my nostrils and coating my lungs seem less personal in the crush of rush hour. The air is heavy with the cast off dust of commuters that have made this descent into post-modern Hades morning and evening for years.  Vertigo warns me while I straddle a tentative foot over the faded yellow line, that I am close, too close to falling into the dark ugliness that I submit to every day to carry out what has become the routine of my life.  I am almost alone.  A man in an oversized stained tan parka sits on a bench under the tile letters proclaiming this destination: Broad Street. Enter by the narrow gate, for the road to perdition is broad. These words come unbidden and startle me. I stand far enough away from him to be able to run up the stairs if he stirs, but not so far as to be rude to the poor man.  He mutters something into his dirty coat then draws his head out of his turtle’s collar and looks at me.  The J train screeches to a halt, the grimy doors open.  I take a seat opposite the man who sits on the platform bench looking at me.  I return his gaze through the smudged window.  When the doors close and the train pulls out, I am relieved to be away from him. And slightly ashamed.

copyright © 2009 J.B. McCullagh: Rose in Bloom (working title)

This is an excerpt from the beginning of the novel I am currently working on.  Working, in my case, is a rather loosely defined term.  Working includes such things as thinking, dreaming, imagining, letting the characters form in their own way, and of, course,they need to reveal themselves.  Working also includes trying out the scaffolding for these characters, their major conflicts and how the pieces and the people fit together.  Since this is my first serious attempt at novel writing I need to feel my way through, letting the many how to write books continue to gather dust on various desks and bookshelves around my house.

There are countless books on writing, some wonderful, some not so much.  Trouble with some writing books is that you have to read them.  Read them and do exercises.  Get out your pencil and papers, children, because it is time to write a theme.  Yes, Sister, we all say in weary unison. Maybe that's it.  My formal introduction to writing in the first grade was something called Theme writing.  It was all very structured and strict, guidelines had to be followed.  A beginning, a middle and an end must be part of the Theme. Punctuation and spelling mattered.  No one would dare call them stories.  Theme writing was an obstacle course that sifted the wheat from the chaff among the first grade crowd.  If you could endure that and still want to write, congratulations.  Considering I was 5 going on 6 when I started first grade, no wonder I hated it.  The stories I "wrote" before that were games and imaginings I made up for my younger sister and brother.  We would play them out and they would be 'written' as we went along, with surprises and meltdowns popping up just because someone needed a nap or had a wet diaper.  Before I went to school I would practice 'writing' in discarded notebooks of my older sibs, but I just wrote what I wanted using words I could guess at spelling.

I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that best 'how-to' books on writing are all the novels and works of non-fiction I have hungrily consumed these many years.  I think maybe I'm putting myself back in first grade when I set out to work on my novel by getting all jammed up in the rules.  I've got to figure out a way to shake loose all my well intentioned training and learn to trust the sounds and words that want to be on the page.  We'll see how it goes.

Writer's Block: Brain in a Bottle

We've been babysitting 3 and 1/2 month old Jude for two weeks now.  He is a very pleasant baby--- he wakes up cooing and chattering, his smile melts your heart, he's strong and healthy--- with a healthy appetite to go with the whole package.  He's sitting in his bouncy chair watching yet another Sponge Bob cartoon, smiling and waving his chubby little arms, then, all of a sudden, his belly alarm goes off and it is time to eat NOW!!!   There is usually not even a buildup, just the holler.  Now Katie is trying to feed him on a four hour schedule, but really, when his belly alarm is activated this Grandma rushes to the kitchen to mix up the formula and present it to his hungry mouth.  When Katie brought him here he weighed about 19 pounds---- pretty good size for a 3 month old.  I fear that when she takes him back tomorrow he'll be closer to 30.  I hope not.  But my lower back is out of  the practice of lifting little ones, so my back lets out a holler right around the time his belly lets out its FEED ME squeal.  ( I know, bellies and backs don't holler and squeal, but you get the picture) so I need to sit and hold him while he chomps down. What does this have to do with writer's block, you might ask. Well, as the mother of four children -- a baby showed up about once every three years in our home----I always promised myself that when they were older and didn't always have me on call, then I would get around to the writing I envisioned when I was a young girl.  Yes, I am aware that many women manage to turn out novel after novel while raising a brood, but they must have nannies and a very special nap juice they add to the bottles. Or they must have figured out a way to not trap their brain in a bottle.  A baby bottle---- less noir writerly than a bottle of whiskey-- but still, held hostage.

I haven't written in more than two weeks--- having the excuse of being with my darling grandson---(I am only writing now because my 19 year old son is playing with Jude).   But to be honest, I am full of excuses.  I have some good friends who tell me they write every day.  It may or may not be literature, but they put words down and tap into that part of their brain.  This is a very good idea, a very good plan.  But I could have all the good plans and good intentions in the world, but too often I sit, look at the screen and not a single word flows from my fingers.  There are times, though, when the words do come and I have to be available to catch them.

A dear friend of mine who writes the most beautiful stories of growing up in West Virginia, has been suffering through a spell of writer' s block.  She forwarded a piece of an article that argues that real writers write--- every day, at the same time and they manage to churn out consistent pages.  The writer claims this is because of a virtue known as discipline.  But, I challenge that assertion.  I'm sure it is a good idea to write every day, at the same time, but there are many of us whose brains operate in a less disciplined way, but still manage to string words and stories together to merit the title writer.  Maybe we recieve and process information differently, maybe organically or like gathering dust.  The words wait.  We may become impatient, but the words have to be ready.

So, what about you and Writer's Block?  Please join in the conversation and let us know some of your wisdom.  Thanks.

Shadow

[The shadow] is a force that accumulates when you fail to honor your gifts, follow the call of your muses, or live up to your principles and ideals.   Christopher Vogler, The Writers Journey Most of us who write run into a wall sometimes---- there are exceptions, but I don't think I know any of those lucky ducks.  Sometimes you have to honor the wall--- let things be for a while until something opens up and lends direction to your work.  Other times, well, some of those other times it seems easy to take that wall and build three more  and a roof to box ourselves in and keep the light of creativity out.

Vogler calls writer's block  The Shadow.  A one word  graphic description of those forces we all battle, whether we are writers, artists, sales clerks or professors.  He goes on to say that the Shadow casts doubts upon our abilities and is a powerful sabatuer.

I like to play with the concept of Shadow, whether in stories of heroic journeys or profiles of criminals.  I spend a great deal of time reading mysteries, usually British crime novels (I am working my way through Ian Rankin's work at the moment).  At some point along the spectrum of growing up we must lose our innocence and our naive view of the world and what life will bring and grapple with the Shadow.  Somewhere in my late twenties I complained to my husband, 'no one told us how hard it would be." ' It'  being the expectations and responsibilities of adult life, the bills that had to be paid, the children that needed raising, the million compromises we make and the dreams we sometimes have to let go in order to enter into our own next stage on our journey.

I don't think any of us can successfully avoid the shadows that are part of life, and the more we pretend to be naive and uncorrupted, the bigger that shadow will grow.  I am more often than not in some stage of writer's block--- in part because I edit words in my head before they dare appear on the page.  I know I am very susceptible to the whisperings of the shadow that tell me to give it up, don't try, let it go, but then I am bothered by the sense of work left undone, words and stories lying dormant in my soul just waiting to be born.

I've been working on a novel, on and off, for several months now.  Just when I uncover a deep secret of my main character, my writing is pulled up short.  Oh, jeez, some childish part of me complains, I have to dig deep, go into the dark tunnel, explore the pain and the betrayal and the anger and come out of that with words that will make my audience keep turning pages.

I invite you who are writers or artists of any kind ( I am quite liberal in my definition of artist) to share some of your struggles with writer's block or, The Shadow.  Please comment and let's get a lively discussion going.