Open the double locker in this clanking chest. They are hauling in the masses and puzzling them into shapes, working the pointed ends into the rubber heart is what I was thinking as I walked home. But then I thought, that's shit, don't write that, so I didn't. This Friday I have the privilege of spending a day, whole as a pie, tapping away at my manuscript. One problem. There are no words.
I started this silly blog to try and unblock the block. A way of letting words out without caring too much about them. An edit-free spontaneous place to put words. Perfect. Until now I am once again faced with my old nemesis, The Book. I had this crazy idea that if I put all these restrictions on myself that my focus would spiral back into the thinking writing part of my brain. A time-honoured tradition amongst writers. There was a French school of writers who would eliminate one or more letters from the alphabet to make themselves think harder about word choice. Another school of thought is that writing is work, same as all other work, chopping wood or making cakes. Work that can be worked at. Yet another school of thought is that writing is automatic, a sort of divine gift that the author has little control over. I say bollocks to all of them. Its much more complicated than that.
A lovely friend of mine, Rita, emailed me today to say that she likes my blog and can one day imagine someone sitting in a cafe being arty and reading a book written by me. That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said, better even than the man who told me I had spectacular breasts, better than when someone told me I was smart, better than when Elliot said I could make any hat look good, better than the one time my Dad said he was proud of me (graduation day from law school). But I'm not sure I can do it.
Studying law is a piece of piss compared with the cold dead weight of unwritten words trailing crazy opals in the dust behind me. Doing anything is a piece of piss compared to the terror of the next sentence. What will it be? Where will it come from? How the fuck am I going to have an idea?
All week I have been scattered and ridiculous, distracted even from my distractions. I can't concentrate on trying to concentrate. Even my computer at work is developing an anti-Dale forcefield of mythic proportions. I am almost certain that Robert, the new man at work, wants to murder me by jumping on my head and shouting For fuck's sake just shut the fuck up, but he is very polite and hasn't even frowned.
I have one more day to prepare myself. Wish me luck, I'm going to need it.
I started this silly blog to try and unblock the block. A way of letting words out without caring too much about them. An edit-free spontaneous place to put words. Perfect. Until now I am once again faced with my old nemesis, The Book. I had this crazy idea that if I put all these restrictions on myself that my focus would spiral back into the thinking writing part of my brain. A time-honoured tradition amongst writers. There was a French school of writers who would eliminate one or more letters from the alphabet to make themselves think harder about word choice. Another school of thought is that writing is work, same as all other work, chopping wood or making cakes. Work that can be worked at. Yet another school of thought is that writing is automatic, a sort of divine gift that the author has little control over. I say bollocks to all of them. Its much more complicated than that.
A lovely friend of mine, Rita, emailed me today to say that she likes my blog and can one day imagine someone sitting in a cafe being arty and reading a book written by me. That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said, better even than the man who told me I had spectacular breasts, better than when someone told me I was smart, better than when Elliot said I could make any hat look good, better than the one time my Dad said he was proud of me (graduation day from law school). But I'm not sure I can do it.
Studying law is a piece of piss compared with the cold dead weight of unwritten words trailing crazy opals in the dust behind me. Doing anything is a piece of piss compared to the terror of the next sentence. What will it be? Where will it come from? How the fuck am I going to have an idea?
All week I have been scattered and ridiculous, distracted even from my distractions. I can't concentrate on trying to concentrate. Even my computer at work is developing an anti-Dale forcefield of mythic proportions. I am almost certain that Robert, the new man at work, wants to murder me by jumping on my head and shouting For fuck's sake just shut the fuck up, but he is very polite and hasn't even frowned.
I have one more day to prepare myself. Wish me luck, I'm going to need it.
Comments
some frowns can be very, very dangerous, watch out. Yeah, yeah, I know I will not get a peep from my comments but that does tempt me to taunt you, kind of tickling verbally, hee-hee.
Rups :)
Best of luck x x x