Contingency plans: Part 2

I’m a few chapters into the novel I was talking about in my last post. It seems I can relax. There are some elements that are similar with mine, but the characters, setting, themes and ultimately the style is very different. Still, there’s nothing like a threat to your creative integrity to get you back on the writing horse. I guess this is what I needed to wake me up.

Contingency plans and the gravity of words

This post is coming to you from the as yet unfinished Bibliotopia via a nearly geriatric, (very) slow laptop. It is simply too hot upstairs where my primary computer is currently located and this room feels so right just now. Even my pooch prefers the coolness of the ground floor.

I went shopping at my favourite bookstore today. It is not uncommon for me to be there, nor is it uncommon for me to search the stacks, new and old, for novels that might resemble my own. I love reading, but I also like to keep abreast of what others are writing, what’s popular and what’s becoming cliché so I can avoid writing those. I have always had an aversion to the common or popular and so have, until recently, actively avoided reading (and writing) such fiction. My own library consists largely of unique or less well-known titles, of which I am proud, but about two years ago I decided to read from the “best-seller” and prize-winning lists to see what the fuss was all about. About 50% of the time I agree with the decisions of the judges; the other half the time I have found myself either indifferent or, in more than one case, outraged, by what I read. As a reader and a writer I believe in celebrating the beauty of human languages, and I am frequently dismayed by popular writers’ inability to capture that beauty in their own work. In these cases, too much emphasis has been given to plot or to themes and structure and there is a feeling that the book has been written in a hurry, or worse, to appeal to the skimmers and skippers of the reading community. I am a deliberate reader, which means I read closely and slowly, and I believe that if I have to skim any single passage or sentence to get to the good bits, then it is not a well-written book. For me to enjoy a novel, every word, every passage must be counted among the good bits. In my opinion, not enough attention is paid in many mass-published works to the choice of words, the construction and organisation of sentences and paragraphs and to the avoidance of clichés. Thus they are not unique and do not appeal to my literary mind. I fear that fiction has become more and more about quick-selling, dramatically-themed stories that will appeal to busy Generation Y’ers who have been taught to speed-read for the sake of expediency and less about celebrating the beauty of the language in which it is written. The latter is a skill that requires a lifetime of learning and an appreciation for the nuances of each syllable, the gravity of individual words and the meanings they actuate in the sentences for which they are chosen. Every word is a choice and affects the outcome of the whole, so words are not simply a base from which to start a sentence – every word has meaning.

Now you know the truth: I am a fussy reader, an old fashioned kind of girl with discriminating tastes. In essence I write what I would like to read. So today as I was browsing the stacks I was looking for examples of novels that achieve that delicate balance between a unique plot and good manipulation of grammar and vocabulary. I was feeling pretty self-satisfied that I still hadn’t found a book that mirrored my own masterpiece in the making: the concept is unique and the language is engaging . . . I think you can guess where this is going . . . and then I saw it: every novelists worst nightmare. At a quick glance it looks like any other book in the new release section and had my mind not been trained for the keywords contained in the books title I would have missed it. As soon as I read the title my heart tumbled into my belly. I cautioned my heart to be calm, that it was infinitely unlikely this book matched mine in premise and its plot. With a cautious hand I took the book off the shelf, drew in one fortifying breath and flipped the book to the back cover. By the third line my heart sank a little further, by the fourth line the fortifying breath was released in a slow sigh. Those keywords matched closely the ones I’d used to describe my own novel. I knew I had to buy this book to read it, because it appealed to me as a writer and because I had to know if this writer had written my book. If I was in a better mood I’d say this could be a case of synchronicity, but I’m not so I won’t.

I have yet to read this book and decide how much it resembles my unwritten work, but a preliminary perusing tells me that it does and it doesn’t and that there is still a large window for my own concept. Certain elements do not match so there is hope. But, if it turns out that mine would mirror this new novel too much I have a contingency plan. Every concept, every piece I write, has a contingency plan. There’s a good reason for this: too frequently in my “career” as a writer I have been dogged with an almost premonitory imagination. I can think of half a dozen instances where I have started working on, or completed, an extensive piece whose concept has been neither popular nor very much explored, only to find the market flooded several months later with the same genre or theme. By no means am I paranoid and think that some crafty wordsmith out there is tapping into my brain, stealing my ideas and beating me to the finish line. Often it can be as simple as synchronicity where causally unrelated events occur together in a meaningful way. More often it is related to the fact that there are so many writers across the globe, living in the 21st century, facing the same obstacles and issues, that your ideas are bound to intersect eventually with one or more other writers. This is the way that culture moves. This is why I have my contingency plan – my plan B, which I will implement in cases of emergency.

Do you have any experiences with this phenomena?

The edge of the writer’s universe

I’d like to say I’ve been really busy, too busy for much writing, but that would be an exaggeration of epic proportions. In truth, I’ve been a slothful writer. I have no excuse other than this happens every so often. Every time it does I tell myself it’s okay, it’s only temporary. Mostly I believe that, but a small part of me panics and wonders if this is it – have I come to the edge of my writing universe? In short, no. Inspiration, like the universe, is infinite if you know how to traverse it. The impulse to write, on the other hand, is transitory. I love to write – most of the time. It is a difficult thing to accept this about myself, but no amount of insisting that I love it all the time will work. No human is immune to this truth either. Anyone who loves their job or art will agree that it is impossible to love it in every moment. How do you feel about your craft?

Fear of failure

Uncertainty, self-doubt, insecurity, no matter what you call it every writer experiences it. Fear of failure is the root cause for conditions like page fright and writer’s block and a major barrier to personal success as a writer. It’s all very well for me to sit here and tell you about it, but what can you do to combat it so you can write that magnificent book? The truth? I’ve searched my soul for the answer and I’m still figuring it out. So far my figuring (along with discussions with my Swami Guru mother and Swami Sam) has led me to five key words that are helping me begin to confront the fear of failure, thus overcome page fright.

1. Identify: My Swami Guru mother recently asked me if it was failure I was really afraid of, or success. This led me to think about what success really means to me compared with failure and about how my rigid expectations affect my performance.
2. Accept: You’re not perfect. You won’t succeed at everything. When you stumble, accept it and move on.
3. Believe: Having accepted that you’re not perfect, it is important not to give up on your dream. Define your goals and expectations, but be reasonable.
4. Prepare: The more preparation you do for a project the better and easier it will be to complete.
5. Persist: I’ve said this several times in different posts, and it’s probably the most important for succeeding with your writing goals. Keep writing, one word at a time.

Undoubtedly I’ve missed some important points here. Like I said, I’m still figuring this one out myself.

See also

• Page fright
• Writing for gold
• Fallacy and facts of writing
• Ten commandments of writing

Inner critics and advocates

Everyone has an inner critic. At the risk of sounding like I have multiple personalities, I’d like to introduce you to mine: She is called Gretel. Her disparaging remarks – “well-intentioned” critiques meant to  ”enlighten” me – feel more like vandalism than an objective assessment of my work. There are times when Gretel rules the page and writing becomes intolerable, so much so that I give up out of weariness. This is the only time Gretel smiles. But far from dispising Gretel, I am grateful for her presence. You see, Gretel is not evil, on the contrary she is excessively helpful. Her intention is not to kill the writer, but to defend her, to prepare her. Gretel is the weigh station before I take my precious cargo on the public road. She’s not always right, but honestly I can’t imagine writing without her. (Tomorrow when she’s giving me a hard time I might feel differently). I’ve learned when to listen to Gretel, when to consider her concerns and act when she has a point, but I’ve also learned that Gretel has a counterpart – for obvious reasons I’ve called him Hansel. Hansel is the ballast. His role is not to extol my virtues as a writer, but restore equilibrium when the inner critic is renegade. Hansel reminds me that Gretel’s job is to protect the writer, not shut her down, that her role is not entirely destructive. Discovering that the inner critic has a counterweight was a revelation for me. Though it isn’t bullet proof, the inner advocate allows me to distinguish between what is a genuine and fair evaluation of a project and what is inspired by self-pity and negativity. The trick is to listen to both inner voices.

There is no try . . .

Jedi Master Yoda once said “Do, or do not . . . there is no try”, which is easy for him to say – he can perform Jedi mind tricks. I, on the other hand, am ill-supplied: I have neither his 900 years of wisdom, nor knowledge of the force. I’m human, which means I am at the mercy of human impulses. Still, Yoda has a point: there’s a certain lackadaisicalness to the word try, it lacks resolve, commitment. But how can we move from trying to accomplishment when motivation has rescinded?

No matter how disciplined or committed, every writer will have days when she/he is indifferent to the process of writing, when laziness is far more satisfying or when the project feels stale and the inner Pooh-Pooher is holding court. Far from perceiving this as a lack of ambition or complete loss of interest in the project, I see this as a queue to release myself from the obligation of writing for the moment. Do, or do not. Trying to write through it only creates resentment for the project. Allowing the mind idle during these times is a great way to diffuse any tension which may be burdening the conscious and causing the initial disinterest. By doing something unrelated, the conscious mind is allowed to amble through routine tasks while the subconscious continues to ruminate. As a writer, I’m constantly thinking, but I have come to understand that it isn’t necessary to monitor every thought consciously, that in fact, my subconscious mind is far better at problem-solving than a conscious mind which is frazzled and worn out. Today I’m taking a break from the novel, but I know my subconcious is still working even if I’m not actively partaking in the activity. I have faith that the motivation will return, maybe this afternoon, maybe tomorrow.

Those things that nature denied to human sight, she revealed to the eyes of the soul – Ovid

 

 

 

Page fright (writer’s anxiety)

I am effervescing with ideas. Dozens of fictional characters submit their profiles to me each week in hope of being chosen to star in a novel; the topographies of a hundred story lines rest in faithful silence waiting to be mapped, and without even trying a setting appears in my mind’s eye in splendid detail. I am seldom without a story agitating in my brain. Yet my output of compositions is abysmal. The difficulty I face is not due to lack of inspiration, but rather motivation. Committing the ideas to paper is just short of impossible at the moment.

It hasn’t always been so. Right up until the age of about 27 I was happy to disgorge my brilliance on any surface that could hold ink. I wrote whatever came into my head whenever the desire took me, giving little thought to structure, form or the quality of the prose. Needless to say there’s a lot of dribble in the archives and some superb examples of navel-gazing. But at least I wrote.

Then I went to university. There I learned the art of organisation, reductionism and scrutiny. I absorbed facts, spoke big words and acquired the skill of invalidating other people’s opinions in a diplomatic, yet innovative manner. Throughout my candidature I continued to write, but as I fell deeper into the snare of academia I found increasingly that scientific method intruded into my fictional worlds. I became cynical about the craft of writing and with that developed a serious inhibition to the act of writing anything that wasn’t factual or that which couldn’t be presented in the form of an essay. In essence I lost the ability to be impulsive with writing, to pour subjectivity onto the page, to gallop unrestrained through imaginary worlds. Every word I wrote from then on was subjected to harsh examination and my inner critic became a monster.

So I did the unthinkable and broke one of the cardinal rules of writers: I quit my job to focus solely on writing. It has been both frustrating and rewarding, but has it been worth it? I can’t be sure yet. There have been times when I’ve slacked off, telling myself I had ‘writer’s block’ or I was creatively exhausted, or sick. And here is where I must come clean: I have never once had writer’s block. What I have now is something much more humiliating: page fright. This state is a close cousin of writer’s block but sits more easily under the banner of writer’s anxiety. To me there is a difference between writer’s block and page fright: Ablock is an obstruction. A sufferer may experience a short-term (though sometimes long-term) decline in creativity, where original ideas are limited or absent. Page fright, on the other hand, is not defined by a lack of inspiration, but by a writer’s inability to commit an idea to paper. A writer might have little trouble encouraging the muse to develop new ideas, but feel self-conscious or reticent about committing those ideas to the page. Uncertainty and fear of failure takes over and the idea is scrapped for a new one. In my case, the inner critic steps in to warn me against impulsiveness, and is driven to discover every wrong thing with the project. Thus the project is never even started. What’s the remedy for page fright, then? I have developed a refrain to help me with my own current project, a novel sized project.

   
• Peruse: investigate the market, read writers in your chosen genre/field. Develop an analytical approach to literature and learn to differentiate prose from prattle  
• Prepare: research everything. Familiarity with the subject helps to avoid errors, gaps and despondancy and saves time when searching for information.
• Practice: write and rewrite often. Writing is a skill which requires training to strengthen the creative muscles. Start small and work up to the bigger pieces.
• Perservere: never give up. Writing is one part skill, two parts determination.

 

 

 

 

 

When these don’t work I hammer at the keyboard anyway, venting my frustrations and in doing so often discover the source of my discomfort. Writing is cathartic, even if it’s writing about writing.