Whinge
The end of February looms ever closer and I'm aware that I haven't yet fulfilled my 'minimum of 2 posts a month' quota. Each time I sit down to type something, I realise all my ideas are a response to snippets I've heard about world events and as I'm currently in a self-enforced media blackout, I'd prefer to compose a diary entry which isn't wholly reactionary.
I confess I do feel an inclination to have a moan about problems I’m experiencing with my writing, but I tell myself that’s the last thing anyone would want to read… which is another problem in itself. I can't write a film review, because that would break one of my little blogging rules. Book and music reviews aren't allowed either. YouTube videos are banned too, but then that's not too hard, because I hardly ever watch any myself. So... sorry people, but it's going to have to be more navel-gazing again.
After my recent semi-optimistic report of plot progress and successful character development (please see previous post), I seem to have found my way into Dead End Close again. It’s a familiar place. A well-worn path – bare on both sides apart from the odd, parched shrub – leads to a shed whose thin walls are only just supporting the weight of a roof made of a slab of cracking stone. Inside, all you’ll find is a chair at a desk, on which lie a notebook and a pencil. And then there are the mirrors. Thousands of tiny mirrors lining every inch of the interior walls, the ceiling and the floor. When you sit at the desk, take a deep breath and tell yourself that, yes, today you really WILL achieve SOMETHING, you catch a reflection out of the corner of your eye: a face bearing a mocking smile. The image is caught by another one of the mirrors, then another and another, until the entire room is filled with a splintered picture show of gloating. You have to close your eyes. Hours pass. The page remains blank. You leave the house and try to convince yourself that tomorrow, when you return, things will be different.
Actually, the above isn’t anywhere near an accurate description of how I feel when I try to work on my novel. (In fact, very little that I write turns out to be a faithful expression of the moods, ideas and themes I intend to convey.) Having said that, I suppose one thing it does suggest is the sense that I feel utterly exposed in my writing and that my underlying belief is that everyone’s response to this exposure will be mockery. I’m not fishing for compliments here. Intellectually, I realise that even the few successes I’ve had are more than many people will ever achieve despite years of hard work and dedication. I’ve had lots people make several encouraging comments about my efforts; I figure not all of them were just being polite. But I can’t ever shake off the notion that every paragraph I put together, every character I bring to life, deserves no more than a pat on my head and a gold star in my report card. ‘Juvenile’ is a word I often use to describe my stories. I sincerely feel they have an ‘undergraduate’ quality, that they’re the fruits of a mind that must not be taken seriously because it hasn’t realised that its experiences and views aren’t yet sufficient to be worthy of the time and scrutiny of others. In a nutshell: with every word I write, I hear a voice in my head yelling, "Who the hell do you think you are?"
Maybe that's where part of my problem lies. I confess I do want my work to be taken seriously, but maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I should just cast away all consideration of possible readers and have fun with what I do. That seems like an alien concept right now: I hardly ever find writing fun.
Several years ago a friend was trying to lose some weight. After an initial burst of success, her weight loss began to cease. "I know why this is happening," she told me. "It's because I look in the mirror and I see myself shrinking and I'm scared that I'm going to disappear. I'm scared that the current 'ME' will be gone." For some reason, her words keep haunting me at the moment. I don't know exactly how they relate to my current situation, but maybe, on some level, I'm actually frightened by the thought of completing my novel. For years and years I've been the guy who "can't get my book written," the guy with no ideas, the guy who isn't "capable of stringing a story together if it's longer than a few pages." Those lines are beginning to lose some of their truth. I'm several thousand words into my first draft. People who've read the odd chapter have given positive feedback. Crucially, I've worked out the development of my plot. I am on the cusp of becoming the guy "with the draft of a novel under my belt." My perception of myself is going to have to change. And change is almost always petrifying, right?
As I've said before, I'm not ready to give up yet, but I never thought that one of my final obstacles would be the fear that I might actually succeed in doing what I'm trying to do.
Once again, apologies for inflicting such a self-indulgent post on you. Tell you what. Why don't I end by breaking a rule:
I confess I do feel an inclination to have a moan about problems I’m experiencing with my writing, but I tell myself that’s the last thing anyone would want to read… which is another problem in itself. I can't write a film review, because that would break one of my little blogging rules. Book and music reviews aren't allowed either. YouTube videos are banned too, but then that's not too hard, because I hardly ever watch any myself. So... sorry people, but it's going to have to be more navel-gazing again.
After my recent semi-optimistic report of plot progress and successful character development (please see previous post), I seem to have found my way into Dead End Close again. It’s a familiar place. A well-worn path – bare on both sides apart from the odd, parched shrub – leads to a shed whose thin walls are only just supporting the weight of a roof made of a slab of cracking stone. Inside, all you’ll find is a chair at a desk, on which lie a notebook and a pencil. And then there are the mirrors. Thousands of tiny mirrors lining every inch of the interior walls, the ceiling and the floor. When you sit at the desk, take a deep breath and tell yourself that, yes, today you really WILL achieve SOMETHING, you catch a reflection out of the corner of your eye: a face bearing a mocking smile. The image is caught by another one of the mirrors, then another and another, until the entire room is filled with a splintered picture show of gloating. You have to close your eyes. Hours pass. The page remains blank. You leave the house and try to convince yourself that tomorrow, when you return, things will be different.
Actually, the above isn’t anywhere near an accurate description of how I feel when I try to work on my novel. (In fact, very little that I write turns out to be a faithful expression of the moods, ideas and themes I intend to convey.) Having said that, I suppose one thing it does suggest is the sense that I feel utterly exposed in my writing and that my underlying belief is that everyone’s response to this exposure will be mockery. I’m not fishing for compliments here. Intellectually, I realise that even the few successes I’ve had are more than many people will ever achieve despite years of hard work and dedication. I’ve had lots people make several encouraging comments about my efforts; I figure not all of them were just being polite. But I can’t ever shake off the notion that every paragraph I put together, every character I bring to life, deserves no more than a pat on my head and a gold star in my report card. ‘Juvenile’ is a word I often use to describe my stories. I sincerely feel they have an ‘undergraduate’ quality, that they’re the fruits of a mind that must not be taken seriously because it hasn’t realised that its experiences and views aren’t yet sufficient to be worthy of the time and scrutiny of others. In a nutshell: with every word I write, I hear a voice in my head yelling, "Who the hell do you think you are?"
Maybe that's where part of my problem lies. I confess I do want my work to be taken seriously, but maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I should just cast away all consideration of possible readers and have fun with what I do. That seems like an alien concept right now: I hardly ever find writing fun.
Several years ago a friend was trying to lose some weight. After an initial burst of success, her weight loss began to cease. "I know why this is happening," she told me. "It's because I look in the mirror and I see myself shrinking and I'm scared that I'm going to disappear. I'm scared that the current 'ME' will be gone." For some reason, her words keep haunting me at the moment. I don't know exactly how they relate to my current situation, but maybe, on some level, I'm actually frightened by the thought of completing my novel. For years and years I've been the guy who "can't get my book written," the guy with no ideas, the guy who isn't "capable of stringing a story together if it's longer than a few pages." Those lines are beginning to lose some of their truth. I'm several thousand words into my first draft. People who've read the odd chapter have given positive feedback. Crucially, I've worked out the development of my plot. I am on the cusp of becoming the guy "with the draft of a novel under my belt." My perception of myself is going to have to change. And change is almost always petrifying, right?
As I've said before, I'm not ready to give up yet, but I never thought that one of my final obstacles would be the fear that I might actually succeed in doing what I'm trying to do.
Once again, apologies for inflicting such a self-indulgent post on you. Tell you what. Why don't I end by breaking a rule:
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