So I was stuck again today. I had a lot of time on my hands, sitting in UCR's Rivera Library at around 2:30 pm. I needed to write and I made a conscious effort, after class, to claim one of the library's computers. Still, I couldn't come up with anything to write or come up with the words to write down. I was confused. How do I write something, again? I kept asking myself this question for another ten minutes.
I had to give up on trying to figure it out because it was frustrating me again (remember the snowball). So, I went on the internet. I found and read a story by Louise Erdrich called "The Reptile Garden" and was fascinated by her use of sensory details, particularly in a make-out scene where even the steel pipes were given the modesty of clothing, in the form of "powdery bandages of asbestos." Hey, I can write that, I thought, and I proceeded to write a page of my story.
Saul Bellow said that "A writer is a reader moved to emulation." Point taken. After I wrote my page, I went home and felt stuck again. I then read an essay by Janet Fitch (which I'm pulled from Writers Workshop in a Book, edited by Alan Cheuse and Lisa Alvarez) called "Coming to Your Senses," where she stressed about describing with the five senses. Inspired, I wrote another half page of some pretty nice description.
I have a page and half of my story right now. At least that's a start. And I'll definitely remember to read more often.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
Where to begin...
It always seems to happen this way...
I'll write something that I'm fairly proud of and after a couple of days I feel great: I want to be a writer and I've written something, and all that jazz. But that feeling doesn't last, and soon I find myself fretting over another writing project. While I'm fretting, I blame myself for being lazy/untalented/dumb and that burden that I mentioned last week rests upon my shoulders like a linebacker tackling a quarterback. All the quarterback needed to do was to throw the ball (see: write) and he would have had the pressure relieved from him.
It's funny because I tell myself the same thing. "Just start on it now and you'll be fine," I say to myself. But there's another part of me that tells me differently. He tells me that it's not worth writing if I'm not into it, that I should wait and inspiration will come. Then the words will come faster, and it would be a much more efficient use of my time than trying to slog through one uninspired word after another.
But, the problem with that is the inspiration doesn't come. Or if it does, it comes in hours before my deadline, and I'm forced to come up with something that, while inspired, doesn't have enough time to develop into something meaningful.
I have to be honest, I'm not familiar with the idea of "Invention, then Revision" because I feel the need to revise as I write. Revising is a painful process and I tend to do it from the very beginning.
Maybe I'm not as enthusiastic about writing because I remember the pain of revising. Maybe I just need to get over it.
I'll write something that I'm fairly proud of and after a couple of days I feel great: I want to be a writer and I've written something, and all that jazz. But that feeling doesn't last, and soon I find myself fretting over another writing project. While I'm fretting, I blame myself for being lazy/untalented/dumb and that burden that I mentioned last week rests upon my shoulders like a linebacker tackling a quarterback. All the quarterback needed to do was to throw the ball (see: write) and he would have had the pressure relieved from him.
It's funny because I tell myself the same thing. "Just start on it now and you'll be fine," I say to myself. But there's another part of me that tells me differently. He tells me that it's not worth writing if I'm not into it, that I should wait and inspiration will come. Then the words will come faster, and it would be a much more efficient use of my time than trying to slog through one uninspired word after another.
But, the problem with that is the inspiration doesn't come. Or if it does, it comes in hours before my deadline, and I'm forced to come up with something that, while inspired, doesn't have enough time to develop into something meaningful.
I have to be honest, I'm not familiar with the idea of "Invention, then Revision" because I feel the need to revise as I write. Revising is a painful process and I tend to do it from the very beginning.
Maybe I'm not as enthusiastic about writing because I remember the pain of revising. Maybe I just need to get over it.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
It's been a while... I want to give this blog thing another go. I guess I'm a sucker for punishment.
I wanted to write a huge blog post announcing my triumphant return to the blogging circuit, but I never got around to it. So here's something that's a little different, an essay:
I’ve been told that being idle is a process of being reflective, and in many ways that’s true. There have been times when I’ve stopped what I was doing to think things over. I’d step back, for instance when I’m writing essays like this, and say to myself, “Ok, well I’ve probably meandered too much. I wanted to talk about my day at the video store and I ended up talking about my mother’s back problems.” Then, I would fix the situation (erase this, expound on that, steal a joke and paste it there) and be glad for it. Even before I set out to work on something, I make it a point to mull over the subject hours upon hours until a huge light bulb appears over my head, or at least I like to imagine.
However, I’ve begun the habit of thinking things over too much, to the point where the work that I set out to do, like this essay, becomes bogged down by my constant thought of it. I’ll have a great idea for a story, essay, blog post, etc. and work over the details in my head. But the idea snowballs into something so large that I don’t know what to do with it. It’s like a giant ball-and-chain attached to my ankle. Or maybe the better analogy is that these large thoughts can’t fit through the all-important, gold and diamond encrusted Door of Productivity (or the silver-plated Laundry Chute of Industry, for those who don’t believe in doors). I sit there for a long time and do nothing, out of fear that I would do my ideas an injustice by trying to work on them.
I have never had this problem before. I used to be able to put my mind to the task at hand, without worry. I’d go home from school, sit down on my kitchen table, and get the assignment done. I’d look over the work, see that I’ve answered all the questions or otherwise satisfied the requirements, then turn the paper in the following morning. I get my B+ afterward.
Maybe I’ve become too idle when I cared about getting A’s. Or maybe it’s because I started to worry about being perfect. To be fair, I’ve always been a perfectionist. I was really good in the spelling test circuit of elementary school, where I had 100%’s on the majority of my 20-word tests (just ask my mom). Math was an easy thing for me too, before I had to deal with those damn Greek letters in my formulas. For the most part, I was a fairly good student, and a good worker. I would only get lower grades in areas that required more than rote memorization. If there isn’t a clear set of instructions, then I’m usually at a loss. Writing this essay comes to mind. It’s a bit of a drag for me because there are numerous paths to finishing one, and it’s hardly the same when you write another. I buckle under the freedom that it gives me.
I find it ironic that I’ve chosen to pursue writing, where I make slow progress. Why shouldn’t I work toward something that’s easy for me and, perhaps, even more lucrative? You could say that I do it because I see it as a challenge to overcome or that I’m not satisfied with push-button type jobs, and I wouldn’t disagree with you. But as I near the end of this essay, I feel a sense of comfort. The thoughts that had been building up inside of me had passed through that door (or the laundry chute) and I can move on knowing I’ve produced something that means a lot to me. I want to be a writer, and I’ve just written something. So that’s good enough.
I wanted to write a huge blog post announcing my triumphant return to the blogging circuit, but I never got around to it. So here's something that's a little different, an essay:
They Had a Baby Named Idle
I’ve been told that being idle is a process of being reflective, and in many ways that’s true. There have been times when I’ve stopped what I was doing to think things over. I’d step back, for instance when I’m writing essays like this, and say to myself, “Ok, well I’ve probably meandered too much. I wanted to talk about my day at the video store and I ended up talking about my mother’s back problems.” Then, I would fix the situation (erase this, expound on that, steal a joke and paste it there) and be glad for it. Even before I set out to work on something, I make it a point to mull over the subject hours upon hours until a huge light bulb appears over my head, or at least I like to imagine.
However, I’ve begun the habit of thinking things over too much, to the point where the work that I set out to do, like this essay, becomes bogged down by my constant thought of it. I’ll have a great idea for a story, essay, blog post, etc. and work over the details in my head. But the idea snowballs into something so large that I don’t know what to do with it. It’s like a giant ball-and-chain attached to my ankle. Or maybe the better analogy is that these large thoughts can’t fit through the all-important, gold and diamond encrusted Door of Productivity (or the silver-plated Laundry Chute of Industry, for those who don’t believe in doors). I sit there for a long time and do nothing, out of fear that I would do my ideas an injustice by trying to work on them.
I have never had this problem before. I used to be able to put my mind to the task at hand, without worry. I’d go home from school, sit down on my kitchen table, and get the assignment done. I’d look over the work, see that I’ve answered all the questions or otherwise satisfied the requirements, then turn the paper in the following morning. I get my B+ afterward.
Maybe I’ve become too idle when I cared about getting A’s. Or maybe it’s because I started to worry about being perfect. To be fair, I’ve always been a perfectionist. I was really good in the spelling test circuit of elementary school, where I had 100%’s on the majority of my 20-word tests (just ask my mom). Math was an easy thing for me too, before I had to deal with those damn Greek letters in my formulas. For the most part, I was a fairly good student, and a good worker. I would only get lower grades in areas that required more than rote memorization. If there isn’t a clear set of instructions, then I’m usually at a loss. Writing this essay comes to mind. It’s a bit of a drag for me because there are numerous paths to finishing one, and it’s hardly the same when you write another. I buckle under the freedom that it gives me.
I find it ironic that I’ve chosen to pursue writing, where I make slow progress. Why shouldn’t I work toward something that’s easy for me and, perhaps, even more lucrative? You could say that I do it because I see it as a challenge to overcome or that I’m not satisfied with push-button type jobs, and I wouldn’t disagree with you. But as I near the end of this essay, I feel a sense of comfort. The thoughts that had been building up inside of me had passed through that door (or the laundry chute) and I can move on knowing I’ve produced something that means a lot to me. I want to be a writer, and I’ve just written something. So that’s good enough.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)