Actually, what I should say is, why can't I fall back into a routine? I mentioned in a previous post that I'm a slower-paced writer; a planner, if you will. But I don't know if what I'm doing right now can be blamed on planning, though. Granted, anyone who can get me talking about my current projects will realize soon enough that I've got all sorts of contingency plans for getting through this, or an idea how to explain my way out of that, and it's all because I try to roll around as many scenarios as I can before I feel satisfied with the credibility of not only my characters, but also the situation they're in. But for the most part, these are all "big picture" concerns for me.
What I find is my biggest hurdle at the moment is word count, and more specifically, language. When I'm going through and explaining to my friends what I'm doing (going to do) with a story, I can jibba jabba on and on about all the different angles I want to hit, and it generally turns into an abstract in monologue form.
OK, one thing I want to do right now is squash comments from anyone who might be reading this and thinking to themselves, "Tsk tsk, you shouldn't be talking about a work in progress until you have a draft ready to workshop." That's all fine and good if that's the way you want to roll, and I know people who tend to follow that rule for themselves, but there have been more than a few times I've caught a continuity error--or simply poor logic--just by talking things out before doing the bulk of the writing. Everyone has their way. So let them do it.
Which brings me to my point; I've been doing a bang up job of finding foundations, the seeds of so many stories, and they've been hitting me so often lately that I'm kicking myself for forgetting many of them before taking the opportunity to jot down a note for later. Yeah, boo hoo, right? A horrible problem that absolutely no one (no writer, especially) will pity me for, and if they did, I'd even wonder what the hell their problem was. But I'm not as concerned about the mystery of the disappearing story ideas as I am about the unfinished projects wobbling around like spinning plates, yet I can't seem to drag myself in front of the keyboard and mash out a page or two. I need to fill out the details of my abstract monologues--to tell not only that he walks to work every day, but how he wound up walking with a limp; to tell not only that she's unusually fidgety during conversations, but whether that's a birthmark or a scar she's trying to hide; to tell not only how these things look, but also how they appear to affect the character's overall disposition and those around them.
I'm having a tough time finding (making) the time to fill in those details. I'll admit, these past couple weeks I've had nothing but time, but it's coercing myself into setting up a timely routine that's just not happening.
Early last month, Ryan talked a bit about "The Workshop," but I have something non-tangible to add to his list of things to expect in a workshop: routine. One thing I'm missing in a big way right now about workshop is the pressure of a deadline, because it's much too easy to let personal deadlines slip. Sure, making a personal deadline is a silent victory, and silent victories are just as lonely as the failures, but I'm afraid that the failures will numb me to the point where I don't care that I'm not disappointing anyone else but me, when I should be more disgusted with myself than anyone else ever could be.
Classes start up again the week after next, and I'm hoping between now and then that if I can't finish a draft of one of these projects, that I can at least fall into some sort of routine. These plates could fall at any time, and I feel like listening to Radiohead all of a sudden.
Your post reminds me of something Grant said during The Workshop From Hell, which he's probably repeated to a lot of classes but nonetheless sticks out in my mind as particularly relevant to that semester: Even though he wasn't the best writer in his college workshops, he was the only one who stuck with it and kept writing. There are countless examples of graduates from Big Famous Writing Schools who, without the rigorous deadlines and constant feedback of the workshop, simply gave up.
ReplyDeleteRight now I'm tempted to launch into an inspirational speech ending with Dylan Thomas' "Do not go gentle into that good night." But I'm not going to.
Let's just say this is a problem every writer has to solve. I haven't even begun to try, so I'm probably not the best person to give you this advice. But I imagine the best answer to the problem of routine is to find the time of day when you are most alert, when the writing juices tend to flow best, and then sit yourself down with a word goal, or a page goal. Do that every day. Let yourself write utter shit. Be OK with it if you do. Then go back over what you wrote and pick out the decent stuff, and keep going.
Being your own writing taskmaster is hard. But writers who don't succeed in this, regardless of their pedigree, tend to fade away. This is advice I should probably be taking, too.
Way to go, Erik. You made me make myself feel guilty. Harumph.
Ah yes, I've heard Grant mention that quite a few times. When I was finishing up my thesis, Jeremy suggested I wear my boots while at my desk so that I could fool myself into making it feel more like work.
ReplyDeleteAnd don't feel too guilty; I still have yet to begin this elusive routine. Bah!