Writers block
I have been trying to finish a short story for almost two years now. I have nine chapters finished and only two more to complete. The problem is, when I open the finished chapters in the hope of spurring some tangible thought I find aspects of what I have already written that I dislike.
Shift, right arrow, delete.
And I begin correcting my heinous errors all over again so that I never get to the two unfinished chapters. I hear the clock on the wall chime its three bongs to inform me it is now three-o'clock in the morning and wonder how it could take me so long to accomplish so little. My finished chapter now has new dialogue but is only a few words longer than before.
I have read stories of people who get on a train or bus and by the time they get to their destination a few hours away they have written a complete song that will reach the top ten on the charts (ala Jimmy Buffett-Margaritaville) or a short story that will become a best seller. And I am amazed. I envy those people, hate them, wish I could be like them.
Is it that way for you too???
Shift, right arrow, delete.
And I begin correcting my heinous errors all over again so that I never get to the two unfinished chapters. I hear the clock on the wall chime its three bongs to inform me it is now three-o'clock in the morning and wonder how it could take me so long to accomplish so little. My finished chapter now has new dialogue but is only a few words longer than before.
I have read stories of people who get on a train or bus and by the time they get to their destination a few hours away they have written a complete song that will reach the top ten on the charts (ala Jimmy Buffett-Margaritaville) or a short story that will become a best seller. And I am amazed. I envy those people, hate them, wish I could be like them.
Is it that way for you too???
posted by Morgan Painter at
11:30 PM
4 Comments:
Last night I was editing the chapter in which the hero in my story managed to knock the gun out of the crooked cops hand and make a daring escape. I was rather satisfied with the changes and moved on to the next chapter.
Chapter 7.
It has only a title.
There are no words typed there because I am following the advice of another novelist whose name I forgot long ago. In the jacket of one of his novels he advised readers. "If you want to write, chose a subject you know, write about your life."
Well, that is what I am trying to do but chapter 7 is the one where my hero loses his mother to cancer. And I cannot begin because it is too close to heart. It is really about my own mother and the memory of it is too painful. I have the last chapter nicely completed and a lot of exciting fiction involving espionage and crooked cops trying to snuff my hero while he leads them on a wild chase on his Harley. This is all blended in with parts of my real life.
But chapter 7........
I originally intended to add that to give the story depth, make it realistic but it is too difficult to begin. I can't bring myself to eliminate that chapter from the plot, but neither can I find the intestinal fortitude to write it. I struggle with how to word the first line. When I think I have it right I type in the sentence. I read it and hate it. I have to hate it because if it were deemed good I would have to write the next line and I don't want to do that because it takes me closer to the inevitable.
Shift, left arrow, delete.
Once again I have failed. The clock chimes four O'clock and I have nothing to show for in chapter 7.
So, I stagger off to bed, angry and ashamed that I cannot force myself to relive that chapter of my life. Yet I am too damned stubborn to ignore it. I am a living contradiction, an oxymoron, an ordinary moron, a dead tired fool.
Oh well, maybe tomorrow I will wake up with an inspiration...........
By
Morgan Painter, at 9:32 PM
AT LAST, an inspiration.LNot for the story unfortunately.
Today I will take down the Christmas decorations.
It is a task I am always reluctant to do. As you can tell by the date, January 15, 2005.
Since I can remember my family has always made a major event of gathering for Christmas. Lavish decorations, big meals and spending the entire day together into the wee hours. It is a time to renew, and re-tie the bonds that bind us together. It is such a joyful time, I have always been saddened to admit Christmas was over but in 1998.........
My father was 76 years old and in fair health. He had smoked most of his life and had problems with emphysema but was still quite active. He and mom were married on Christmas day in 1945 shortly afther he returned from three and a half years in World War II.
So Christmas was also their anniversary. In 1998 he told mom he felt like he was coming down with the flu and would stay home so as not to infect everyone else. He had chicken soup and went to bed. Mom drove to her sister's house where we were all gathering and we enjoyed a wonderful evening together.
Mom called me the next day to inform me...........
My father died in the night.
All alone while we were celebrating.
It was to have been their 53rd anniversary.
Depressing.
Tragic.
I was heartbroken. I was angry. This couldn't be happening.
So, instead of lingering in the afterglow of Christmas we gathered to plan the details of my father's funeral.
It was cold and windy, a perfectly cruel day for such an occasion.
My mom's sister died in 2000 and my mom in 2001.
That left me to host Christmas. I am the only one with enough room. The others all have small, sensible homes.
So now every year when I take down the Christmas decorations I feel a terrible sadness creeping into my eyes, clouding my vision, causing that knot in my throat. And I feel as if I am hearing that phone call all over again.
"Morgan, I'm sorry to have to tell you but.....your father is gone."
By
Morgan Painter, at 9:42 PM
I woke up at about 2 am with two paragraphs worth of material for my chapter 7 and I hurried downstairs to type it in before I forgot it. I typed for about one hour. Re-reading, editting and finally my eyes grew too weary to read so I gave up and went back to bed. This morning when I opened it I was disgusted by what I read. It came across as if written by a drunken bum with a sixth grade education.
By
Morgan Painter, at 10:44 AM
I once read that Winston Churchill did the majority of his writing in the wee hours of the morning. As did several others I read about. What is it about that time of the day/night? When I was working at the factory I rose at 4:30 AM to go to work and thus had to turn in at 10 AM just to get 6 hours of sleep. Now that I am retired from that madhouse, I find myself migrating into the later hours. Often that is the time when I get the inspiration to do the things I have been putting off all day. I wonder if some people have an internal clock that in my case they can ignore by a forced set of circumstances and will revert to that schedule given the opportunity???
By
Morgan Painter, at 10:46 AM
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