blank is safe

Writing is too personal. You'd think, with someone as cynical as me, I could come up with a library of tension to develop in my characters. But pain is too personal, not only for myself but for everyone. Sometimes I tell myself it won't be so bad--I'll just shut my eyes and hit "publish" and everything will be fine as long as there is ignorance, right?

And many times, no one sees it anyways. But it's still too uncomfortable. Not only could someone have read your work without you knowing and realize how human you are, you might also have to face something far worse than the secret judgement of your friends. You might actually have to confront something in your life that you purposely ignore.

Art is a strange thing. There's really no way to go about it that isn't personal. There shouldn't be, anyway. Then what would be the point of art?

The interwebs of creative death.

 Alas! A storm wiped the database last night, powering down the entire core and striking the mainframe cold. That is to say, the power went off last night and now nothing can seem to revive it. It feels very wrong to be writing a blog post without internet streaming along the walls of this virtual space like it should be.

 The funny thing about this blog is that I only come to it when I should be writing elsewhere. When I don’t have an incoming data connection, my cyborg side pulls a Hamlet muscle and my human instinct kicks in. I suppose “they” are right when it is said that the best way to get writing done is to unplug.

 Sure, words are all fine and good when your internet is inaccessible and a random three-hour power failure occurs in the middle of the day (gotta love that urban living, folks). The real challenge is when that temptation is reachable. Many time I work a long shift and all I want to do is vegetate in front of Youtube for hours afterward. But that isn't always the case. I try to switch wifi off on occasion, usually only lasting ten minutes before I want to check my email or bank account or something. It really makes me question my motivation in life when all I can think about is finishing a scene so I can view Facebook notifications and make sure no one shared  a “What Disney Princess are You?” quiz, because those are so much more important than art and accomplishment and a complete piece of work, right? Ugh, talk about twisted priorities.

 In the Christian church, we talk about learning from the struggles. Most of the time it sounds like a loaded excuse to take a mistake you made and put it off on God. But then there are the times when I get caught up in something that isn’t fruitful, and when the opportunity to continue down that road ends but I’m still tangled in the temptation of it, my eyes look right into a mirror. Inconvenience is one of the best teachers out there, as far as I’m concerned.

 Does that mean the solution for me is to take the difficult path?

 I have no idea why blogging brings out the snark in me. Kind of like that a bit. If I got nothing else from this situation, I got the right attitude to finally develop that Queen Overlord sitting amongst the dregs of plot notes. And a 500 word blog post. The power isn’t even back on yet, who knows what I’ll do! *maniacal laughter*

 If you even dare make a comment about how I should have “rebooted the modem” I’m making you the expendable villain in my next story. You have been warned.

Ms. Q, Interrupted

 Busily typing. Much words. Eloquence and story glue paste across my screen as I finally make some headway with my interstellar enigma of a character Ms. Q, not to be confused with the spy because Ms. Q isn't actually her full name and she contains zero grams of stealth capabilities.

 Phone. Cleverly prerecorded telemarketers and a persistent father later: phone smash. I'm the only person on Earth that wishes to not own a phone. I submit to the general public more acceptable file formats for communication transfers to my office:

Telegraph
Homing pigeons
Pony Express

I'll even tip with carrots!

 Now I'm found with an hour less than I had before, and only a silly little graphic to raise awareness of the plight of Incoming Distractions. Though I suppose, until I actually finish one of these darn novels I won't have any more rights than other folks to officially be registered as a part-time hermit. You have to have serious creds to get a license these days. Maybe I should steal one from this certain Ms. Q, whose entire existence is spent in ice caves and small space ships.

 Until I get a dimension hopper or a Hermits United card, however, I must pause my negotiations with character development and go out into the sun for the afternoon. Another day, another life lesson. Maybe I'll come across a person that has some really freaky laugh that catalyzes this entire character arc. Or perhaps not, as I'm likely to be trading one computer screen with another for the duration of remaining coherency hours. Tot ziens hippie knitters!

*disclaimer: I'm not usually this unsociable, just cranky that I only receive incoming distractions when I happen to be focusing!

Word Heights

  The only thing worse than the fear of bad writing is the fear of a blank page. You could probably do a scientific article on this subject and find this to be true for most writers. Filling a blank page is one of the hardest things there is in writing, whether it’s a grade school essay or a scene in your novel.

  For most cases this type of writer’s block doesn’t even have to do with a lack of ideas, but the visualization of that scene in your head, and the massive cliff you’re going to have to climb up to get through it. Sometimes I block off my fear of word-heights by closing my eyes (as I’m typing now) or covering my screen with a blanket and listening to instrumental music so the only thing my brain can wander through are these words (ye olde brain is not much of a multi-tasker).

  I find it hilarious to read through writing magazines and come across these loaded pieces of advice about writer’s block, like you can get a college degree in anti-procrastination and high-concept idea making. You probably can, but I still think that when you are a writer, you can’t really be taught how to get ideas. You have to search and find the way by yourself, because writing is all about the journey of life through your hands. While most of us probably use tools such as images and prompts, we all use them in different ways.

  Learn how to use words as your tools. Pay attention to what makes ideas click in your head. Pay attention to what you’re trying to say, and hardwire a failsafe against your urge to procrastinate. Make sure that the second you think "Facebook is a click away" you finish the sentence with "from missing out on the best paragraph I've written in my life".

Back in the Day

 No matter how arduous, painful, and disappointing writing might seem, I will always love it. When I was a little girl I didn't think I had a dream that would take me into adulthood. I never proclaimed to want a particular profession, and sometimes I would cry in despair for lack of a real "hobby". Little did I know, it was there. I just didn't see it, because I was having so much fun.

 From the time I started reading seriously in first grade, I made the decision to be a writer. Why? Because I couldn't stand when stories ended in a way contrary to the way I imagined them ending.

 My first ever story was about my cat Scout and scrawled in a spiral-bound book with a kitten on the front. Far from a masterpiece, but a story from my heart all the same. People (mainly teachers and adults) didn't like my stories, but I tried not to care because I was writing the stories that I wanted to tell.

The Queen Cat by Jessica Verve, age 8

It was hard, though. Not many people had faith in my work, and most writing advice includes the warning "there's a 99 percent chance you won't be very good or successful". For the past few years I have been afraid of writing. I'm no Shakespeare or Austen, so I should probably find some sort of "real job", right? But looking back at where I came from, and how I took something I didn't even consider a hobby and worked at it and worked at it and improved and anguished and enjoyed... well suddenly I don't feel so scared anymore. Coming up with stories and exploring people's reasoning is my oxygen, not my job or a servitude.

 That's how I know I'm a writer.