“To gain your own voice, you have to forget about having it heard.” —Allen Ginsberg
“We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.” —Ernest Hemingway
“Making people believe the unbelievable is no trick; it’s work. … Belief and reader absorption come in the details: An overturned tricycle in the gutter of an abandoned neighborhood can stand for everything.” —Stephen King
Oh Calliope, muse of writing, where art thou? That has been my lament for some time now. Sadly it is no fault of the muse, but my own blind eye turned away from the page. Writing is easy; or the act of writing, as an exercise, is easy. When I am responding to questions, or stating an opinion, or a point of fact, I can pontificate profusely — and as my work colleagues would confirm, I typically do. I find delivering words through my fingers onto the keyboard a quite liberating action. I can pepper my prose with the appropriate humor, or deliver the: one, two, three punches as bulleted lists with relative ease.
But, and you knew there was a ‘but’ coming… to write, as in to write creatively, is oh so hard. Ideas aren’t the problem, those typically flood my mind, seeping into every crevice; no it’s that instantaneous editing, guidance, and shepherding of the plethora of ideas into the least nauseating prose I can set down into the bits on my computer that is the real issue. I sit at the keyboard and wonder — and yes Jethro Tull, often aloud — how this plot should proceed, what should this character say, I’ll mutter “show don’t tell” under my breath incessantly. I’m sure I’m a comical figure whilst writing: I talk to myself and make the necessary facial expressions as I answer; I’ll exclaim, “no, no, no” when I’ve made a decision in plot or character that I realize was wrong; and finally throw my hands in the air as I start up a game of solitaire — draw three, Vegas rules of course. A truly agonizing experience, and I’m sure a horrible sight as well; sorry work colleagues.
When I know I should write, I will make every excuse in the book. I have been known to avoid eye contact with my computer when I know I should be writing. I honestly think I’d rather clean than even sit at my computer. But then comes the perfect storm of ideas and decisions. Calliope has spoken. I look at my computer and whisper breathily, “oh hello you.” With only the slightest hint at digital foreplay and I am on a roll. I’ve corralled the creative juices into something that is cohesive, and maybe even just a bit entertaining or enlightening… then I am in bliss. It feels amazing, the pouring forth of prose that every alcohol-soaked brain cell died for; some sort of culmination of the essence of me, of my personality… of the cerebral WhoIs of me. Yes then it is all worth it. When I’ve typed out a few hundred words, hell maybe a thousand or possibly more, I will get giddy, cocky even. I’ll laugh and mock myself for stupidly procrastinating. Swaggering around in my own mind, I’ll make commitments to “do this every day”. It’s always easy to revel in success, even if the success is confirmed by only you. Such a great feeling, and it is what I dared to begin writing for in the first place.
But then begins the editing process. Oy!
Peace and love.