The scene is set… an utterly desolate, shapeless, monotone landscape spread out before you in all directions; its heat baking the very oil from your hair, burning your eyes from its glare as it buries your feet a foot deep in its loose and powdery sand.
This was the beginning. This was the setting that inspired me to cast my lot in a new creative arena, into a new foray of artistic imposition. I decided, roughly a year ago, to write a novel.
I had long desired such a thing. I have been reading books since before I can remember, and I certainly have my fair share of words on paper in other creative endeavors (not including this blog). I have friends who are published; heck, my grandfather was even a published author! I own a dozen books on the subject, and read at least four blogs a day on the art and business of creative writing. I am famous for daydreaming of being able to do nothing but live with my family and write books for a living. But for some reason, the sudden, undeniable shock of being thrust into this barren waste was the impetus for me to take the plunge and begin the actual act of writing.
For three solid months, during the most unforgiving heat and miserable conditions I ever care to remember, I wrote like a mad man. In that short amount of time I amassed 36,000 words in 17 chapters, sometimes to the tune of more than 6,000 words a day (when I had that kind of time). My daily work schedule consisted of an early morning hour and a half gym/run (before it got too hot), 8-10 hours in the sun training Iraqis how not to shoot themselves in the feet, a cigar under the stars talking about the day’s ridiculous stories of near-death experiences, and then I’d hit the laptop for a good three or four hours until I collapsed in my hammock for the night, only to do it again the next day. On exceptionally good days (like when sand storms hit), I would have all day to do nothing bit hunker down and woodshed.
Although I knew that the somewhat artificial war-induced focus was likely to wear off as soon as I came home and would be replaced with real life with a wife and kids and bills, etc., I still expected to be able to continue on somewhat of a schedule toward the eventual end of this pièce de résistance. As I got ready to leave the country and come back home, I began leaving myself notes to remind myself of ideas that I had floating around that I didn’t want to lose. I plotted out several scenes for future chapters, and generally made sure to tidy up as much as possible, figuring that, at worst, I’d have a month or so of inactivity on my draft before getting back to it…
I arrived back in the United States 152 days ago.
That’s almost five months exactly! In that time I have written a smidge over 3,000 words that seem to hang on the page in complete apathy, mocking me with their tepid descriptions and feeble attempts at dialogue.
In short, I seem to have lost all momentum on this project.
Of course, I have tried to manufacture that same kind of focus I had in Iraq by sanitizing my office, organizing the “perfect” writer’s area, locking myself in said office and turning off all distracting interferences. The only problems with that are 1. I cannot turn off my son, who’s cute little polite knocks followed by whispers of “pappa?” through the crack of the door could cause me to drop any project in a heart beat- especially after being away from him for almost a full year. 2. No matter how hard I try, rekindling my own interest in this story is the biggest hurdle I have yet to clear.
Part of this problem is caused by the fact that when I started to write this book I was reading a book that was particularly interesting to me. It was one that someone I did not know too well suggested to me. Usually in circumstances such as these I tend to smile and nod, and never intend to pick up the book they suggest. Past experience has shown this as appropriate- and this book suggestion was unfortunately no exception. For whatever reason I picked this book up and began to read it, and I have to say in its defense that I did find it difficult to put the book down. Every single chapter was wrought with suspense and almost always ended in a twist. I loved the effect the author had. I would take the book with me everywhere, just to read it for a few minutes at a time. Even a half-page glimpse would bring me satisfaction until I could get to it later.
It was somewhere in the second chapter of this book that I decided to emulate this style of writing as best I could. I dissected the author’s strategy and tried to incorporate many of his tricks in my own writing. Instantly I found myself more interested in my own writing, and the chapters were flowing forth as quickly as I could type them out. Everything was coming along swimmingly, until it happened… I finished the book- and the ending was HORRIBLE!
What had worked to keep the reader hooked into reading the next chapter throughout the book turned into the most jumbled and flimsy ending I have ever experienced. The melodrama was laughable. It was almost as if the author was trying to win a bet on how many plot twists he could incorporate, but still had 11 or so to go by the last chapter so he threw them all in between about four pages of text. I was thoroughly disappointed.
It also just so happened that I finished the book on the flight home to the United States. So, along with my planned hiatus from writing in preparation for the wonderful reunion with my family, this book on which I had based a lot of my writing had left a bitter taste in my mouth. Together, I think the two just detracted me enough from even considering trying to revisit this project.
So why am I writing about it now? You mean other than the obvious answer? Because writing about having writer’s block is a sure way to get over it, right?
Heaven help me if I actually heeded the advice of countless published authors that parrot the same advice to every wannabe writer to ask them “so, what’s your secret to writing a great book?”
Duh! YOU HAVE GOT TO WRITE.
I really have no excuse either. My life has settled fairly well into a comfortable routine. I have by far the best writing platform anyone could ever hope for. I have ample access to advice from accomplished writers who continuously remind me that when it all comes down to it, no matter how many GTD programs or fancy notebooks you have, you’ve just got to get the words on the paper. I certainly cannot claim complete writer’s block (hello, I am writing this blog, aren’t I?). My inspirational setting might have changed from desolate desert to coastal cottages, but I still have thousands of pictures and plenty of memories. Heck, this laptop still has at least an ounce of sand floating around in its chassis. Its shake and rattle is a constant reminder of what I had to endure to make those 36,000 words that are now sitting idly in nicely organized chapters, waiting to be joined by another 64,000 or so by November.
Can I remember why I loved my characters so much? Can I remember who the bad guy really was and why he was so bad? Does the plot still seem plausible and interesting to me… or anyone else? I suppose I could do the typical Eric thing and plan an extensive review of the entire rough draft, complete with red pen. That would tack on another several months of self-depreciating behavior, and would be sure to tank my story for sure. If there is one thing I have learned about my creative self it is that the same filter for “genius” on day one interprets into “crap” on day 30. It’s a weird perfectionist artist thing.
No. I will not do a massive rewrite- at least not until an editor (with a signed contract) suggests it. I will not waste more time procrastinating some master plan to make it all come together perfectly. And I will not write another blog post in a feeble attempt to coax myself into inspiration. (Shame on me)
I will, however, write. Even if I have to describe every character head to toe until I can get them to start talking to one another again, I will write. And come November, I will remind myself of just how close I came to dismissing this work of mine to a simple “desert hobby”, and will be thankful, if for nothing else, that I compiled enough words on paper to be considered a novel.
Published or not, I will consider that a great accomplishment.
