The art of writing comes in stages….
In my book, these periods have no real time frame, they last as long as I struggle against them, quickly fizzling into a weighty lesson the moment I stop fighting their true purpose.
The emotions a writer endures, just so you know, and if you write you understand the real battles raging behind the perfectly placed words we all love to indulge in. In the range of ten pages, the characters can have our hearts pumping out of our flannel pockets, sitting cross-legged and back straight at the edge of the bed as you watch them learn the things you know from the view you’ve been given.
Since I began my journey of writing, I’ve had a hard time reading other peoples ‘works of fiction’ without finding myself pointing out similar circumstances, the pain behind the plotlines.
I’ve found my life structure following an eerie parallel with the characters I am developing through a keyboard and screen. Situations ranging on the spectrum from terrifying truths, mostly about myself, what I am capable of. Even if I know eventually they lead to a greater understanding of the picture I’m trying to paint with words, in each moment, my story guides me to the edge of my mentality. Where I find characters who force me to question my own beliefs.
In the end, I understand myself more clearly.
As with anything else, the first steps into writing two hundred plus pages, are always the hardest and require quite a bit of faith, trust that the wack I’m taking at a craft much more cunning than my little old self will turn out to be worthwhile… The first step is often developing the ability to listen, not just hear the world around us, but really listen to it.
I’ve found the most progress with my writing when I don’t let myself write until I’m so full of ideas and direction I can’t do anything else. Writing is a bi-polar craft, it really relies on perspective staying objective, there is nothing more torturous than looking at a blank document darkened by the shadow of self-imposed deadlines. Remember to play, or the story becomes tragic, playing to the emotions of the tormented writer.
The game is absorbing and absorbing until you are bursting with everything you might possibly know at one time, and do this until a big bang moment occurs when suddenly the pictures that wouldn’t blend, words that wouldn’t finally come they can’t seem to turn themselves off in the end.
I understand the creation story more completely thanks to the journey my storylines have carried me through.
Outlines be damned, I’ve wasted time trying to put things into order but characters have a way of voicing themselves once you put them in the proper setting for their characteristics to play out.
Writing has allowed me more compassion toward the villains and heroes alike, neither path reaches its end without the twist of betrayal and suffering to sending them running in opposite directions of the same spectrum. I wouldn’t have understood this if not for the stories that have come to me.
For me writing looks like small bursts of brilliance surrounded in idol time spent endlessly searching for little knowledge nuggets and nuts to keep me moving forward, and complete the evolving picture of the story to come.
I’d talk about running and forward motions ability to concur the bane of writers’ block but that is a post for another day!