a tangled web

by Karen Dums


At times the muse can work against us. Our minds are so full of ideas they become fishing line full of knots. If you've ever tried to untangle fish line you'll know its a near impossibility.

Journaling helps me with this. I can blather on in my journal without rhyme nor reason since no one is going to see it but me. But even that can get to feeling "old". Something that makes at least a modicum of sense would be wonderful.

Enter the prompt. I often throw out prompts at writer's group. But when my head is a tangled mess how am I  to come up with a decent one? What do I have to offer myself or anyone else until the web inside my head becomes a nice, smooth, straight line of coherent thought?

Shopping. Book Shop shopping.

The local bookstore shelves held this beautiful little tome. All browns and golds and lovely to look at. Much more importantly was what lay within. Ideas. It was a five year journal with ideas for each and every day. A journal that gives a sense of direction instead of just a blank page. Of course it found its way into my shopping bag. I love it. I love that if my untidy, clutter mind is more or less empty I can open it to the date and fine something sublime or something ridiculous. Not only that, but if I'm true to this little treasure, I'll have years of joy and directed writing to compare one to another.

Bliss.

Sigh.

It may be difficult to untangle the web, but I can still write with clarity in the meantime.

I love a good "book."

the friction of silence

by Anna Maria Hansen

 

 

~ ~ ~

I cannot write

words dried up, blood from a wound

fire quenched, only smoke left, wreathing

each thought silent prisoner, dragooned

Sitting silent

waiting for their return, birds frightened from the nest

Ears straining, the friction of silence audible

no sound of my words returning, no peace and no rest

I am speechless

fingers hovering, hoping to capture phrases

Like stealth, like hunter, watching for some sign

seeking words through the mindless mazes

I cannot write

creativity sapped, draining, dripping, drying

As a tree in winter, leafless, dead at first glance,

spring must come, melting words, I cannot stop trying

~ ~ ~

 

 



Part of being a writer is knowing that stretches will come, sometimes only a few hours, sometimes days, when words will not come.

Just empty pages, the cursor blinking palely on the screen.

The trick for me has always been sidestepping the writer's block, going around it, instead of trying to battle a straight-forward way over the top. I wrote the above poem on a night when I sat down at the computer determined to write for 20 minutes. I couldn't come up with a single useful line for my book, so I opened a new word document and typed the gospel truth, "I cannot write." And then proceeded to do just that.

Learning to understand (and accept) the silence of thought is a work in progress. I've often found that when I cannot work on a set project... doing something else is usually the key. Change the pace, the rhythm, the tone. When writing is impossible, read over what you've already written. Sooner or later, a sentence will stand out at you and resisting the need to tamper with it will be impossible. You'll be writing, even if it's only a few words.

Writer's block, I'm told, is all in our minds. Truly then, the antidote to it must be there as well.

"...I cannot stop trying..."

the writing game

by Anna Maria Hansen

There it was again. That fleeting, fragmented idea skipping sideways through my mind. With a growl of impatience, I half-turn, blocking my mental view of the partially formed idea. 

Not so fast.

The idea is back, this time holding a sibling idea by the hand. It's impossible not to watch them. They're multiplying, their shapes changing, flashing, filling in and fading out. Kaleidoscopes of possibility.

To a writer, this is a familiar situation. Ideas come all the time, and usually when you least want them or are not prepared to handle them. The only way for me to control the river of ideas is to put them down on paper. Which ultimately results in four full-fledged first-draft novels, a 30-plus page document of novel ideas, a computer file of  fragmented stories, a desk so full I can't open the drawers, and a mind bursting from new, unrecorded thoughts.

Channeling my creative writing ideas has always been a work in process. One way to manage it is NaNoWriMo, a flash-flood of writing so fast and forceful that the ideas don't have time to build and gather dust in the corners of my mind. It's the other 11 months, November aside, that bother me.

Editing novels is a process I enjoy, but it's very different than writing. You are re-shaping ideas, adding new ones, but there is little room for the raw creation experienced in the first draft. But I'm still getting ideas for new stories, temptations to waver and go off on some new project.

What I'm really learning is how to use the ideas I have on the book I'm working on. Every idea gets shaped, honed, to fit into the story, strengthening it, deepening it. Adding to it.

Writing is a game. Like chess. Thinking several moves ahead, planning the next attack, the next move that will leave your reader's mental gears turning. You can't let a single move go by. Every turn has to count.

There's only one rule in the writing game.

 

Finish.