Five Minutes. How long is that? Not long at all, right? I mean, come on. Five minutes is probably about the amount of time you spend in the restroom. It's the length of about two commercial breaks. It's about the amount of time it takes to go from laying in the bed to falling asleep for some folks.
So, what else can we do in five minutes? I found out while reading "Immediate Fiction" by Jerry Cleaver. Heck, these days, the book is even available on Kindle! I digress. In the book, Cleaver gets the writing juices flowing with a Five-Minute daily exercise. The agreement one makes with oneself is that for 30 days, the writer promises to take just five minutes to write something. Anything. Actually, when first starting out, the writer isn't supposed to write anything - just relax and let go for five minutes.
So, I am taking the challenge. Each day during my lunch hour at work, I am taking five minutes to write. So far, nothing of substance has materialized, but that's okay. I am jotting ideas, exploring characters, writing jibberish in some cases. But, I am writing.
I challenge you to try it yourself. As Cleaver says in his book, by a year's time, you could easily have written 100-150 PAGES of text. For someone who "can't" write or who "doesn't" write, you may find yourself face-to-face with the start of a novel or a collection of short stories or a book of poetry!
There is a new documentary that was released on Friday in "select cities." It is called "Bad Writing," and it is done by a guy who wrote poetry only to "discover" he was really, really "bad" at it. I will post the video trailer below along with a link to the site, should you wish to check it out.
I have *not* seen the movie, as it is no where near me. Well, okay, technically, Austin is "close" should I wish to drive 8 hours or whatever. Which I don't. I have seen the trailer and I get the general premise of the movie. I have seen the guy sit in front of other authors and have them laugh at his work and tell him how awful it is. I see some of the humor in it. With that limited ammunition at my disposal, I offer up my take on "good," "bad," and "ugly" writing - though this applies to any art, really.
First and foremost, I abhor terminology such as "good" or "bad" when applied to anything artistic. Who the heck is ANYONE to sit in judgment as to what I write is good or what I paint is bad or what I sculpt is ugly? During the trailer, one author says something to the effect that we are not writing for ourselves. I say BALONEY. In a class, we are judged by what is expected within the specifications of the project - a poem, a short story, an impressionistic-style painting, etc. This is not really about that - the classroom tends to be a different environment, though some of this should still apply. After all, in my opinion, no professor or teacher should demolish the dreams of his/her students based on that teacher's own opinions.
I write because I like it. I write what I want because it is my way of expressing my feelings and thoughts in a way that I choose to do so. Frankly, I don't really care if I am the only person on Earth that enjoys it or is touched by it or understands it. I believe everyone that creates should keep that perspective.
There are a gazillion people that love to sit on high thrones in high places and look down upon those who live beneath them. The thing to remember is that many times, we are the ones who put those people up there in the first place. Let's not do that anymore. Seriously. Think about those you hold in high regard. How did they get that standing in your world? Do they DESERVE that standing? Most likely, they deserve at least SOME of the accolades we place upon them. There is nothing wrong with appreciating fellow artisans! The danger, I believe, comes from holding those same folks to such a high level that we compare ourselves to them and seek acceptance based on their accomplishments.
Maybe it is the nature of those who create to seek approval and acceptance from others. I dunno. All I know is that I find it ridiculous that certain people are lifted on high while others are beaten down into nothingness. What makes it even worse is when someone had been beaten down, ultimately took their own life, and then AFTERWARD are heralded as "amazing, incredible" after they are dead. Ludicrous.
As a writer, I have created many things that *I* think are awful. I'll write something, leave it for a while and then come back to it only to read it and think, "Man, that is just stupid." That is my opinion about my own work. At that point, I can edit it or trash it. Either way, it is my decision based on my own reaction. If I write something that I enjoy reading again later, then I file that in my works that might become part of a collection some day. That decision is based on my personal preference and whether or not it fits into the flow of the stories already going in the collection.
Now, you may be sitting there wondering how I, of all people, have the gall to approach such subjects and why anyone should even pay attention to what I have to say. You'd be right to wonder. I can only hope I am reaching one person (okay, reaching more than one would be great) that may be struggling with "acceptance" of their work. I say - quit worrying about it and judge yourself FOR yourself.
Now, does that mean we cannot improve on our work? Absolutely not! We can take classes, watch videos, examine other specimens of the things we'd like to create. Everyone can always get better (in their own heart and mind) at what they do. This is especially true if we see things in our creativity that we'd like to change or we'd like to improve upon. For example, if you are a painter and do not like the way you paint faces, then you can take classes or watch videos that will help you paint faces in a way that you prefer. As a writer, I find the information I read and the classes I've taken (and will take) extremely valuable as I continue to write. I've learned about various plot ideas, character interactions, etc that I might not have otherwise considered while writing my own stories. Likewise, reading those you admire can help you get a feel for how they write - what are common themes, objects, colors, places, etc? How can you then apply those things in your creative ventures?
I write song lyrics and poems in addition to my stories. I enjoy some of them and others I simply shake my head when I go back and read them again. I have submitted numerous stories, songs, etc to a variety of contests, publishers, etc. I have never won a thing. Does that keep me from writing? Nope. Does it mean I am a "bad" writer? I am in the eyes of the judges, maybe. Or, perhaps others were just "better" than me. Really, what governs that decision is what appeals to those judges. Maybe what I write does not appeal to them. Okay by me. I just keep writing anyway.
Think about the folks that have ever told you that you were "bad" at what you do. What reasons do you have for letting those folks influence you? Write them down. Really. Seeing the "why" in back-and-white may just help you realize that YOU are in control of what is "good" or "bad." Always remember that you judge others, too. We all do. We have things we like and things we don't. Are those folks going to quit creating because *we* don't like something? No. If JK Rowling asked me to comment about the "Harry Potter" series, she would not be happy with what I have to say. I am not a fan. Would that stop her from writing? I surely hope not.
I believe we SHOULD write for ourselves. Write what we like. Write HOW we like. If others happen to enjoy it as well, that's great. If what we create reaches *us* on a personal, emotional level and gives us the release *we* need, then we are creating something "good." And, if we are the only ones that enjoy our work, that should be enough for us. Who is anyone else to judge what I have residing inside us? No one on this Earth.
(posted originally on http://www.poppedinmyhead.com) While working on my Master's degree, I took a class that focused on the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. One of Dante Gabriel Rossetti'smost famous poems is "The Stream's Secret." It is a haunting, romantic tale. At least, that's how *I* took it. In fact, I wrote a short-short story based on what I thought was happening in the poem. Turns out my interpretation received very mixed reviews. At least it sparked conversation. Note: When this was written, I was still pretty 'young' in my writing development.
A Misinterpretation of "The Stream's Secret" by David Henderson (c)2000, 2010
Peter knelt in the long, thick grass along the stream. Intently, he watched the water flow over rocks, under branches, and around a few grassy knolls. He could see the bottom of the stream perfectly. The rocks and pebbles danced along the bed without moving. Light played with the rippling water, animating the inanimate. He tilted his head slightly, his right ear bent ever so carefully toward the bubbling brook. He held his breath. The bubbling, fumbling stream did not speak to him. He sighed deeply and shook his head.
"Did you not see?" Peter asked the stream. "Did you not hear?" he yelled out, clenching his fists at the brook. He stood, his well-pressed trousers now wrinkled and stained green from the grass. He paid no attention to his pants. Slowly, he turned, stretching his arms out in a wide arc to the place that had been behind him.
"She was here," he told no one. Taking two steps away from the stream, he pointed at the ground where he now stood. "She was right here," he repeated loudly. He fell to his knees, slumping over himself until his hair rested on the ground. Tears fell from his eyes onto the grass. His body heaved as he sobbed, still crunched like a child hiding from the seeker. The mucus from his nose dangled toward the ground, swaying with each sob-ridden breath he took. Finally, it broke, landing in a pool beneath his nose.
Suddenly, he slammed one fist into the ground. Absently, we wiped his pressed jacket sleeve across his face, taking with it tears and snot and pain. He stood, ignoring the grass stains on his sleeves where his elbows had rested on the ground. Spinning on one heel, he turned to face the babbling brook once again.
"Why won't you talk to me?" he scorned. He took two steps back toward the stream, brought his leg back and kicked his patent leather shoe at the water. A plume erupted as his foot surfaced from the depths of the stream. Ignoring the soaked sock in his shoe, he kicked at the stream once more. Again, the stream answered with a fountain of water where his foot exited through the surface. Now, the stirred dirt from the bed hid the stones and rocks that were once visible. The stream's flow carried the sediment away from Peter, as it carried Sarah not long ago.
Sarah was beautiful. He long, coppery hair flowed down over her shoulders and covered her breasts. She was exquisite. Her long, cream-colored arms could reach the night sky and pluck out a star. Her shapely, toned legs coulee leap a rainbow and land her in the pot of gold at the end of it. Her satiny smooth skin glistened in the morning dew as she lay in the grass.
Peter turned, looking over his shoulder at the spot where he had been sobbing. "As she lay in the grass," he said aloud. His eyes darkened as he turned his gaze back toward the stream. That horrid stream. That keeper of secrets. His heart pounded in his chest. His breathing had become deep, heavy. He clenched his jaw tight, then spat into the water. "Keeper of secrets," he growled.
His mind flashed - Sarah lay in the grass, nude. He blinked at the stream. Flash - her lover beside her. He stared at a rock on the stream's bed. Flash - her lover slain. Rippling waves cannot break his stare. Flash - his around her throat. His jaw clenched tighter. He dragged her into the stream. His jaw moved, emitting a sharp "pop" as his teeth rubbed against each other. Sarah kicked, squirmed, twisted. Her face plunged into the stream. He wide eyes stared at Peter in disbelief. Her mouth moved, "Peter! Peter!" Her lips formed words, but make no sound. "No! Peter!" Air rushed in and out of her lungs, making bubbles at the surface. The babbling brook became violent at the intrusion. Dirt, rocks and sand all tossed and churned wildly as Sarah splashed in the water.
A small, wry smile crept on Peter's face. He blinked twice then focused his gazed on the spot where Sarah drank her last breath. The smile on Peter's face softened as he pictured her there in the water. The stream bubbled around and passed her. Her face rested above the surface, peaceful and calm. Sarah stared blankly at the stars above. Peter leaned over her and slipped his arms around her. His lips covered her soft, smooth cheeks with tender kisses. He took one hand from behind her back and gently stroked her hair as it waved lazily in the stream. Tenderly, he kissed her lips as softly as a new lover on his wedding night. He gazed into Sarah's lifeless eyes, then closed her eyelids, sealing each with a gentle kiss. Again, he slipped both of his arms around her and embraced her, pulling their two bodies together. After a few moments, he released her. She lingered at first, not wanting to leave her lover. But, finally, the stream urged her along and she relented. She began to move, but stopped suddenly as she planted her feet into the stream's bed.
Peter's eyes widened at the sight of his Sarah's hesitation. His heart raced as the gravity of his mistake comes to his full attention. Sarah was not dead after all! She had stopped to be with him! He smiled - a small, shaky laugh escaped his lips. He stood, meaning to help her out of the water. As he bent over her, she moved away from him. Her feet still seemed planted, but her body drifted away from his reaching arm. The stream continued to push her, helping her along as it turned her body away from his. Her head pointed downstream. Peter's arms dropped to his side and she slumped to the ground beside the stream. Sarah drifted away from him, forever.
I hate writer's block. It is a subconscious (and sometimes VERY conscious) voice that tells us we can't write, don't know what to write, don't want to write, and a myriad of other tall tales that keep us from doing what we actually desire to do the most - WRITE! Write something. Write anything. But no, that blank page just stares at me.
I've thought many times about how to start my next novel, but no matter where I want to go, taking the first few steps feels like swimming through quick-drying cement - or what I would imagine that to be like. I've read dozen of articles and several books that deal with the block in one way or another. Of course, the most common advice is "keep writing anyway." Yeah, nice theory.
Well, okay, yeah, it actually works if you are at least willing to give it try. I can tell that my experience is that it works by forcing me to *not* work. I make notes - places, people, plot lines, etc. I have no idea how they tie together, and I know that they don't even have to tie together. Heck, they don't even have to make the final cut. But at least it is something. All too often, though, I get nowhere fast.
So, sometimes I try just to make a list of questions I'd like to answer: How will so-and-so die? Why does so-and-so move away? Should the main character move away? What would happen? Why would s/he move? How do they feel? Do they ever see their friends again? How does that impact what is written (or not written)? What color is so-and-so's shirt?
Writer's block sucks. But, if you admit you have the problem, you've taken the first step in getting around it. Then, put one foot in front of the other. You will laugh, cry, pull your hair out, and (hopefully) eventually come through the other side with the kick-start you needed.
