Taking pause

As a prolific writer, I find it hard to take even one day off of working on my craft. In my mind, a day spent not writing is an unfinished day, as if I’d skipped exercising or went to bed without having dinner. But every now and then the unpredictability of life pops in and you have to take time to pause.

This happened to me recently as a family member was suddenly admitted to the hospital. After a long, unproductive week of experiencing torturous writer’s block, I had finally fallen back headstrong into writing my dystopian series, when a sudden, shrill phone call put a halt to everything. Instead of delving into my imaginary world of telepathic plants, domed cities, and half-man half-animal hybrids that make up make latest novel, I found myself once again sitting in a hospital room waiting for my mother-in-law’s test results. (Those of you who follow my blog know that several months ago I spent several days hanging out in the hospital while my wife recovered from cancer surgery).

When I was younger this sort of interruption in the novel-writing process would have driven me crazy. Back in my early writing days I was obsessed and starved for success. My first few novels were written with the “fever” and almost nothing could have dragged me away from the keyboard. From the age of eighteen until thirty, my novels took precedent over all else; friends, family, lovers; everything.

As I get older, life appears to throw more and more obstacles that a young writer hasn’t yet experienced and therefore can’t judge how to react, aging parents being the topper. Though the compulsive drive to write still harpoons me daily, I have also found a certain level of peace in dividing my time making sure those I care about can hammer through tough times. My books are and will forever be my “children” and I will never ignore them or let them fade away into cyberspace, but I’ve also come to realize that our mortal time on this planet is finite and there must be a balance between writer and human being.

One must spend time outside the imaginary worlds to be a part of real life.

So, as I spend another day in the hospital waiting room and not writing my latest novel, I find myself feeling not agitated and anxious to be away from my work, but actually calm and accepting of the curve balls that life sometime throws at you. Taking pause and helping others can be the best refresher any writer can enjoy.

-- I also wanted to include a response I got from my previous post on having writer's block that I think hits the nail on the head.

I think the human mind is like my grandfather's fields. They are rich and black and whatever you put into them rewards us with bushels of amazing crops and keeps the wolf at bay from the door. Naturally as a good "steward" of the earth, he emptied out the cattle barn every spring and doused the land with steaming black cow poo flying out the back of his manure spreader. He would have on his agenda when the plants began to come up to a certain height go out and plow the furrows to rid them of any errant weeds which might choke the life out of the crop. He would then sit back and wait. Sounds like you Neil. Wake up each morning and plow, weed, cultivate and harvest year after year. The missing piece - all of us and the farmer's fields need a fallow time. In the north it is called winter and everything gets quiet and rests. My grandfather knew that there would be years when he would have to change the crop; let it rest; plow something under and wait. The mind needs to rest after such steroidal creativity. It obviously was frightening because it came unexpectedly, but your mind knew. It knew it had to rest, to sleep, to be unproductive in order to be the best it can be later. Congrats, the pipes are thawed and the electricity is on - away you go. The mind likes a rest once in a while.

By Katherine Edwins Schumm

The virtual bookshelf

There is a riding wave of enthusiasm and excitement among indie authors that finally, after centuries of struggle, we can now put our books out there on the virtual bookshelf for the world to see and for all eternity. What an incredible concept that a hundred years from now someone might happen upon one of my books and my characters would rise from the ashes of time and thrill a new reader. Or is it?

What is the likelihood that a future individual will happen upon one of my books? If you do the actual mathematics, it doesn’t seem likely.

Ebooks have only been around for a few years and their rise in popularity is growing at exceptional and exponential levels. When I first started publishing in the virtual world, getting my books noticed was as easy as posting descriptions on social networks and threads. If you were lucky enough to afford a promotion on a popular reader’s website, you could draw dozens if not hundreds of new sales. Ereaders were a novelty that the next generation had to have and ebooks were golden jewels.

Well, the reading population bought both books and devices, and they bought them by the millions. You would think that is a good thing for indie writers like me, having a new audience who have a lifetime to discover my works?

With the new wave of ereaders also comes a new wave of writers. Writers who have discovered how easy it is to publish a book and try to sell their work. Many of these indie books are coming onto the market too soon. In a rush to get published, many writers are neglecting the basics of grammar, and characterization, and the importance of details in the setting. These quickly written books are coming on the market raw and unreadable, and flooding it in the process. Many novice writers are spamming the once mighty reader’s websites giving the legitimate indie authors little exposure and the art form a tarnished reputation.

It is true that the virtual bookshelf will exist as long as humanity and the internet do, however, being discovered on that bookshelf is soon going to be like trying to find a specific grain of sand placed somewhere on the largest beach on Earth. What can possibly set apart the great writers from the wannabe’s: Marketing? Promoting? An incredible tale?

I believe the only saving grace for the gifted writer will be word-of-mouth. Only if you write a great story will absolute strangers tell other absolute strangers about it. Like all things great, it will rise above the garbage and shine like a diamond. And there will be a lot of garbage out there, I predict billions of books.

As I continue to see mediocre books flooding the market (many free or at a price insulting to the art form) I can only wonder how long it will be before I, too, drown in this oncoming sea of mediocrity. Writers whose works are truly gifted are getting lost in a flood of new titles. A virtual bookstore where anyone can sell your work is truly a Godsend to the true storyteller, however, with virtual unlimited shelf space there may soon be more books than readers who care to read them.

Breaking Writer's Block

I woke up this morning momentarily gripped by a fear and uncertainty that has plagued me as of recent. Would today be like yesterday and the day before and the day before? Would I spend the next fifteen hours walking around my office in a daze trying to rip free of this chain of boredom? Would today be the day I finally break this horrible bout of writer’s block?

For twenty-five plus years, I’ve woken each morning with my head crammed full of ideas. Imaginary characters start to converse with me and I find my thoughts drifting to other worlds and possible dimensions. However, for the last few days these comforting and familiar figments of make-believe have vanished.

 I’ve never experienced a block before and find it both terrifying and strangely liberating. Being a writer is like waking up every morning for the rest of your life with homework to do. There’s always a chapter to be edited or a scene that needs tightening; a continuous mental itch to put down your thoughts that doesn’t ever get scratched or go away. To not feel that itch is as strange as cold-turkeying an addiction; like a smoker not being able to huff his first cigarette of the morning, or an alkie denied his early-afternoon sauce. I literally had restless tremors.

The first two days of my block was bearable, and my creative writing time was spent marketing my other novels (which is not necessarily a bad thing) and my usual marketing time was spent trying to find my creativity. Day three of my block was when I got scared. I spent two hours staring at the same page in front of me. My newest dystopian novel (the one I’d been averaging 1,500 words a day) was stuck on the glowing computer screen like a dead fish in mud.

Television and video games rarely exist in my life. Perhaps, that is the main reason I write. I’d rather create my own stories than watch someone else’s imagination unfold on the screen or become a pretend animated character in a programmer’s virtual reality game-world. I create my own virtual realities. I can disappear at will into a character of my own choosing and creation. That’s probably why I’m so sad that the ability went missing.

I find days without writing exceedingly long, believing hours have droned by only to realize the day isn’t even half over. I don’t know how normal, non-writers find enough stuff to do to fill the time (I know, those with kids are cursing me right now). Only after I’ve put in a good three or four hours of writing can I start my day feeling like I’ve accomplished something, and by then I’m racing against the clock to get my normal, human life activities done.

Happily, this morning I awoke with the tingles of creativity again sparking in my mind and the dreaded, creative dead-weight lifted. After four days of not “feeling it” my thoughts are again sharp, my worlds have returned, and my characters are speaking to me.

Stephen King describes the breaking-writer’s-block emotion best in his book ON WRITING. After years of drinking and drug addiction, Mr. King finally got sober, only to realize with this new sobriety he had lost his creativity. Finally, slowly, over a period of a few months, he found the beat again and the joy. He describes the feeling as this;

“I came back to it (writing) the way folks come back to a summer cottage after a long winter, checking first to make sure nothing has been stolen or broken during the cold season. Nothing had been. It was still all there, still all whole. Once the pipes were thawed out and the electricity was turned back on, everything worked fine.”

It’s time to continue with my novel.