Quote # 1 – Sylvia Plath

Being born a woman is an awful tragedy. Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars—to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording—all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and their lives is often misconstrued as a desire to seduce them, or as an invitation to intimacy. Yet, God, I want to talk to everybody I can as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.
– Sylvia Plath

Creating Gibberish Almost Instantly

I’m still trying to figure out how people do it? How do they sit down and write stories? Because I’ve been sitting down and writing gibberish or nothing at all. Nothing is not my goal so it’s mostly gibberish.

Lately I have been trying to think about what I want to write and I can’t seem to make up my mind. Fantasy or Literary Fiction? Maybe I should skip down the Science Fiction road. Sigh. I love to fantasize about the future but am filled with anxiety from the pass. All this, I believe, may answer my next question, what is causing this writers block? I have dug deep and found it’s probably my fear of failure. (Ah, my oldest friend. How have you been?) I think that could be the thing stopping me from forming ideas, thinking. Living in my head is the worst thing I can do right now so I will try to make something live on the page. I just keep hoping if I keep writing gibberish something will spark and catch fire. Here I go again. Hope it’s not the ever present clique. Lets see what my stumbling fingers create today.

Inner Struggles of a Writer

People, I think I’m in a writing slump. I wouldn’t say I am suffering from writer’s block because I am still writing. I say slump because I sit down to write and nothing satisfying happens. I expect some goals to be accomplished but story idea productivity has become stagnant and frustration has followed.

I know I’ve been too hard on myself. With extra time to write I expected more work and have been creating less. My goals are too ambitious. With the extra time I expected a story to bloom on a page the moment I started writing regularly again and take shape, after editing, into a beautiful completed piece of writing. It hasn’t happen that way. The stories seem to stall soon after I’ve started. I’ve been trying to outline some work but struggle. To make good use of my time and not feel like an unproductive moocher, recently I’ve been editing an old piece from college. I’m not crazy about it. I have voices in my head that tell me, something doesn’t sit right, this piece will define my writing style, and this is not the kind of work I want to be defined by.

Okay Brain, shhhhh.

It’s time to just write. Even if it’s an edit, I’m writing. Just finish the story. Finish any story! Nothing saying this narrative will ever be publish but I must keep working. Not every morsel of fiction is meant for publishing. I do believe writing more will awaken my sleepy imagination. Got to stop this head of mind from mucking up my creative process. I must focus on a small task I can accomplish and use that positive energy to push through these anxieties. I know it’s not easy. Making mistakes is a part of the writing process but giving up is the worst failure of all.

Writing slump, come at me, because I’m pushing through.

Just Maybe…

I dream up scenarios. I can’t help it! I like to live in my head and image a likely, positive (sometimes negative) direction with small life events. I guess I’m an optimism but this is why I see myself as a storyteller. I just need to fine a way to take these thoughts and put them down on paper where they can be a short story or pieces of fiction. That is the hard part.

I’ve written a few words here and there and nothing seems to come to completion. I write 500 words and the next day I realize I don’t know where I’m going with the piece but I write maybe another 200 and stop. The struggle is real and completely my fault. I don’t know if I should keep writing and see if an idea will present itself or if I should try to outline a story for more direction. Could work for the better except what is that story line. I guess until I figure it out I’ll keep tip tapping away. Who knows, a scenario can pop up and turn into something. The thing I hope to learn is, how to find a story? I keep trying, struggling, and failing.

I keep pushing myself to write everyday. I mean I know this is what other authors did but when did they realize a piece was something to work on and edit. Just have to keep writing and hope to have those answers in the future. Hopefully, sooner better than later.

Spring Cleaning

Yesterday, I cleaned my desk. This was very important because it was my writing desk. I dug out all the papers and notebooks I had stuffed into every shelf and draw. It was rewarding throwing away things I don’t remember why I was keeping but a small stack of papers has found a place on the far corner of my desk. Now I have the task of what to do with all the little scribbles on tiny pieces of papers. What I thought, at the time of writing, were scraps of genus. Should I read through and transcribe them onto a computer in an archive file or should I throw them all out without ever looking? True, I don’t think I could just toss these papers without a peak. They were the sneaked writing I accomplished while at work or the quick scribble on the train. The words meant so much at the time that I had to get it down somewhere, anywhere, no matter the consequence.

The notebooks are another story. More then one story. Stories I started but never finished. One has long scenes written out. A notebook full of writing advice I found over the years and recorded to encourage, give guidance, and inspire me to write. Notebooks full of more random scratches. Pages of one line.

I have always struggled with throwing things I no longer need away. But I’ve been trashing, donating, and organizing more often. Maybe it’s the small space and the overwhelming feeling of too much. Stress, work, and planning. Even the simple pleasure of reading has become immense.

Even with what’s left of the few notebooks and scattered papers I know I already fill better about my space. I remember where I rather spend my energy. Writing.

Story from a Bookstore Employee 2

A man was using a store stool to reach the top shelf of the magazine section.

Me: “Excuse me sir, but you can not use the stool.”

Customer: *Stays on stool looking at magazines* “Why?”

Me: “It’s a safety issue. You could hurt yourself”

Customer: *Still on stool.* “Well, I can’t reach the top shelf of the magazines. I don’t understand how am I to reach them.” *Starts getting really huffy*

Me: “I can get any magazine you need but you can’t be on the stool. It does say on the stool for store use only. *I point to the sign on the stool* You will need to get down.”

Customer: *Still on stool.* “You know what this is discrimination! You’re discriminating against me because I’m short!”

Customer, realizing I’m not going away, steps off the stool and he is taller than me. He was only a few inches taller than me but it was noticeable. This is also where he won’t directly look at me any longer. It took everything I had not to say to this man, “Oh, you’re taller than me!” At least he got off the stool so I tell him he can speak to a manager if he is still upset but he says no he doesn’t want a manager. I had to get away from him. He left soon after that buying the tall people magazines.

I don’t know how much longer I can work in retail.

 

Just Write!

I’ve lost my writing schedule rhythm but I’m fighting to get it back. My changing work schedule and life are keeping me from pen and paper. I know I need to write more often in order to improve but I can’t seem to find the time or energy to motivate myself. When I do write, my new enemy is hesitation. Even now as I write this I am having trouble finding the thoughts I want to record and share. There is a struggle to not delete but I do because all of it doesn’t seem to sound right. Of course, I expect to struggle and fight to find time and subjects to write about. My brain is a dried ball on a pen. The pen is not empty. Oh, no. All I need is rapid scribbling to help the ink seep out once again. Until then I will often cringe and pause knowing this feeling will pass the more often I write. No matter the mental brawl, I will just write.