"I read about Stephen King... who's just this machine. So I thought I would do that. And so I get up at the crack of 9 AM, and then I kind of wander into my office and I put out my paper and my pen. And then I discover that I am in the kitchen making brownies, and I don't know how I get there."
- Diana Abu-Jaber
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Rain Today.
I wake up to a world of trees
Beyond my window
Their bare branches engulfed
In fog
Silent steady witnesses
Calling to me from another time
And place entirely
If you stop and listen
For a moment
They become who they truly are
Beyond my window
Their bare branches engulfed
In fog
Silent steady witnesses
Calling to me from another time
And place entirely
If you stop and listen
For a moment
They become who they truly are
Friday, February 5, 2010
Forest
I feel the forest in you when we touch, I see its deep green shadows living in your eyes.
Your skin smells like pine needles and fallen leaves, and when you sweat, you leave the sweet smell of sap behind.
I feel the forest in you, secret and wild, it’s there in your deep-rooted silence, skittish and holding all of your secrets deep inside of your chest.
There is a wild tang on your lips, the smell of wet earth on the palms of your bark-rough hands.
You stare at me, slowly stripping away your layers of formality, of illusions, until you stand naked in the cool air, green grass tickling at your feet. And then you turn and walk slowly home, alone.
Alone into this place where I will never be able to follow you.
Alone, with your heart stripped bare, your secrets carried away with the wind and picked up by birds.
The trees rustle welcome, the leaves hardly make a sound underneath your feet, and every day there is a golden Fall leaf sitting on my pillow.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Progress
I met my wonderful writer friend for coffee the other day (which I did not partake of, as I sadly have some very bad reactions to any amount of caffeine and even decaf coffee has more of the evil stuff in it than chocolate) and we discussed the usual things: writing, progress, entertainment, media, etc. She is currently writing a very funny sounding screenplay (which she just may hand over to me to edit--one of my most favorite activities in the world. I even constantly edit the books I read I'm that bad) which I am very excited to see. I love our conversations partly because we always end up discussing writing, which gives me an excuse to rant either joyously or woefully on the state of my own writing, which I take full advantage of.
This time my endless chatter was of the joyous sort. Because, you see, I am making progress. More progress than I have ever made on anything I have ever written in my life. When I first started this story (who knows how long ago that was...) I had not written anything in a good 5-7 years. For someone who considers herself inextricably attached and irrevocably in love with the written word, that is a long time. I had stopped writing because I was convinced that I could not write, that I was terrible at it and had no experience or knowledge to write about. I was completely convinced of this despite a very supportive friend who was three years older than me and a considerably better writer. I routinely printed off my current attempts at storytelling, marveling when they reached multiple pages, and handed them over to her for critiquing at youth group. She was so supportive, never had a bad thing to say about what I wrote, instead gently complimenting the few things that I was good at. Eventually I lost contact with her and I gave up writing. I remember the two disastrous attempts that finally convinced me that I was no good: A story about a runaway girl living in another girl's tree house unbeknownst to her parents which meandered around before it finally became painfully obvious that I had no plan and it was going nowhere, and an astoundingly long (for me) story called "Anything But Plain Jane," which was incongruously tragic and quirky in turns.
I can't remember at what point I began to give myself permission to even think about writing again, but I began keeping a notebook of ideas. I would write down titles and characters and plot lines that popped into my head, trying to suppress the instinct to squash them right away. At this point I was not actually even thinking about writing, just generating ideas for books that would be nice to read. And slowly but surely I began to get more ideas until I couldn't just leave them alone.
I'm not even sure how I got this idea, to write a rainy vampire novel focusing on our heroine's adventures within a rather large and gloomy library. How this image materialized in my mind, why i decided to pursue it in the first place. It's been interesting to explore the process of writing again. To see what others say about "how you should be doing it" and then promptly dismissing it. That's been one of the most liberating things of the whole project. People say that you should write a little every day, that you should persevere even when you're not inspired. Common sense tells me that if I've left it alone for three consecutive weeks I will never pick it up again. But instead I've learned to let it be and let the inspiration find me on its own. I avoid a lot of frustration and self-doubt by ignoring the whole damn thing until it comes and searches me out on its own. And surely enough, a scene will present itself. I get no inspiration from messing with and tweaking it, from trying to make it tell me where it's going, to make it go where I want it to go. If it went where I wanted it to go we'd all be in trouble.
In trying to write and actually finish a story I've learned the most valuable lesson about inspiration: Mine works differently from those writers who try to give you advice. It does not come from regular practice or little exercises. It comes from dreaming, from freeing my mind up to think about nonsense, to let it wander around picking up scraps of this and that and piece them together in odd combinations until it finds one that I can't let go of. And write everything down as soon as you think of it--for heaven's sake write it down! Don't listen to people who say that if it's good enough your mind will hold onto it, it's FOLLY!
I get the most interesting thoughts and inspirations from watching TV. Seems counter intuitive, doesn't it? But I get the greatest things from watching CSI and Criminal Minds. I love anything dark and scenes dealing with people and messy things give my mind plenty to chew over. Seeing a beautiful scene, how the lighting is just so, how that one line was delivered beautifully, how that one person reacted, gives me the most interesting things to think about. It makes me say, "What if..?" What if these two kinds of people came in contact, what then? What if a person was in this kind of situation? What if instead of getting angry, this character did this instead? The what ifs are the most productive thoughts my mind ever thinks.
And so here I am now, with a notebook full of scenes, a diagram of beginning, climax, and resolution (who thought I would ever do that?), and a stack of 32 note cards, most of which contain fully developed scenes, and another notebook stuffed with ideas. I have another story in line which I have slowly been developing in my mind and the idea of which is almost completely developed. I have a handful more of ideas, one line concepts that mostly consist of a relationship between two people. That's the stuff I love.
Another important lesson I've learned: Never let anyone read it while you're still writing it. Period. I implemented this one much to my sister's dismay. Too bad.
And that is where I am now. I couldn't be any happier with the way things are shaping up--and that's a first.
This time my endless chatter was of the joyous sort. Because, you see, I am making progress. More progress than I have ever made on anything I have ever written in my life. When I first started this story (who knows how long ago that was...) I had not written anything in a good 5-7 years. For someone who considers herself inextricably attached and irrevocably in love with the written word, that is a long time. I had stopped writing because I was convinced that I could not write, that I was terrible at it and had no experience or knowledge to write about. I was completely convinced of this despite a very supportive friend who was three years older than me and a considerably better writer. I routinely printed off my current attempts at storytelling, marveling when they reached multiple pages, and handed them over to her for critiquing at youth group. She was so supportive, never had a bad thing to say about what I wrote, instead gently complimenting the few things that I was good at. Eventually I lost contact with her and I gave up writing. I remember the two disastrous attempts that finally convinced me that I was no good: A story about a runaway girl living in another girl's tree house unbeknownst to her parents which meandered around before it finally became painfully obvious that I had no plan and it was going nowhere, and an astoundingly long (for me) story called "Anything But Plain Jane," which was incongruously tragic and quirky in turns.
I can't remember at what point I began to give myself permission to even think about writing again, but I began keeping a notebook of ideas. I would write down titles and characters and plot lines that popped into my head, trying to suppress the instinct to squash them right away. At this point I was not actually even thinking about writing, just generating ideas for books that would be nice to read. And slowly but surely I began to get more ideas until I couldn't just leave them alone.
I'm not even sure how I got this idea, to write a rainy vampire novel focusing on our heroine's adventures within a rather large and gloomy library. How this image materialized in my mind, why i decided to pursue it in the first place. It's been interesting to explore the process of writing again. To see what others say about "how you should be doing it" and then promptly dismissing it. That's been one of the most liberating things of the whole project. People say that you should write a little every day, that you should persevere even when you're not inspired. Common sense tells me that if I've left it alone for three consecutive weeks I will never pick it up again. But instead I've learned to let it be and let the inspiration find me on its own. I avoid a lot of frustration and self-doubt by ignoring the whole damn thing until it comes and searches me out on its own. And surely enough, a scene will present itself. I get no inspiration from messing with and tweaking it, from trying to make it tell me where it's going, to make it go where I want it to go. If it went where I wanted it to go we'd all be in trouble.
In trying to write and actually finish a story I've learned the most valuable lesson about inspiration: Mine works differently from those writers who try to give you advice. It does not come from regular practice or little exercises. It comes from dreaming, from freeing my mind up to think about nonsense, to let it wander around picking up scraps of this and that and piece them together in odd combinations until it finds one that I can't let go of. And write everything down as soon as you think of it--for heaven's sake write it down! Don't listen to people who say that if it's good enough your mind will hold onto it, it's FOLLY!
I get the most interesting thoughts and inspirations from watching TV. Seems counter intuitive, doesn't it? But I get the greatest things from watching CSI and Criminal Minds. I love anything dark and scenes dealing with people and messy things give my mind plenty to chew over. Seeing a beautiful scene, how the lighting is just so, how that one line was delivered beautifully, how that one person reacted, gives me the most interesting things to think about. It makes me say, "What if..?" What if these two kinds of people came in contact, what then? What if a person was in this kind of situation? What if instead of getting angry, this character did this instead? The what ifs are the most productive thoughts my mind ever thinks.
And so here I am now, with a notebook full of scenes, a diagram of beginning, climax, and resolution (who thought I would ever do that?), and a stack of 32 note cards, most of which contain fully developed scenes, and another notebook stuffed with ideas. I have another story in line which I have slowly been developing in my mind and the idea of which is almost completely developed. I have a handful more of ideas, one line concepts that mostly consist of a relationship between two people. That's the stuff I love.
Another important lesson I've learned: Never let anyone read it while you're still writing it. Period. I implemented this one much to my sister's dismay. Too bad.
And that is where I am now. I couldn't be any happier with the way things are shaping up--and that's a first.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Good NIGHT Girls!"
No one in the world can make me laugh like my sister. Absolutely no one. Every time one or the other isn't home for a couple of days my mother always comments on how quiet it is, how much she misses hearing us talking and laughing.
I've been dogsitting this week 45 minutes away and we were both getting a bit bored being alone so my sister came to visit. We went grocery shopping at 8:00 at night then hung out and made chocolate chip pancakes. It was getting late and she didn't feel like driving back home so she stayed over. We were trying to get comfortable in bed with a 120 lb spoiled dog in between us, which took quite a while, but we finally got settled and turned the light out. The two of us in the same room at night is trouble. It always has been, it always will be. We don't fight, we talk and laugh. When we were little my dad would have to come upstairs almost every night, his footsteps thumping heavily on the stairs, stopping in our door way to say, "Put your heads on your pillows, close your eyes, and go to sleep." After a few minutes of silence we would inevitably erupt in laughter and more talking, prompting him to bellow up the stairs, "Good night girls!"
That night was no exception. We talked a bit and then started to drift off to sleep until I said something funny (Who knows what it was), and that was it. "Do you remember the last time we dogsat Aurora and she we couldn't stop laughing and she was glaring at us because she wanted to go to sleep?" She asked. I actually didn't, but that prolonged the conversation.
She was mean and got a song stuck in my head, so I rolled over and asked, "Do your ears hang low?" Ask her that and she will have it in her head for days. It's priceless. Somehow after that it turned to writing and giving each other detailed accounts of how our collective projects have been going. After swapping ideas and debating plot lines it ran to books, specifically a book I'd been reading about an assassin and an inn.
"We should run an inn," I said. She replied that two sisters running an inn was cliched, and suggested that we have a bouncer to shake up the image. "A bouncer?!" I asked incredulously. She started giggling and tried to explain it in a way that didn't sound completely ridiculous. "He'd just be a guy to help with the luggage and occasionally intimidate the guests," She decided. By this time neither of us were anywhere near sleep, so we debated what type of house to get for the inn, which took a while--We never did agree on anything. then she yawned and demanded why I had to say anything funny in the first place, "I was just about to get to sleep!" she said. (What was it I said?)
She left the next afternoon after taking care of the animals food and water for me while I was glorying in a bed empty of other people and bratty dogs (Aurora was whining and stamping her foot outside the bathroom at that point), and we both went back to our own personal states of ennui without each other to break it up.
I've been dogsitting this week 45 minutes away and we were both getting a bit bored being alone so my sister came to visit. We went grocery shopping at 8:00 at night then hung out and made chocolate chip pancakes. It was getting late and she didn't feel like driving back home so she stayed over. We were trying to get comfortable in bed with a 120 lb spoiled dog in between us, which took quite a while, but we finally got settled and turned the light out. The two of us in the same room at night is trouble. It always has been, it always will be. We don't fight, we talk and laugh. When we were little my dad would have to come upstairs almost every night, his footsteps thumping heavily on the stairs, stopping in our door way to say, "Put your heads on your pillows, close your eyes, and go to sleep." After a few minutes of silence we would inevitably erupt in laughter and more talking, prompting him to bellow up the stairs, "Good night girls!"
That night was no exception. We talked a bit and then started to drift off to sleep until I said something funny (Who knows what it was), and that was it. "Do you remember the last time we dogsat Aurora and she we couldn't stop laughing and she was glaring at us because she wanted to go to sleep?" She asked. I actually didn't, but that prolonged the conversation.
She was mean and got a song stuck in my head, so I rolled over and asked, "Do your ears hang low?" Ask her that and she will have it in her head for days. It's priceless. Somehow after that it turned to writing and giving each other detailed accounts of how our collective projects have been going. After swapping ideas and debating plot lines it ran to books, specifically a book I'd been reading about an assassin and an inn.
"We should run an inn," I said. She replied that two sisters running an inn was cliched, and suggested that we have a bouncer to shake up the image. "A bouncer?!" I asked incredulously. She started giggling and tried to explain it in a way that didn't sound completely ridiculous. "He'd just be a guy to help with the luggage and occasionally intimidate the guests," She decided. By this time neither of us were anywhere near sleep, so we debated what type of house to get for the inn, which took a while--We never did agree on anything. then she yawned and demanded why I had to say anything funny in the first place, "I was just about to get to sleep!" she said. (What was it I said?)
She left the next afternoon after taking care of the animals food and water for me while I was glorying in a bed empty of other people and bratty dogs (Aurora was whining and stamping her foot outside the bathroom at that point), and we both went back to our own personal states of ennui without each other to break it up.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
