Hooplah.Org

Why can’t writing be as effortless as it used to be?

It’s not from lack of trying. I sit here, struggling with each word, as if there is some unspoken necessity that each sentence I write must be perfect. And I know I sound like a broken record, because this ALWAYS happens, and then I ALWAYS come here and complain about it – as if that does any good. It’s been like this for the past two years, and I’ve yet to figure out a way to overcome these obstacles. WHY is that? Why can’t I just WRITE like I used to – just doing it for the enjoyment of it? Or writing because I have something I NEED to say? I can’t say that I’ve ever been a writing genius, but at the same time, I know the writing quality I’m capable of, and it is SO much better than what I’ve been accomplishing.

I suppose this is what they mean when they say you should just write every day. It’s obvious advice, really, but it only poses another problem: What in the world can I write about that would help me move forward instead of being trapped in an endless quest of unobtainable perfection? I need to get in the habit of writing and “letting it flow,” but using my book as practice is only driving me insane. That approach obviously isn’t working. I need something else to practice on, and there’s only one alternative I can think of.

And that one alternative feels just as daunting as climbing Mt Everest.

Me and this journal haven’t seen eye to eye in years. Part of it is that I’ve grown out of it – this website represents who I was when I was 17, with all my arrogance and self importance and general teenage angst. It’s who I was when I was 19, when I orchestrated my own failure and I first began to realize that life wasn’t going to work out like I planned. It’s who I was in my early 20s, when I holed myself up in my home and played online games all day so I could ignore reality. This journal encompasses my faults, my fears, and my weaknesses, and I’ve done nothing but put it on display for the past 13 years (good GOD I’m getting old). This journal has NEVER been a good thing for me to have, and yet I’ve clung to it. Sometimes desperately, and I’ve yet to find the courage to let it go. Even now, I couldn’t completely turn my back on this if I tried.

So can I really travel down that road again? What point would there even be to it, when I can’t write about my job (don’t want to be fired) or my boyfriend (don’t want him going apeshit because I dare flung his name out in cyberspace – and believe me, I’ve been there before with my first college roommate, it’s not pretty)? What else is there in my life aside from my cats, food, and TV? It’s not like I have anything else interesting going on in my world, I don’t even really have friends, and writing vague posts on my thoughts and feelings has long since become stale after the past few years. How many more posts like this can I even stomach? How long would I have to endure it before I got my writing confidence back?

And do I even WANT to try and find out?

Sometimes I wonder if I made the right choices. I mean, that’s the question everyone asks themselves as they get older, right? What if I had done things differently? Taken that left instead of a right? Swallowed the Red Pill instead of the Blue Pill? What if I really would have liked what was was behind Door Number 1?

No matter what anyone says, they think about the “what if’s.” They mull over the possibilities of what their life could have been like. And anyone who says they don’t do it are, quite frankly, not telling the truth, although I can’t really blame them for it. Socially it’s a bit taboo to talk about such things, and the people of your present tend to have a nasty habit of taking personal offense to the mere thought of a past that MIGHT mean they wouldn’t be a part of your life today.

And what do I say to those people? You’re right. That’s totally why I like to think of where my life went wrong – to specifically factor you out of the equation. That’s why I’m confiding all of this in you, to make you feel bad. Not because you’re one of the few people in my life I trust enough to pour my heart out to, no. Not that because nothing will change no matter what I say, that my past will always be my past, and you’ll still be here and I’m glad that you are. Of course that’s not it. I’m here to insult you and ruin one of the few good things I have going in my life. Thanks for listening.

Now, I haven’t had the pleasure of enduring that conversation with anyone recently, but I have in the past, and it ironically falls into the category of “things I wish I had done differently.” It was definitely one of those “Wait, I take that back, I meant Door Number 1!” moments.

So what does all of this mean? It means I have no one to talk to right now. I’m sitting at my desk at work, struggling not to cry after being the target of insult after insult from someone I care deeply about, after being provided with a laundry list of reasons of why said person “doesn’t want to spend time with me,” and I’m left wondering where I went wrong. I mean, sure, I can openly admit that I’m a little more fucked up than the next person, but this? Feeling this way, again and again? Was it because of the left turn I made? Was Door Number 3 the wrong choice? Did I accidently piss in fate’s Cornflakes? Was I a hideously awful person in my past life? Or, worse yet, in THIS life?

I mean, seriously, not to be completely and totally depressing, but this whole life thing? Sometimes I don’t know why I bother. Judging by my track record, I’m obviously not cut out for this.

1 Red Pill to go, please.

Sometimes you’ve got to take matters into your own hands.

I had great plans for this morning. The weather is finally getting nice, lingering in the mid 80s, and I wanted to take advantage of the morning light by sitting out on the balcony with my laptop. So that I could finally write in peace, with no coworkers selling accounts in the background, no gaming banter through a vent server, or having the TV turned on at full blast right in front of me while I’m obviously trying to read and concentrate. No interruptions. Just me and my thoughts.

Instead, I woke up this morning to find that my lap top trey was already monopolized because a certain someone’s work is more important than my projects. He might make more money than me and everything, and it does really suck to work on a Saturday, but I was really looking forward to my morning writing escape. Like, waiting-for-it-all-week kind of looking forward to it.

Sure, I could go out there without a trey, balancing the laptop on my legs, but that would be extremely uncomfortable… and warm. Our apartment is east-facing, and a hot laptop in my lap would only make the Phoenix sun that much more scorching.

So, here’s where I take matters into my own hands. I grabbed my laptop, a TV try, and headed to the only other “room” in our small apartment – the bedroom. I’m currently sitting on the bed, indian-style, with the lap top in front of me and the door closed. Er, well, it was closed, until he peeked his head in to see what I was doing and then didn’t close it on his way out. Damnit. I think I’ll continue to sit here, if nothing than but on principle alone. At least I can’t hear the TV in here… that much.

This arrangement isn’t so bad, really. At least I can have the overhead fan. Air circulation is one of sweet the joys in life I don’t get to have very often.

I have been writing again. It’s been more than a year since I started to try to write my book, and after a valiant effort last spring, I eventually took a long hiatus during the summer and winter because I became so frustrated that… well, that I just couldn’t write very well. I tried and tried, and probably tried too hard, but no matter what I did I felt like I was only embarrassing myself. I knew I was trying to “wing it”, so to speak, having absolutely no writing background (except for this site), or even being that much of an avid reader myself. I knew that I’d be learning along the way, but it became more and more apparent that I wasn’t progressing. If anything, I was only perfecting my failure.

I never stopped thinking of my story, though. In the car, during idle minutes at work, while playing one of my silly computer games… the characters were alive in my head, still living their lives during the time that the book was to take place. My home down, present day, but set against my own memories of high school. It was all still there, and I never once stopped thinking of the possibilities of what could happen. I just had lost the motivation to actually write it all out.

Then, about four months ago, I started reading through the books in my minuscule library. I read through the Twilight series again, and all seven of the Harry Potter books. Partly because it was the holidays and it was seriously slow at work, and partly because I just wanted to see how other authors did it. These were books I loved, and I enjoyed reading them even for a second time (and a third time, in certain cases).

It’s not like writing a book seemed that hard to do, really – I like writing. I always have. So what is it that keeps stopping me? Why did I have to feel like I had to try so hard to write a book, even though I knew in doing so that I was killing my entire effort? Writing is best when it feels effortless, when it flows, but there I was, thinking I had to strain myself to a sweat in order to get the same results as these other authors. Why? Why couldn’t their ease and confidence rub off on me?

I began to read other books – the Vampire Academy series, especially – and these novels were a bit of an eye opener for me. They weren’t written in the same “voice” as the other books I had been reading. They were casual and downright snarky, which, when I thought about it, is exactly how I used to write in this journal. Years ago, when I didn’t really give a damn about what anyone thought of HOW I wrote but WHAT I had to say, back then, the writing flowed naturally. It certainly wasn’t perfect writing by any means, but it wasn’t a struggle. I wrote with my voice, not with the voice I thought others wanted me to have.

So, with that new found concept of “writing my way”, I started out slow… I began to carry around a notepad with me, jotting down ideas. I managed to flesh out my plot in a way that had been unreachable a year ago, and last week I finally began to type it out in story form. And I tried, I really did, and once again I found I was trying too hard. It’s like I would write through a few scenes, maybe half a chapter, and then I just could not continue without rereading what I had just wrote… and I would begin edit, edit, and edit some more, to the point where I was hating everything again and wondering why I bothered. Why did I keep doing this? Why did I seem so dead set on sabotaging myself?

I had only been trying for a week and I was at the end of my rope again, ready to take another 6+ month break to lick the wounds on my confidence, when I forwarded a 3 page sample of my writing to my dear friend Sandy. She was supportive, as always, and it did make me hopeful. She wouldn’t lie to me, I knew, but why couldn’t I see it the same way she did? What was wrong with my perspective?

I began reading articles on writing, but they weren’t really helping. And that’s not to say that the information was bad, or that the people were misinformed – that certainly wasn’t the problem. It’s just that, as with most everything I’m interested in, all the tips and tricks I was reading seemed like common sense to me. I mean, really, there are people who don’t know how to develop a character? Or how to write an outline? I mean, sure, I was reading these articles looking for advise, but they weren’t telling me anything that I couldn’t have figured out for myself. None of them were giving me the answers I needed, and I supposed that’s because I didn’t know what question I needed to ask.

Then, yesterday morning, I was reading yet another article on how to write a fantasy novel. I happened to like the author of this guide a little more than the others, mostly because I have been using his software (yWriter) for the past year. His advise wasn’t any different than the next guy’s, really, but it was interesting to see his take on it.

Just when I had had my fill and was about to move on to the next article on my list, I stumbled across this section, half way down the page:

“Keep writing! Don’t get too attached to a particular story or to your very first novel. Trust me, however good it is your writing will continue to improve the more you produce. They reckon you have to write a million words of fiction before all the pieces fall into place. How much have you done?“

And I stopped. That was a pretty good question – how much writing have I done? Fiction or not, where did I think the numbers were? I thought of this website, I thought of all the poetry I wrote years ago, the few short stories, and my efforts toward my novel last year… and good god, I’ve written alot. Millions upon millions of words, all out of the joy of just writing to write. Fiction or not, that has to count or something, right?

And I supposed it did, because with that mindset, I sat down and wrote nearly 3000 words yesterday. And best of all, it’s the beginning of the first chapter, the introduction to my story, and writing that has been the bane of my existence for the last year. I had so many ideas in my head, but without a starting point, they seemed lost. Now it feels like it might all click into place.

I allowed myself ONE edit last night, and that’s all I’m going to do. From now on, it’s on and upwards. I’ll finally take some of that common sense advise and write first, edit later. I just need to get this story out of my head before I go insane, and THEN working on editing. I can do this. I’ve written millions of words before – a 100,000 more should be a piece of delicious I-told-you-I-could-do-it cake.

Today was… frustrating.

Over the course of the past four months, it seems as though I now have a different job than what I had six months ago. However, this isn’t the result of anything that actually changed for me. This is all the result of positive things that happened to other people, like my coworkers getting promotions and a new hire joining our department. During all of the shuffle and confusion, it seems that no one noticed that I was trampled underfoot. Well, no one other than me, I should say.

I know that these things sometimes happen without intention. Today I had the opportunity to speak my mind on the issue, and I did so quite frankly, and I appreciate that the managers of my department took the time out of their day to listen to my concerns.

However, for me to be told that nothing can change, and that I need to find a way to make the current situation work, is not ok. I understand that my managers might not have a choice in telling me this, that this may be the best they can do for me right now, but unfortunately that answer is not ok for me.

So, that leaves the obvious question: “what should I next?” At first it didn’t feel like I had alot of choices available to me. I’m not a fan of job hopping, and if I had to be honset, I really had envisioned myself building a career at this company. I could forsee myself planting roots and I had a pretty good feeling about the direction I wanted to go. The idea of going from that to peddling my resume around again isn’t very unappealing. This is probably because I have never really had a “corporate mindset,” and over the past few months I have become more and more skeptical that this is really what I should be doing my life. I mean, sure, I enjoy Data Entry – but is this really something I can do forever?

Today, I was given a very clear answer to that question. Apparently, by either my own choice or someone else’s, the answer is no.

So, after careful thought, I have decided to start saving my money. I always say I’m going to do that, but this time I mean it – because when I finally do finish my book, I will get an agent. And when I get an agent, I will get published. And once I am published I should have a reasonable idea of whether or not I will be able to embark on my new career: being a full time writer. I feel pretty confident that I can do it – I just happen to have a long, grueling road ahead of me.

I will use my experience today as motivation to push myself forward. I am more valuable than to simply be told that I “must find a way” to make a miserable situation work, and I will prove it.

It’s time to pull up Open Office and put my money where my mouth is… quite literally.

While waiting at stoplights I keep catching myself gazing in vapid disbelief at the current price of gas. I had thought that I would never see gas be cheaper than $2 a gallon again, and I think the fact that it has continued to fall well into the current $1.80 range is messing with my perception of reality in a really ridiculous way. I pass three or more gas stations during my five minute drive to work and each time that the price catches my attention I have the same moment of “WTF?”, in the “what year is it again?” sort of way, accompanied a fleeting desire to pull over right then and fill up my tank because tomorrow it just might be $3.50 a gallon again. Because that could totally happen. Totally.

For as bad as my memory is, I still have very vivid memories of the time I finally started to pay attention to the price of gas. While I drove my family’s 93 Chevy S10 during my senior year of high school, my father was the one who took care of the general maintenance of the vehicle – including keeping the tank full at all times. It wasn’t until I was away at Radford University and my two close friends, Michelle and Dave, both had vehicles to maintain and budget for with their own money that it became something that I actually had a conversation about it with another person. My first year of college was also the same year that 9/11 happened, which is exactly why I finally started to take note of the price – as after the towers were hit the amount per gallon started to legitimately climb for the first time in almost 20 years.

I specifically remember a time when Dave and I were about to take a somewhat usual trip to Blackburg, in order to pick up Nadia from Virginia Tech for the weekend, and hearing Dave grumble and bitch about how the price had shot up to $1.68 and the following 20 minute conversation about how fucked up that was. In a lot of ways, my recent reality check over something as simple as the price of gas is tied directly to that memory. It has more to do with that time of my life than it does with something as relatively insignificant as how much it costs me to put gas in my car, and it’s making my thoughts dwell on a lot of things that usually stay blissfully forgotten.

I could do without seeing the price drop to $1.68.