09/03/00 -- Trying to find the Words
What started as a freewrite...
Okay, so I left my computer and decided I was
going to open my black velvet spiral bound blank book. I was going
to write whatever came into my head. A freewrite, but not
exactly. No topic. No qualms about stopping. No time
limit. Just write. And I decided that it was more of a journal
entry than anything else, so here y'go, have a look into what comes out
sometimes when I'm not thinking about it:
***
Do you know what it is like?
Looking at a blank page, knowing the words are inside of you somewhere, or
hoping they are, that they just need to be let out. Give them
flowing ink or twitching fingers on keyboard, an escape from the place
they live. Only they don't seem to want an escape. They want
to stay where they are, Teflon coated so nothing sticks to them, pristine,
unmarked by pink or paper or electrons. So how do you coax them
out? Entice them onto paper, onto the screen? Entice the right
ones, not the ones like this, like, "Why can't I fucking write
anything?" Like, "This is crap. Everything is
crap. Why do I bother?" How do you coax out the
"Once upon a time"? How do you entice characters to
perform the story in your head so you can capture it in words, can fix it
in place, make it more solid than the dream it is at this moment? A
dream of fruit sweetness, of strong chests and the taste of grapes apples strawberries,
the riot of insanity that washes down the bitterness of ask and smog that
clings to lips and tongue in a world that won't ever be but in this
dream. Sleeping dream, waking dream, hope and nightmare, a possibility
that screams to be, begs me to give birth to it, then runs away, hides
each time I try. And it isn't only the dream of goblins and angels
and waifs that eludes me, but every dream in my head, in my heart, in my
soul. Every nightmare. I can touch them for a moment, a
received heartbeat, and then they are gone, back to their hiding place, to
the spot just behind my eyes and a little to the right, the place I can't
quite see though I am quite aware of. They place they torment me
with because I know they are there laughing at me and living themselves
over and over again. They mock me by existing so elusively.
And repetitively. They play themselves like encores, like reruns,
familiar but distant, a television in another room that I cannot
control. Sometimes the volume blares so loudly I think I'll go deaf
and sometimes I catch only bits like the Goblins' temptation: the rustle
of leather and netting, the clink of glass. And I know what it means
and I want it as badly as Laura does. But something stands between
them and me. Something less tangible than broken walls, than ragged
asphalt, than Bet's hand. Something more insidious keeps them from
me, keeps me from them. Strong as Kale's chest, just as massive, as
intimidating, though not so attractive. I don't want to touch this
thing, don't want to lick it. I want to break it down, get past it, get it
out of my way so I'm closer to the words, so I can get to them. So
they can get to me.
Together, we can be something, make
something. We could be better than air or water or fire or
earth. We could melt the world and reform it, could destroy what is
and create what might be. We could be like a drug together,
intoxicating, sweeter than honey , stronger than wine. C'mon words,
the first time's free. All the cool kids are doing it. If you
don't like it, we never have to do it again. I promise.
***
So there you have it... My latest
lament about being unable to write what I want to write. Journal
entries? Sure, I can do that (when I think about it, when there's
something to write about). Freewriting? Yeah, I can do that,
too. Does anything come of it? Well, nothing has so far.
I have ideas. I have scads of
them. Nothing's coming out, though. I feel like I did before
Clarion. Like I'll be lucky if I manage two stories in the six weeks
I'm there. Only Clarion's over. And I wrote eight. And I
don't know why I can't write now.
Revising has become procrastination
for me. And that's just weird. I didn't like revising much
before Clarion. I'm still not so sure about it. But I'm doing
it. I'm doing it to procrastinate trying to write something new ...
Because I can't seem to write something new.
So tomorrow I'm going to try and
stay away from the computer for most of the day and just write by
hand. Whatever comes out. And if whatever comes out is more of
the self-indulgent angst bullshit I've got up there, fine.
Whatever. At least it's something coming out.