Grace . . . and Will

Indeed, we all seek, and once in a great while, know that marvelous feeling of nailing it, of the stars aligning, of our slipping into the groove--or the more au courant, the flow--and finding le mot juste, spinning the ideal paragraph, or, even better, surmounting the challenge and knowing when to stop. 

The key is perseverance. Like perspiration.  Hmmmm, sounds a lot like that four letter word I threw out a few posts back, that word so many seem, Maynard G. Krebs-like, to fear, or just not to trust as the primary route to their writing goals.

W O R K

As in, toiling and pushing yourself to dredge up, hopefully and eventually, the best you can find deep within yourself and get it into words, to black on white.  And then more work to revise.  And revise again.

And yet, those pesky critters from myth keep trying to get our attention and claim--what the fuck?--responsibility!  Well, only when what we write turns out, momentarily at least, to be fairly good.  All that bad shit's ours, they blithely remind us through their absence.  Clever little bastards.

Sounds a bit convenient, doesn't it?  For both the writer and their invisible friends, perhaps?

So, now the word grace seeks somehow, with even higher-flung aspirations, maybe, to supplant those cartoon muses and their whimsical, unpronounceable names.  But there's a common thread:  Calliope and Terpsichore and Grace all dance, like sugar plum fairies, outside our heads, and, for me at least, can have zero claim on what I may write . . . the bad or the good.

Now, don't get me wrong.  I see grace in Mike's and others' words and I admire his seeking of the elusive palmed card.  But just to confirm Mike's point, and to make sure no one starts waving the censor and clanging bells and gazing skyward, what I see in his grace is a writer who pushes and--yes--works and works his craft and art until it yields, and from within, he opens himself and that grace spills out.

So not a fluttering muse or some otherwordly, magical anointing of grace from without, but simply, from within, with perseverance, the will.

Sci Fi Agonistes I

About two years ago, a young friend of my daughter asked me if I would write a science fiction story for a collection his new publishing company wanted to compile.  My overall focus had been historical fiction and, more recently, a collection of short stories about a pair of star crossed lovers and music and ambivalence.  While it had been a while since I'd read much (any!) science fiction, I realized that I really enjoyed movies of that genre and figured it could be a fun challenge to see what I could do.  So I said sure, why not!

The press told me they wanted "hard" science fiction and encouraged me to read some of the classic early stories and novels to get a feel for the genre.  Well, it turns out we didn't see eye to eye illustrations and style for the piece, so we've parted ways and I'll be looking to go Indie and put it out as an ebook when the time comes.

And so I got to work, mainly buying collections of classic stories and reading them on my Kindle and/or iBooks.  Wow, some wonderful stuff, several I'd read before, a long time ago in a galaxy far away, and I quickly realized that sci fi, while draped in the details of otherworldly places and times, was essentially making statements about the present and politics and society and the problems we face.

Duh!

Inspiration Versus Perspiration

Ah, inspiration versus perspiration, one of those age old arguments in the creative arts!  Sounds a bit like its cousin, pantsing versus planning, but that's for another day.  Yet, no matter which -spiration one applies, we've all found ourselves at the keyboard, fingers doing nothing more productive than cracking our knuckles, wondering if the dogs need to go out or, worse yet, glancing at our watch, thinking maybe it's time to weed the crabgrass beds or to make sure the microwave is still plugged in.  Anything to avoid the fact that all the damned muses seem to be on vacation.

The dreaded Writer's Block strikes again!

Blocked?  Really?  So how does that work?

As if my mind were burrowing in some creative tunnel and had come flush up against a jumble of logs and rocks and the bones of the long-dead, all unyielding against the blows of my sharpened quill, no matter how much energy I focused into each stroke? That fertile soil of the brilliant scene or evocative description so tantalizingly close, its aroma of worms and wetness teasing like the first taste of Proust's tea-soaked madeleine.  As if, could I but find that precious key, the rocks would shatter and the thing would tumble into place and I could sit back and admire my completed story, so lovely and, well, so easy once I got past that lump ofwhatever.  I swallow the madeleine and wait.

But somehow, that's just not the image that comes to mind at those times when I sit at the keyboard, fingers hovering, hoping the ice maker will kerchunk so I can hurry to count the fresh cubes.  Those muses, circling and winking and pointing at the ethereal solution to my story, yet clearly outside the true source of my story.  Outside my own conscious thought and my subconscious well of connections.

Isn't it, perhaps, not blocked, but, rather, empty?

Nothing fresh within, no path in sight.  Now who can I blame?

You really mean I have to work, to sweat, to find those goddamned offering envelopes again, and really use them in some organized and concerted way?  But how?  I mean, that has to be hard!

Shit.  Those damned muses were so convenient.  Shit.

Just Do it…with a little help from your friends

So now that I've said just do it, in the sense that no one can write your novel or story for you, or ever tell you precisely how to realize your dream, are there any tools and approaches we might explore to help us on that solitary trek?  As a late-comer to writing, I've made a few discoveries along the way and love to share them with writers at the early stages of their own art and craft.  Of course, we're all unique, so no single idea is a panacea.  For me, though, a sea change came when I attended my first week-long writing event, The Antioch Wrters' Conference in Yellow Springs, Ohio. 

As a fledgling writer, I had initially thrilled myself just by completing parseable sentences and paragraphs, and I basked in the glow of precious awards like "Gosh, this is good.  No, no, really, I mean it" from wife and daughters and the occasional friend.  More importantly, I viewed writing as a special form of magic and I approached it as if it were a gift from the fickle muses, meaning I found it convenient to interpret it a sin to attempt the miracle of creation when not directly inspired by a breathy whisper from the lips of Clio or Erato.  Of course, it also gave me a convenient excuse to hardly ever write.  After all, it can be tough to hear those whispers amidst one's noisier pursuits.  So, for two years I boasted the shiny badge of writer and talked about my project and researched and took notes and read books on writing and did very little of the actual Herculean task itself.

Then, finally, a genuine writer looked at my opening chapter and suggested I might try one of the summer writers' conferences to help me hone my craft and actually complete a novel.  I ended up spending an enchanted week in the aging hippie enclave of Yellow Springs and I reveled in the company of real, published authors.  A pair of truths I discovered that week: First, we all can only type a single word at a time; and second, most serious writers treat their writing as a job!  Yes, like work!  No lounging around, eating bonbons, waiting for Calliope to drop le mot juste into your yearning ear.  Work.  As in, conscious, planned, effort.  As in, very often, the drudgery of pushing yourself to draw up something--anything, almost--to put ink on paper (okay, figuratively for most of us) and keep the process going.  As in, for most writers, maintaining, god forbid, a routine of time and place and method, maybe even with goals!  Work!

Know what?  It--sorry--works!  More to follow . . .