Khaki F. Dog

Yowza, the time does fly! About a year ago I wrote a series of posts on the topic of the Not Writer which was quite well-received, and since I’d just bought a decent condenser microphone on a super cool hinge arm over my desk I immediately set about recording that seven-part series, edited it together… and, well, kind of forgot about it after that.

For your enjoyment, here’s the full 30-minute reading of The Not Writer!

I’ve been quite unfair, in this series (of which this installment is the last) in sketching a Jekyll & Hyde scenario of the Writer vs the Not Writer, because we’re all a bit of both. At different times, for different reasons. There’s a sliding scale between one and the other, see. The goal of these articles is to make you reflect, honestly and fairly and without emotional burden, where on the scale you fall, and whether you’re comfortable with that, and what is required from you to change your position.

How many hours do you spend writing in a given week? A given month? How many words do you write in those hours? Would you want to spend more hours writing, and write more words during them?

Why do you want that?<!—more—>

There’s nothing wrong with being a Dabbler, who cranks out the odd snippet of story of a blue Monday for the lark of it, nothing at all. A Dabbler is a Writer when he Dabbles and a Not Writer when he Doesn’t — but still a Writer some of the time, and isn’t that a fine thing to be? The problem is when a Dabbler dreams himself a Novelist and finds that his habits won’t produce a novel in a realistic time-frame and of satisfying quality.

So what should he change: his habits or his goals?

Most of us wouldn’t mind firm pecs and visible abs, or a wasp-waist and perky boobs (and in some cases, curiously, both) and almost all of us could have that if we ate what the books told us to eat and nothing else and spent an hour at the gym really working ourselves to the bone every day for three years. Some of us do it, and some of us don’t. We look at the dream, assess the value it has for us, then look at the actions required to attain it and the effort they cost us, and we compromise. We all have lots of different dreams, after all, so is this one worth that much effort?

We can’t write all the time, we’d never get anything else done. Every prophet in his house, to each its season, and all that malarkey. Now is the time to do the dishes, now is the time to study, and now is the time simply to snooze and relax for a bit. There are only so many hours in the day and we must each decide how ours are best spent.

We have obligations, voluntary and necessary, financial and familial, that require us to commit a great number of those hours. Such is the way of adult life, but even then, the responsibility to mediate between commitments and liberties is entirely ours. And it’s up to us to define the value of time, as well.

Is twenty minutes’ standing commute to work in the morning a time when I can write? And on the way home? Can I get in the writing groove if I know I can be interrupted at any second? If my muse fails me, should I just leave her to rest for a few weeks or months until she loves me again?

I’ve made fun of these questions, but they bear serious thought. If you only write sporadically, can you fulfill your dream of having A Novel published? Not likely, mate, but that isn’t the end of the world.

If the circumstances of your life, your preferences, your habits and your values don’t permit you to invest the time and energy to write a novel or to become a prolific short-fiction creator, then you really, really need to chill the fuck out. You don’t have to stop writing altogether, just don’t burden yourself with such expectations. Writers’ block: same deal. If your wheels are stuck and skidding in a snowdrift, take her down into lower gear and ease back on the road. You’ll feel better, and who knows, that might be just the thing to help you get back on the highway to novelizing.

However…

If your goal means a lot to you, and you don’t want to quit, then you’d best get out and run on your own two feet, no matter the cold and ice and bears. Confront the Not Writer in you and tell him he needs to watch his fucking step — or else. Practice discipline. Figure out ways to use the dead time in your day for writing, block out a half-hour every day (and more on weekends) to do some writing, and don’t ever tolerate any excuses from anyone, least of all yourself.

You’re exhausted? Tough shit, bitch. Go write the story of your exhaustion, even if it’s only a page or so. Your sister’s getting married? You’d best get up an hour earlier then, you maggot, if you want to get some writing done today. Forgot your laptop, and is your cellphone out of juice? Order a cup of coffee and ask the waitress or bus-boy if you could have a few pages from their notebook and a Bic pen. Watch them flush with excitement when you tell them you’re a Writer, and see their eyes sparkle as you instantly become 15% more attractive — and believe you me, that’s a SCIENTIFIC FACT.

Every day is a battlefield between the part of you that is a Writer and the part that is a Not Writer, every day a fresh conflict. If you let the Not Writer win too many battles, you’re a Not Writer. If you hold your own, you’re a Dabbler — but if you can look yourself in the mirror in the morning and know, honestly, that the Writer won the battle yesterday and the day before and will almost certainly win today and tomorrow as well, then baby, you’re doing it right, and you know what you are.

And sooner or later you’re going to find that you love it.

Not just the satisfaction of having the words just flow when the spirit moves you. Not just the thrill of finishing a piece and sharing it with others, tittering on tenterhooks while you wait impatiently for their praise. Not just the egoboo of mentioning offhandedly to a stranger at a party that you’re a Writer (and gain +15 in charisma, as I mentioned). You’ll love all of it.

The exercise of your intellect and imagination to craft the next scene of your story despite the fact that your muse has fled you. The strength you must muster to stave off sleep just twenty minutes so you can wrap up a juicy dialogue. Your ingenuity and fortitude, thumbtyping your magnum opus as you cling for dear life to a handrail in a derailing train and hit ‘send’ just as it careens, screeching, into the depths of oblivion so that even when the phone is smashed and your bones are pulped you can still pick your story right up where you left off as soon as your new Cyber-limbs have been grafted onto your brutalized, barely-sentient thorax.

There’s no shame in having a few pounds ‘round the tum you could stand to lose, none whatsoever, just don’t expect people to swoon over you when you flex your unseemly bulges in public. There’s no shame in Dabbling for the fun of it, just don’t torment yourself with the illusion that you’ll crank out a novel when you ‘get a little more time’ or ‘figure out the trick of it’. There’s no get-fit-quick pill, and there’s no magic bullet for your inspiration.

This concludes this series on the Not Writer. Good luck, soldiers!

- Alex Fucking Vance

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Like many authors, Roald Dahl had a special space in which he did his writing. Dahl’s cluttered and dilapidated hut bears all the hallmarks of such spaces: privacy, comfort and focus.

One problem with a creative mind, to put it diplomatically, is that it is a problem-solving machine which is very difficult to selectively turn off. Many of the interruptions we suffer while writing occur when we encounter unrelated problems that require attention. Another, more significant problem with a creative mind is that it requires a certain levity and chaos, making us easily distracted.

For both these reasons there’s a lot to be said in favor of a special, personal space, if your living situation allows it. The other members of your household should ideally respect your ownership of your Hut and agree not to disturb you when you’re in it, and you in turn should only go there if you truly intend to write, rather than abusing the privilege of privacy simply to avoid dealing with the monstrous people in your hizzouse. Not meaning to be sexist, males in particular seem to benefit from this practice, no doubt an evolutionary spandrel related to territoriality.

Even without a physical space, many writers still create virtual ones that offer similar clarity and focus. A separate user account on your computer which has no shortcuts to instant messaging software, no bookmarks and no files cluttering your desktop, for instance, is a good way to differentiate your ‘writing time’ from your ‘my life is a disheartening maelstrom of desperate chaos’ time.

For all the benefits of having a real or virtual writing space, there’s a commensurate drawback: you can’t always use your Hut when you really, really want to write.

While a Hut can certainly help you be a Writer while you have access to it, you might inadvertently create another opportunity to be a Not Writer whenever you’re away from it, and for understandable reasons. You have an idea you’re dying to deploy, but it’d be so much easier and better to deploy it when you’re back in your Hut. Your notes and drafts are there, after all.

Up with this we shall not put!

You’ll do yourself a service by using your creative, problem-solving brain to consider, truthfully, whether you’d really benefit much from a Hut. How many hours a week could you realistically use it? How much time do you spend in your home? How much of that time can you really spend on yourself without impacting your domestic responsibilities? How much time do you spend traveling or visiting friends?

The 20th century saw the greatest increase of individual mobility in our species’ history, and much of our technological evolution in the last two decades can be described as an effort to compensate for that. Web-based e-mail and messaging services, cell phones and myriad other innovations all try to bring to life the dream of doing anything “anytime, anywhere”, and they don’t cost an arm and a leg any more.

Brooklyn novelist Peter Brett wrote 100 000 words of his novel over two years’ daily commute on the F line. If your phone supports e-mail (and has a reasonable data plan) you can write chunks of a story in e-mails to yourself, or if it has a proper data connection and web browser you could use Google Docs, both of which you can access from any computer with an internet connection.

Evernote is a massively useful weapon in the modern e-writer’s arsenal as it offers powerful and flexible note-taking and editing software on a range of platforms, including cell phones and the web. The iPhone app, for instance, allows you to create text or voice notes, take pictures, and sync them directly with your account — even with your GPS co-ordinates recorded, if you so choose.

For the old-school among us, the Moleskine notebook continues to enjoy love and loyalty from its adherents and, while the fanaticism is sometimes quite excessive, it’s not entirely misplaced. Sturdy hard covers, rounded corners, an elastic band to keep it closed and small-signature binding so that when the notebook is opened it lays flat — these are details that make the Moleskine a very practical ‘device’ for writing away from home.

Your Hut doesn’t have to be a place, it can be a device, a system, a workflow. A sturdy notebook that fits comfortably in your pocket (be sure to ask the store clerk’s permission before ‘trying out’ any of the notebooks they’re selling, or you’ll be in trouble). A cheap second-hand PDA or a smartphone with a good data plan and software that lets you keep your in-progress projects up to date everywhere with the least possible manual intervention.

Build a Hut you can take with you, and most importantly, develop a routine that makes your Hut work for you!

next up: Parting is such sweet sorrow…

I’m a New Media guy, and as such I’m heavily biased in matters digital. I feel that in the 21st century, in which a common telephone can have enough storage capacity to contain all the text in even the greatest public libraries on Earth, when you can have Internet access every moment of the day, when you can search through the totality of the datasphere in seconds, there’s no reason at all why any text should ever be deleted.

When someone tells me “I couldn’t make this story work, so I deleted it,” I see fucking RED. Well, a little red. Carmine, I think, or somewhere between scarlet and vermilion.

This rage isn’t even aimed at the Not Writer specifically, I know plenty of Writers who do it, and they shouldn’t. Modern word-processing software, on the desktop and on-line, offers ‘versioning’ technology that allow easy roll-back of changes so that any section you removed can still be retrieved. With that in mind, it’s actually more effort to permanently erase something than to simply store it somewhere out of sight and mind. So why do so many still insist on erasing material that doesn’t please them?<!—more—>

The habit, I believe, stems from a desire for purity, a loathing of pollution. The Not Writer feels this more keenly than a Writer — in fact, the Not Writer believes that this very trait, this particular brand of perfectionism, is what makes him a writer.

Not so, says I.

We would all love for our every written word to be a work of genius, for our every keystroke to contribute toward le mot juste, and the Writer, often, takes pains to maintain this illusion outwardly at least. But he knows, in his heart, that he’s a liar. He knows that his studio isn’t a pristine collection of magnificent canvases in a clean, airy space, but rather a dingy attic crammed with splotched and ruined scraps of sketchbook paper and cardboard and spiders.

There are no shortcuts, there is no straight path from a blank page to a brilliant story. There’s an explosion of prose (an ‘exprosion’, as the Yellow Menace call it), after which the Writer steels his nerves and hacks away at this jungle with a blunt machete and a bloodthirsty rage. The Writer rinses and repeats.

This is another crucial difference between a Writer and a Not Writer: the Writer knows that he’ll have to write ten words for every one that finally goes out. Outlines, notes, revisions, excisements — none of these increase the word count, some of them actually diminish it, but all of them contribute, ultimately, to the quality of the work.

And what do you do with the offal? The machete-clippings and other trash? Into the furnace, say some, so you can keep your workspace clean — bollocks to that, says I! Keep it. Tuck it away somewhere out of sight, sweep it under the carpet, just be sure you can find it if you need it.

I used to keep a folder on my computer (now synced online, natch) that I called the Mortuary. All my unfinished, hopeless story snippets, excised chapters, rejected character outlines and sci-fi tech ideas went in there. No organization, no systematic filenames, just a big roughly chronological jumble of files that I could, if needed, search through to remind myself of one idea I’d once had that I might actually be able to use now.

Stupendous is the number of plot points, characters, names and even whole paragraphs that I cannibalized from previously-discarded ‘waste’. It’s magnificent! Free creativity, and nobody can accuse me of plagiarism — unless a vengeful Past Alex travels forward through time to sue me, of course. But his passport would be out of date, and under Dutch law I could therefore have him executed, so that’s not too big a deal either.

So there’s your contradictory perspective on words, to Not Writers and Writers alike. Like the Cybermen, the credo must be ‘delete-delete-delete’ to pare down your sprawling exprosion to a decent, tight little story — but the definition of ‘delete’ must include ‘save somewhere’. There’s no such thing as writing too much, you can always revise and remove, and the waste stands a good chance of being usefully recycled some day.

next up: sometimes you wanna go…

“I have it all worked out in my head.”

This is where the divide between Not Writers and Writers is thinnest: Story Ideas.

Creativity, at its core, is a misnomer. We don’t actually create anything new, because we’re not capable of inventing anything we don’t already comprehend: we can’t conceive of something we can’t conceive of. The actual definition of creativity, as we use it day to day, has more to do with synthesis. Scientists and artists alike innovate by making connections that others haven’t thought of, and practice brilliance by figuring out how those connections really work.<!—more—>

A story idea is just that; you bundle up a bunch of stuff you already know (types of people, events, technology, politics, dramatic constructs) and realize that particular bundle feels really, really juicy. If you’re into sci-fi, maybe you’ve conceived of a perspective on FTL- or time-tavel nobody else has done before. If you’re into melodrama, maybe you’ve hit on a particularly poignant emotional crisis and if you’re a mystery writer, maybe you’ve put together an especially stupefying murder plot.

That’s what gets our ‘creative’ juices flowing. We feel the vibrations coming off this bundle of concepts, we marvel at the gleam of the interconnecting lattice, the whole thing thrums with potential and it’s a thrill to refine and crystallize that rough rock into the jewel we know is in there.

For the Not Writer, that’s all too often where the process ends.

Endless cycles of thought and imagination, talking about it to one’s Inner Circle, but nothing goes to paper. And it’s easy to unerstand why; you feel an obligation to produce a product that’s worthy of the potential you know the idea has. You want it to be as good as it can be, so you don’t want to write it any less than that.

Which of course means that you spend all your time Not Writing it.

The sad reality is that most of these bundles of inspiration are quite hollow, once you try to pick them apart. Like the many other disappointments of a grown-up’s life, nobody enjoys confronting this when it happens to them, but the Not Writer shies away from that confrontation by staying within the comfort zone of the Idea Phase. The less you put to paper, the better it looks in your mind’s eye.

The Writer knows the pain of this confrontation, but bears it stoically, and keeps his tears at bay. He knows that it may be hard, but it brings rewards, and he maintains a positive attitude toward the disappointment. Recognizing the flaws and inadequacies of the idea, after all, is the first step toward fixing them and improving the story, or recognizing that the cost/benefit ratio is such that the idea isn’t worth the time.

If you have an idea, write it out!

In synopsis form at first, as a stream-of-consciousness, then break it down into a loosely structured set of notes or dive write in and start penning the first chapter in draft form. In the process you’ll feel the excitement and power of the parts that have real value, and also the tinge of inadequacy of the parts that are too weak, too thin. With enough experience, you’ll realize what you need in order to bolster the weaker aspects or, worst comes to worst, that the idea lacks so much that there’s no story to be made of it in this form.

I love talking about ideas as much as the next guy and very often I’m a Not Writer, overindulging in the idea phase, postponing the outlining and actual writing as long as possible and justifying it to myself by saying that I’m letting the idea percolate and mature in my mind. Often that’s true, often it’s not, and often it takes me far too long to realize the difference.

When someone tells me their idea for a story, that’s wonderful. It’s lots of fun to explore a new concept, but unless I know they’ve a reputation for productivity, I tend to take statements like “This story can easily span three novels, when I write it all out,” with a grain of salt.

It’s a painful thing to see that a great idea looks like shit once it hits the page, but an idea in your head is no use to anybody else, and while that may satisfy a Not Writer, a Writer has to produce a real story every now and again.

- Alex F. Vance

“I have this cool idea for a story, but I won’t have time to write it until after finals.”

This is a perfectly legitimate thing to say if finals are next week, but not if they’re in five months. Stress, health problems, uncertainty at work or at home, children — all of these are legitimate distractions that require careful, prolonged attention and consequently prevent long, solid, intense investments in writing, that’s absolutely true.

But there’s more to writing than just those intense, satisfying, all-else-by-the-wayside engagements that make us feel like consummate creative titans.

A working adult has very few opportunities to spend four hours at a time doing anything without distractions. There’s chores and shopping, there’s a day job or study, there’s social activities and an endless, structural cycle of little distractions. And there’s a predictable incidence of conjunctural distractions as well. Illness, accidents to one’s person or property, unexpected changes in employment or home situation — and anything that can happen to you can happen to your friends or relatives, which may also impact the stability of your daily life substantially.<!—more—>

The Not Writer doesn’t feel that he or she can perform under those conditions, and believes it best to wait till they’re resolved. In fact, though they’d never articulate this even to themselves, it’s almost as if Not Writers feel that writing a little bit under those conditions will actually inhibit their ability to do the inspired binge-writing they see as an ideal.

Like writer’s block, many of these excuses are indeed legitimate. Again, serious, unexpected life changes or tragedy near to the heart have tremendous effect on our emotional state and our ability to function, and we’re all responsible for making our own priorities.

But rare is the circumstance that prohibits us from feeding ourselves, or bathing, or dressing. We take walks, drive, read, watch TV, play games, hang out with friends — often in short intervals, true, but those are things we rarely neglect no matter what else is going on in our lives.

To the Writer, writing is like bathing or cooking. The Writer doesn’t often put it off entirely; when times are hard and stress is high, the Writer writes a little less per day or week, but rarely nothing.

The surest way to realize whether you’re being a Not Writer is hearing yourself say “I don’t have time to write.” If you have time to say that, you have time to write.

Doesn’t have to be a masterpiece, doesn’t have to be part of the Epic Ten-Novel Saga you’re ‘working on’. A quick domestic scene, a little joke, a tragic monologue… there’s always something in your mind that you can write and there’s always a moment to do it in.

Institutionalize the habit of writing, ingrain it in your daily activities as you do eating, bathing, and masturbating. As little as a hundred words a day nets you a novella in a year — and when the stars align and the spirit moves you, you can still binge-write a couple grand of brilliant prose.

- Alex F. Vance

Imagine the scene. Hip youngsters, well-read and literate all, lounging in a diner or cafe and discussing, over steamingly exquisite coffee, the pain of their writer’s block. How their prose is stunted, their characters mute, the well of their inspiration dry and dusty. Sophisticated music plays in the background, providing a mellow undertone to their sophisticated, tragic discourse. Thelonius Monk, maybe, or Annie Lennox. M. C. Hammer, perhaps.

“Finally I have the time to write, and now my muse has left me!” they wail, and take another sip of espresso. Adjust their turtleneck. Sweep back their shoulder-length hair, and clean their trendy ebonny-rimmed glasses. “I hope this writer’s block passes soon.”

Mockery, to be sure, but let me be clear: writer’s block is no myth, any more than impotence or claustrophobia. It can be the consequence of psychological stress and cause further stress on its own, it can have serious repercussions for one’s personal pride and self-image, a vicious spiral of disappointment and despair.

Thankfully, in reality, it’s surprisingly rare. The vast majority of cases of writer’s block can actually be classified as a heady melange of laziness and trepidation, or perhaps intimidation. And that’s a really happy fact, because there’s an easy solution to it.

You ready?

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SHUT UP AND WRITE.

Yeah, you probaly saw that coming. But before you complain that that’s no help at all and doesn’t get to the root of the problem, keep in mind that, unlike impotence or claustrophobia, only very, very few people actually suffer from real, honest writer’s block. Most people who self-diagnose it actually suffer from mundane afflictions related to fear and lethargy — and more importantly, those who do sincerely suffer from the condition may actually benefit from assuming that they don’t.

As I said in part 1, I know how it is - how humiliating and discouraging it is to feel that the story just isn’t gelling, that your ideas aren’t beign properly expressed, that your characters don’t come out as vibrantly as you imagine them and that you just can’t for the life of you figure out how to resolve the plot corners you’ve painted your characters into.

That’s not writer’s block. It’s justthe wind and the rain.

Sure, it’s nicer to go out and do your shopping when the sun’s shining, but that’s no reason to cloister yourself away indoors just because the sky is grey and the road’s a little wet. It’s not unsafe to drive, you won’t freeze or dissolve, and you’re out of Mountain Dew and toilet paper so slip into your wellies, strap on a southwester and go to the shops, there’s a good lad.

If the prose isn’t flowing like it should, then that’s just too bad. Can’t be sunny all the time, and there isn’t a magic spell you can cast to fix it. You won’t get through that by Not Writing, that’s for sure.

You have a story on the brain that’s been percolating there for a dog’s age, you can taste its heady aroma, your mouth waters at its delights, but when you try to put the words down they’re dull and plain and lack the lustre and sparkle you see in your mind’s eye. It’s that succulent meal that you want to deliver, not the drab gruel you see yourself writing, and it’s very tempting to consider it (or yourself) a failure and head to the nearest café to drown your sorrows in caffeine-rich, hot black nectar.

Tough bones. Suck it up, and power on.

You’ll get your mojo back eventually, and you’ll get it back a damn sight faster if you write your way through the downturn. You can always go back and fix (or outright replace) the less-than-stellar portions you wrote. When you’ve completed the story you have to go back and do an edit pass anyway!

You don’t even have to continue the story you find yourself blocked on. Everybody needs a break sometimes, and for a Writer there is no better way to take a break from writing one story than to write another one. Pick something simpler, something spontaneous and small and fun, perhaps far outside your usual sphere of interest.

Don’t write for your audience or your own ambition. Odds are that’s what got you tangled up in the first place, so give yourself some breathing room and just write a neat little story that satisfies all your secret little desires. Go ahead, you don’t have to tell anyone.

Like the weather, Writer’s Block will pass in its own time, sooner or later. You might as well get some Writing done while you’re waiting, no?

Coming up in part 3: time management.