Quieting the Monkey

“…you must not come to the page lightly,” says Stephen King in his book On Writing and the only Stephen King book I’ve ever read.  The horrors of real life scare me enough.  I keep the quote tacked to my computer on post-its that lose their sticky and need replacing from time to time.  The quote sticks in my brain unlike others that I find full of deep meanings, but forget over time. I’m a collector of quotes about anything and everything as long as it pertains in some way to the life I live, but this one quote haunts me.

So, anyhow, I’m trying to put King’s quote to work as I begin writing a novel from an idea etched in my mind over the last five years. My top priority, a roof over my head and an internet connection, keeps me writing non-fiction and business-type collateral during the day.  Writing fiction fills in the late night gaps in sleep.  I consider myself somewhat analytical, but my helter-skelter approach to this book works for now.  No outlines of characters and plots for me, instead I’m taking a cue from writers who just sit down and let the words spill from brain to fingers to screen.  Some nights I’m on a fast train with fingers trying to keep up and other nights the train stops for coffee and a pee break every other sentece. 

The journey into the psyche of the past demands brutal honesty and “not coming to the page lightly.”  I hold back and I’m not sure why. Finding that place where the voice refuses to be told to be quiet is as elusive as sleep.  The story spills out, but  not without censured words and hesitation.  I’ve read books on writing that offer ways to quiet the monkey on the shoulder, but when in the moment instead of screaming, little more than a whisper ekes out and the monkey continues warning.  

Although, my heart screams, “Write it, damn it!”  My brain whispers, “Should you?” I hear the whisper louder than the scream.  As I continue working on the book, I WILL find a way to quiet the cautions.  This is a tale of raw emotion and relationships not for the faint of heart or hopelessly romantic… or so I think.  It deserves to be exposed with power and boldness. 

For now… the pink post-it stays on the top left hand corner of my computer where it dares me to, “not come to the page lightly.” And I will try damn hard to make it so.

 

 

Of Spring Yearnings and Marquez

I need a change in venue. I’m going to move the show from the dark shadows into the spring green light of day.  Snow and winter lingers too long in Ohio and I’m in need of a fresh breeze blowing through an open window.  Since I can’t melt the snow on my own I’ll change the interior of my domain to reflect my wishes. 

I read somewhere that when you have a writing project that needs attention, start by writing about nothing in particular and then segue into serious writing.  This is my practice run for the day.  To be honest, I’m a jealous writer who would prefer to write only what I want to write, but very few writers are paid to do that.  Stephen King, Joan Didion, John Updike, Danielle Steel, Nora Roberts, John Grisham…well you get the idea, these people are the elite few who get to write what they want and paid well for it. Just so you know….I’m not a reader of those authors except for Joan Didion, a little John Updike, and Stephen King’s book on writing.  Some of these writers fail to hold my attention, but obviously each one has mass appeal otherwise publishers would not be eager to keep their books on the shelves of bookstores everywhere.

 While I’m rambling I might as well go into thoughts about authors that I do respect and read. To start with, Gabriel Garcia Marquez sits at the top of my list. He holds my attention with details that place me in the scene as an omnicient presence and I like that.  In my humble opinion his first line in the Love in the Time of Cholera outshines Moby Dick and A Tale of Two Cities by a landslide. “It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love.” Now that’s a first line that raises questions and tests the senses with a romantic notion that occurs so seldom. Most of the time I have to slog through the first couple chapters of a book to get into it. Finding a book that I can sink my brain into from the first word is a rare treat.

I want to read Ken Follett’s new book, the something of a sequel to Pillars of the Earth, but I’m a bit nervous about it. Pillars of the Earth is a great read and I’m wondering if it’s possible that it can be done in the same vein with as much spirit.  I sure hope so.  No doubt I’ll ramble on about World without End at some point if I love that book as much as I did Pillars. Kurt Vonnegut, Anne Rice, and Calvin Trillen all tend to hold my interest for whatever reason.  They certainly are not writers who pen a book in like fashion.

I’m warmed up now and ready to go.  Instead of jumping in the car, revving the engine and driving to work, I’ll click my way to a word doc. and settle in for a morning of writing about parties.  

 I leave you with one more quote from the incomparable Marquez, “Of the countless other women who loved him, and even those who gave and received pleasure without loving him, she accepted him for what he really was: a man passing though.”   From Love in the Time of Cholera     

 

Writers’ Retreats, Ragdale, and Me

While leafing through The Writer’s Market Companion I came across the section concerning grants, retreats, etc. I have always dreamed of spiriting myself away accompanied by a muse of serenity and natural beauty.  Attending a writer’s retreat seems a luxury far too expensive for my meager earnings.  Yet, each time I read about one the intrigue gets the best of me. Damn deadlines and piled-up work on my computer, daydreaming and pondering the possibilities becomes a priority.

My latest drift into dreaming of a writer’s retreat took me to Ragdale, an artists’ retreat set in Lake Forest, Illinois.  The site offered all the information for becoming a resident for a few weeks. I persued the list of writers that now call themselves alumni, some published with active links to their website and books for sale.  Like a true surfer I meandered off on tangents reading excepts of books and biographies of various writers who spent time at Ragdale. 

It’s so tempting to fill out an application, pull together the beginnings of current works in progress and see what happens. Perhaps a few weeks away doing nothing, but writing would inspire me to new heights.  Allowing my mind to wander down unfamiliar paths with the unknown waiting around the corner lends excitement to an ordinary life for a short while.  Days of creating fictional characters and settings seems almost decadent to me, but I want it.  

I don’t know that I’ll apply.  I’ve yet to take the bait and latch on until I’m pulled in.  In fact, I often resist moving from the safe comfort of being tucked securely in a room with the door closed and the computer as my companion.  Perhaps dreaming about spending days and nights writing, eating, writing, sleeping, writing, wandering, writing, and writing more satisfies my soul in some odd way. 

For anyone who’s interested: http://www.ragdale.org/ and good luck! If you apply, become accepted, and spend time at Ragdale or any other writer’s retreat, I’d love to hear about it.  If I decide to dive into the glassy lake of writing at a serene sanctuary and shatter my penchant for the familiar, I’ll be sure to mention it in passing.