A handful of dust...

It's been a while since I plunked out a post. To be honest, I've started and stopped a post several times but nothing felt right. I could have posted just to post, but I try to avoid such things. I think part of the problem was that most of my recent posts didn't have much to do with my writing, which is really why I've started this journey in the first place. So I saved them, to keep those thoughts and feelings preserved, perhaps for another time.

One of the questions that I've seen people ask writers (published and unpublished) over and over is where do you get your ideas? I always found that question to be a little odd. For me, ideas have never been an issue, it has been the execution of those ideas. Usually I begin a story with giddy excitement as the characters and places unfold rapidly in my mind and subsequently across the page. Eventually I start to doubt my idea, consider the characters overplayed, and despair at the lack of a decent plot. I am my own worst enemy; self criticism is paralyzing.

I used to share what I was working on with friends or family who seemed so inclined. I would talk about ideas and characters and not long after, somehow lose the story or the urgency. I started answering in vague terms. Oh, I'm working on a story about chicken pox, I say. Or, I'm working on an idea that explains narcolepsy. Physical ailments were apparently intriguing to me at one point in my idea box. Those stories are still firmly rooted in my brain, waiting for their chance to be reconsidered. If someone were to ask me right now I might say, I'm putting together a story about a broken place. It's not meant to be evasive and I'm not trying to be mysterious. When I don't give the details out in a conversation, I keep the secret of the story, I keep the excitement.

Ideas come frequently. I write them down or start writing a little, too keep the moment fresh, especially if there is a strong sentiment that I want to remember. Sometimes they come from a scenario I witness, a place I visit, a dream I vividly remember. My current project is one I've been working on for a while. I had an idea years ago for a story but it fell flat. Now I've changed things and am feeling more confident. It's a story about a broken place and a story about dust. One of my favorite selections of poetry is Eliot's The Waste Land, and snippets from the section What the Thunder Said have been in my mind since the beginning of this dusty idea, though the following lines are usually close to mind:

And I will show you something different from either     
Your shadow at morning striding behind you     
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;     
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Authors usually take very ordinary things and make them into something we wouldn't expect. Who would have thought such a simple thing as a band of gold would lead to such a legendary quest? Who would have guessed that there was another realm under modern day London? Writers love to ask questions, especially what if?

Sometimes I feel like Don Music, the famous muppet musician. The ideas and the questions come easily. I trip up as I try to put them on the page.

But I don’t wanna waste the words
That you don’t seem to need
When it comes to wanting what’s real
There’s no such thing as greed
I hope this night puts down deep roots
I hope we plant a seed
‘Cause I don’t wanna waste your time
With music you don’t need
I Don't Wanna Waste Your Time, Over the Rhine

Those who dream by day...

I have extremely vivid dreams. Some mornings I don’t recall my dreams. Other mornings the images are strong; familiar enough to be memories instead of fantasy. The most vivid of my dreams are typically nightmares. I often wake up, terrified and unable to think. I feel my heart beating, hands shaking, hear my ragged breath. Sometimes I don’t wake up until after. I tried to get away once. I threw myself out of bed and twisted my ankle then slammed into the wall with my forehead. I crumpled to the ground and finally woke up enough to realize I was running from something and I was in a sorry little heap on the floor of the bedroom. The hilarity of that experience helped me overcome the aftershock of fear. I couldn’t fall asleep for a while after that because I was giggling about running into the wall.

Some of the most terrifying ones happen during sleep paralysis. I’m normally in terrible danger but I can’t escape. Panic and terror mingle and then I wake — except I can’t breathe a sigh of relief, roll over and fall back asleep. My eyes are open. I can see the dim shadows of my room. I can feel my body, I know it’s there, but it will not obey me, not even the slightest command to wiggle a finger or a toe. The brain turns off the body when we sleep so we don’t hurt ourselves. Sleep paralysis happens when the brain hasn’t turned the body back on before we wake up. It’s a pretty logical, scientific explanation. Sadly, logic and science rarely have much sway during those panic-filled moments.

I also have a recurring dream of a malicious presence/person standing near my bed. Always on the right side of the bed, always standing near my waist or closer to my feet. It doesn’t do anything but stand there, looming over me.

I am an incredibly restless sleeper.

Some good dreams grip me too. Those dreams I wake up and make notes about for future story possibilities. One such dream helped inspire my first National Novel Writing Month novel. Sometimes I wake up from those dreams groggy, unsure of where I am because the movie in my mind had seemed so very real seconds ago.

At times, it feels like my brain rarely stops moving. I’m the kid who couldn’t sit in silence and eat a bowl of cereal. I had to at least be reading the back of the box. This is one of the reasons I hate driving. I don’t find it mentally stimulating. My brain tries to shut off and occupy itself with other more entertaining thoughts. This is not a good idea, as my overactive imaginations makes me very good at daydreaming.

Dreams (the good and the bad) have always fascinated me. I highly recommend the Charles de Lint books, particularly The Onion Girl and Widdershins. Where do our brains come up with these places, these events, these scenarios? How can the brain rest if it’s making these mental movies? Why do some people remember their dreams and others don’t?

Is it cloak ‘n dagger
Could it be spring or fall
I walk without a cut
Through a stained glass wall
Weaker in my eyesight
The candle in my grip
And words that have no form
Are falling from my lips
These Dreams, Heart

[Originally published May 3, 2013]

Start with the beginning...

I wanted to be a writer from a very young age. For some reason I keep thinking third grade is when I started writing for my own enjoyment. My very first short story attempt was inspired by the original Little Mermaid story by Hans Christian Anderson. I wanted to write a story about a girl who wanted to be a mermaid. I was about nine at the time, many years before Disney’s take on Little Mermaid and certainly before its sequel. Myths and fairy tales were always my favorite.

Despite that early start, I still don’t have a finished manuscript. I start to second guess myself and start to criticize even the bits I thought were pretty darn good when I first started out. I realized a long time ago that I’m my own worst critic; unnecessarily cruel. I came to understand that fear kept me from going forward. I was paralyzed by a case of the what-ifs.

Recently, my roommate started training for a marathon. I’m pretty proud of her, a little in awe of her commitment to running (exercise and I don’t really get along, thanks to asthma) and sometimes I try to imagine what your brain does for those hours spent running. I’m pretty sure that even if I could run, I’d end up daydreaming and run into a telephone pole…or worse.

In her blog post the other day, she talked about fear and how it can make you stand still. I couldn’t help but draw a parallel between her “running block” and my own writer’s block. I have to confess that fear cripples me. I have overcome it in certain situations. I used to be terrified of speaking in front of people. I used to be equally terrified of showing anyone anything I had written, be it blog, journal, poem. I wish I was fearless, but I’m much more Cowardly Lion that I care to admit. It’s comforting to recall that in the end he found his courage. Sometimes, we have no choice but to face our inner demons, especially if they stand in the way.

“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”
-Frank Herbert, Dune

[Originally published on April 30, 2013]