She explained juggling was simple. He laughed, watching her keep five balls in the air. They fell like a fountain, cascading perfectly into her hand. Cascading, like her hair, her laughter. He loved his muse.
Inhaling her presence of wonder, her every word kept him in rap attention. A juggler, only catches one ball at a time, and throws one ball at time she said. You can catch one ball at a time. You can throw one ball at a time.
She threw him one ball, startled, he dropped it. A giggle escaped her lips. Still maintaining the balls in the air she knelt and picked it up.
Now you are ready? Try again, and she tossed the ball he caught it. They smiled. Next time use one hand, she chided him. She threw him another ball, but his hands were full, he dropped the first one and missed the second one.
Silly, juggling is throwing the balls up, not down. Again she picked up both balls. All the while juggling. He knew not to ask where all the balls were coming from. Muse’s were magic, and one did not ask such questions, lest the Muse leave.
He dropped the balls again. She took a deep breath, a wry smile crossing her face. She stopped juggling and the balls disappeared. One ball in her hand she tossed it to him. He caught it and tossed it back.
She didn’t throw it back. Instead, her eyes, the pools of his inspiration looked at him. Now you play catch, with yourself. First with two hands, then with one. Soon it will be routine and you will write regularly.
Write? I thought we were talking about juggling?
My silly human, what ever gave you that idea, this is a blog about writing.
Rambling string of conscious blog done at high speed…
The singular most important action you can take as a writer, is to get your butt in the chair and write as often as possible. Good, Bad, Ugly, rambling, off topic, anything.
The habit of writing is an elusive lover, once found, you will cherish and safeguard. But like smoke, will escape in a careless moment, leaving the faint smell of missed opportunity and regret. I
If I had only written every day this week I’d be finished this chapter, story book.
Many people treat writing like a one night stand, fun, mysterious, dangerous…but not a commitment. Commitment, a foreign concept in today’s world sordid social media where many want to spread their hate as fast at the STD rate.
The dirty secret about commitment is it involves accountability. And is anyone accountable for anything today? We have excuses for everything. No one owns their mistakes, and if they do, they are considered weak.
All relationships go through struggles, the ups and downs not involving pleasure. Writing is no different for me.
Like a recovering alcoholic all writer’s need a support group. Find one.
I’ve recently started experimenting with acrylic pour painting. Today’s blog focuses on one aspect that fascinates me , people like what I would paint over.
I’m not going to try and explain what acrylic pour painting is. I’ll show you a couple of examples. If you are interested, a simple search on the ‘u Tubes will show you more than you ever wanted.
As you can see the results are highly varied and each person likes or dislikes the paintings as they see fit. One of the components of this painting style is, if you don’t like it, you can easily paint over it. This takes us to our point: Don’t paint over what other people like.
I made a piece that I didn’t like. Getting ready to paint over it, my spouse said, “What? That’s beautiful, don’t paint over it.” Shocked I said, “But I don’t like it.”
Then I stopped. Everyone’s taste is different. People appreciate different aspects of abstract painting. I showed it to a second person, who didn’t know the reaction of the first person. They liked it. I can’t understand why these people like this piece. I doubt I ever will. But it caused me to think if I do the same thing in my writing.
Have I scrapped or trashed scenes because I won’t like them in real life? I have a tendency to avoid the awkward squeamish scenes from ‘reality’ tv shows. Have I avoided writing the super embarrassing confrontation because I wouldn’t like it in real life? Even now, years removed from a situation, I cringe at my actions, and naivete. Even though it’s the perfect example of what I’m talking about, I can’t write about it.
From what I have read, and talking to other authors, there comes a time when you don’t like what you’re writing. It’s all garbage, I can’t write, why am I even doing this writing thing? Stop and get some perspective. This may mean giving it to someone else to read, or just shelving it for two weeks until you are in a better frame of mind.
My favorite is, “I hate the PoV, I’m going re-write it.” Next time, consider, maybe the PoV is fine, and you’re just squeamish about having to submit it. Or afraid of being rejected. To the best of my knowledge, to be an author means dealing with rejection from publishers, editors, agents. It’s part of the writing process. Embrace it.
You’re not always right about your own art, at least I’m not.
In the mythical world of earth I am a character working in information technology at a company. We recently moved into a new building. Therefore for the last two weeks, I’ve done nothing but work and discover anomalie s . Anomalies require two immediate steps be taken, one is a prompt work around solution to allow the business to function and two, a report sent to allow for the issue to be resolved. Step one requires creative out of the box thinking. Step two requires accurate details to permit the swift resolution. Those of you who have been in this position know that “swift” can sometimes mean 6 or 7 weeks.
The third aspect of this process is the pristine perfect work, your work, your pride, is often compromised to get people working. And unless you do my job it is beyond difficult to experience the ruination of your own work because of others. Such is my situation. Instead of an impeccable server room with neat cables, I have what amounts to a rats nest of chaos. In fact I doubt whether rats would live there.
The astute reader will identify this as a metaphor for the writing process. And as someone who is going to send out three manuscripts this year into the chaos of slush piles, I have a lot of pain ahead of me. A writer fulfills all these roles, from owner to architect to finish carpenter to accountant to receptionist to IT guy. (PS – IT people hate being called “IT Guy”)
The result is the next several blogs will deal with aspects of anomalies that have corresponded to events in the new building. It’ll be fun, we’ll laugh, we’ll cry and I might get my sanity back. Hopefully I will get my writing mojo back.
Topics include, More phones than places to plug them in: Bridging your main character until you flesh them out making them a better character and thereby making your story better.
Why is it so cold in the building: Building heat in your story that is consistent with your characters. Not just a tussle in the bedroom.
Dealing with false accusations: How to get the enemy to aid your cause without compromising your values.
All of this will be from my limited perspective as a writer. Join me on the mythical adventure into the real world of my writing.
More than ever this year, be good to people. Recognize kindness, take time to honestly praise people in front of others. Hate surrounds us, destroying the soul of society do not aid in the destruction.
This is not a downer, woe is me blog. If you’re looking for one of those, keep looking. This about me acknowledging to be a writer and have the good habits of writers, I need to follow the hacks that others use. I am not above them. I need to do, what I tell others to do. This is should not surprise anyone.
As a result, this will be a short blog, were I trick myself into writing more.
And now, a short diversion. The year is 1976. I’m in grade 11. At this point in my life I play a tremendous number of sports. A group of traveling athletes came to our high school in rural Alberta. A chance to see National football players was unheard of at that time. I was one of the fortunate ones chosen to compete in a little head to head action in a variety of sports.
All three of the men were currently playing in the NFL. The one I remember was the Center for the Minnesota Vikings. He was a big man. By Big I mean walls got out of his way and said sorry. (They were Canadian Walls). In the three on three basketball competition. We mistakenly thought we could leave him unguarded on the perimeter. Yea, that was a dumb idea. He was nothing but net from the outside. We also foolishly thought we stood a chance in any of the competitions… Ah the stupidity of youth. And in thinking we could win, I foolishly tried to draw a charging call on Mr.Big. It was a great idea.
Somehow I saw what the play was going to be. So I set up where Mr.Big was going to drive the lane. Arms crossed in front of me protecting the family jewels, ready to draw the charge. Mr.Big caught the ball spun and drove the lane to the basket. When he turned, imagine his shock to see me standing there. But it was too late he barrelled into skinny high school smart ass.
I will attempt to relate what I think happen in mirco pieces of time between him seeing me and his contact with me.
First, I believe he understood, well before I did, what was going to happen. Secondly, he tried to drop the ball and grab me to prevent what occurred. Lastly, he felt pain for me. Sorrow, regret. The last he thing he wanted to do, was hurt anyone.
What happened next was simple physics. Force = mass x acceleration. He hit me square in the chest with his shoulder and I launched off the ground like a Saturn V rocket heading to the moon. (Further evidence would show that the circumference of one of his thighs corresponded to my waist.)
Well, I would have reached the moon, but the polite wall didn’t believe in getting out of the way of idiots and therefore it prevented me being the first Canadian in space. In the nano second before I let the wall catch me, I heard the sound of silence. The entire gym inhaled and held their breath. Even the athletes. I could see all three of them, the fear in their eyes that they just a killed a Canadian High School student.
My mother often said, “You can’t hurt a Dear male by hitting them in the head.” Once again Mother was right.
To this day I don’t know what happened. I don’t know why I wasn’t hurt. But I know you can’t fly through the air and get stopped by cinder block wall and not be hurt. I know from first hand experience. But on that day, in that place, I was fine. I don’t offer an explanation.
What is the lesson I learned? It took me years to figure out what I learned.
I was wrong, is what I have come to understand. The outcome of the game was never in doubt. My drawing the charge wouldn’t have won the game. But to see the pain and hurt in those grown men’s eye’s as I flew threw the air with the greatest of ease, I don’t need to see again. Even if I was in the right.
The impact of other’s emotions on my life disables me from writing.
Plain, simple, straight forward.
And right now, I don’t want to harden myself to this reality of life. But neither do I want to let it dominate me. I’m not sure where that leads me? Less facebook and cnn never hurt anyone. And it’s quite clear facebook and cnn have hurt people. It might be that simple.
I suppose another option is to continue the filtering and de-following of the propagators of hate. That’s never a bad idea. I think I’ll start looking for a cave. Something not too sandy but still with good drainage.
This is really an inner monologue on balance. Life balance. Learning to write, is only one part of a writer’s mindset, of my writer’s mindset. The problem is for me at this time writing is fragile. It takes time and resources, it’s not like fixing a computer, which I could probably do in a coma.
What’s fragile about writing? I mean come on grow up, it’s almost 2020, your jet pack will be here soon. Just sit down and type, how hard could it be?
I’ve never been a writer. It’s not a skill I have. My corporate emails are fraught with missing words, and prepositions are apparently unknown to me in amy form prose. Don’t get me wrong, I love words, the nuance of finding the correct word for me. On the other hand, writing is like shopping for paint colours.
“Oh that’s a great sky blue.” I say.
She who knows colors rolls her eyes and says, “That’s robin’s egg blue…”
I’ve stopped picking out paint with her. It’s safer and in the end the color is great. Even if I don’t the right name. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
But words are different. They are different depending where you are in the world and who your audience is.
Physic’s convention, A scientist stands up and asks, “What kind of diaper did Schrodinger’s cat wear?” Answer – “Depends”
I’ve struggled with this blog trying to convey the struggle to just write and how I am impacted by the world and suffering. I’ll take another run at it another day. For today I will leave you with this.
“One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.”
― Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums