Writer's Bloc

Fancy a stroll? After you, then.
I must be one of the slowest writers ever. In the two months I've been away, I've managed to write one-and-a-half tales. That's a pretty poor return when the sum total of things to do on an average day is feed yourself and get to the bus/railway station.

It's not for lack of ideas or being in the wrong environment. I've learnt pretty quickly that ideas are more common than landmines in Laos (between 1964 and 1973, the United States dropped 2 million tons of bombs along the Ho Chi Minh Trail, the North Vietnamese supply route that snaked through Eastern Laos--see Laos: Exploding the Past for an in-depth report), and that the only things you need to be able to write are the implements and the right frame-of-mind. External distractions can be a pain, but if you start to seek that perfect writing space you'll probably find it's like going after the holy grail. It's much simpler to change a personal attitude than it is to change something like the sound of the streetlife outside your hotel room. I used to be a writing-space junky--lining up pens and books at home, or going to the library for peace--but travelling has helped me realize that the only thing I need is an uncluttered mind. For me this extends to having an uncluttered space--too much stuff around distracts me and my attention wanders.

Writer's heaven...what crime to do the time?
So what's been the problem?

Tangibly, a lack of discipline. I am a great procrastinator when it comes to writing. A perfect window of time and space opens up to scribble away and all I'll do is fritter the hours away on convoluted flights of fancy, or worse, make an excuse that this particular piece of fiction would be better done tomorrow/when it's sunny/under a full moon while wearing a pink sombrero. Before too long, the experience of sitting down to write and not writing actually makes it harder to try it again the next time. It's very easy to get into a vicious circle where an hour of writing will steadily become some terrible mental torture that leaves your skin crawling and your fingers crippled.

The answer, as anyone who's flipped to the first pages of those self-help books knows, is to just write. Write about wild elephants, write about that kid you bullied at school, write about the really fucking annoying guy who sits in the cubicle behind you at work and starts every sentence with the word 'Presumably'...see, I'm doing it now! Trouble is, this advice was never especially persuasive for me. A good story isn't made of stochastic literary impulses--although I understand it worked for James Joyce. A good story is a crafted thing, perhaps sub-consciously shaped, but shaped nonetheless. It has a structure, a narrative flow, an inevitable-in-hindsight conclusion. In the best work, all the aspects of the story bind and reinforce one another. The opening line informs the last. The minor character on the second page holds up a mirror on the protagonist. The setting supports the thematic heart of the piece. It's clever, subtle, and when done well, devastating in it's impact on the reader. To achieve this, as well as skill and experience, you need a plan. Writing whatever pops into your head is unlikely to lead to prize winning fiction.*

And here I spy the crux of things in regard to my indiscipline. I am afraid. Afraid of failure. Afraid of writing laughable sentences, characters, and plots. Afraid of trying my damn best and still falling well short. Better not to try and always have maybe. I think that's a truer depiction of the world than the old motto, better to try and fail than never to try at all.

But to never fail is to never learn. So I will embrace failure. I will take every rejection and rejoice, for I know by examining my failures I will improve. Let me just re-iterate that last part. Failure itself is no key to betterment. As I learnt from Samuel R. Delany recently, writing bad fiction only helps write more bad fiction. The analysis of the ugly mound of congealed clay that is your first story holds the secrets of producing that stunning vase.

Today I embraced that philosophy. I probably began with dull exposition, left commas hanging, and didn't leave out all the parts that people skip, but by Jove, I got some material to work with. And I still managed to tit around and climb a limestone hill, watch HBO dramas, and check my email. Life is looking good.

There's a deep, pitch-black cave in that hill. Honest!

*In free writing's defence, I would say that it aids lexical suppleness, and helps unearth a writer's voice--one of the magical ingredients of a good read.