I’ve been reading Isaac Asimov’s Foundation Trilogy over the past week. It was slow reading and to be honest I’m not impressed. Perhaps it’s the style of writing… Much more impressed by Ware Tetrology by Rudy Rucker. This is fresh, contemporary science fiction with a punch. You can find it online free, but I have to warn you, there are more than eight-hundred pages. (That’s 800+).
Worked on Two this week (currently on page 25). submitted three stories to three different markets and began a short story with a female protagonist who is a super heroine/ dumpster diver.
Jules Verne’s Mysterious Island. I hated it. Terrible acting, direction and script. It’s a waste of the dollar you’ll spend at RedBox.
A famous author friended me. 🙂
Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.
–Why I write, George Orwell
The editor and the artist. One asks for meaning, the other paints words upon the written page, uncaring of what it means or for the bigger picture.
The creative side spontaneously begins the story. Finds a passage here or an idea there that inspires one to craft. She is the one that hears the rhythm of words gliding one into another. A resonance of sound.
Then, there is that other who re-reads, corrects, analyzes, criticizes. Asking, “Does this plot make sense? Justify that sentence. Where did that word come from?”
I ask for inspiration from my dead father, Leonardo da Vinci, any possible source of knowledge and experience that I can glean from. “Please help me get through this…”
The artist doubts.
I don’t know that I can do this. It’s too much. Too big. What if I can’t? How can I? How will it come? Can I work through it?
Somehow I convince myself to keep going. How do other writers do it? I ask. They muddle through, I answer. Though that voice did have a Californio tone. Whereupon, I assume my father is subtly nudging me in the right direction.
The fear is ever present. Or, is it fear? I’m not sure. It feels like fear. That nagging thing coiled in my gut and upon the first sentence I hesitate, it jumps to action. Ready for the moment.
“Hello Dearie,” says the Wicked Witch of the West. That’s the voice of the Coiled One. Yes, she has a green face too. A long nose.
She is the one I must work around. The one I must eventually defeat, I think.
I am not Dorothy. I don’t have Toto or, the three flawed friends who will defeat the witch for me. This is something the artist must do for herself.
The Coiled One is a type of fear. Perhaps failure and disappointment.
Perhaps I don’t have the ability or the skills to continue. That reality will set in and I will find it was pointless for me to begin. I was deluded, though I fought the good fight.
One thing I understand: the demon Orwell speaks of in his essay, Why I Write. The demon brings the writer back, whether they want it or not.
Despite the fear, the hardship, the doubt, or perhaps in spite of it, we (artists and writers) come back to what we are meant to do, because there is no other way. To keep us from writing or creating would be to cut something from us. May as well take an organ.
As difficult as the creation process can be, I am comforted with the knowledge that that demon will always be nesting somewhere nearby.