I’ve rediscovered my fountain pens. Smoother than even gel pens, they feel better in the hands because they’re heavy and of substance. Plus they’re just darn retro-cool.
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There’s this little imp in my head who doesn’t want me to write.
Artists and scribes through the ages have celebrated the wonders of the Muses, those supernatural beings who bring us inspiration and cause us to create things that are clearly too brilliant to have come from us alone. But there’s a darker being that is never discussed, at least directly. And that is an imp that I have come to know as the Anti-Muse.
Last summer I had a window of opportunity to devote a large amount of time to my current novel, and I challenged myself to finally finishing the first draft. I could have done it. I know I could have – I’ve done marathon writing sessions in the past. But for some reason my Anti-Muse was particularly strong, so much so – and so obviously so – I started keeping track of all the things this Anti-Muse tried to do to sabotage my writing efforts.
Below, directly from my scribbled notes, is the internal dialog I had with this little demon. And so, writing along … or simply staring at the blank white page … these voices would pop into my head, followed by my conscious response.
“You’re hungry!” Clearly, I am not hungry. I’m not even thirsty. “Yes you are! You’re hungry!” No I am not.
“You’re sleepy!” Not really. “Yes you are. Why don’t you go take a nap?” No.
“You have to check email!” No, I don’t.
“You have to make a list of what I’m doing to sabotage you!” I seem to have given in to this one.
“You’re cold!” I put on a robe.
“You’re hot!” I take the robe back off. Now I’m cold again.
“You have to wash dishes!” There’s only two dishes in the sink and they can wait.
“You’re horny!” So what’s new? I’m always horny. I’m a guy.
“Waa! I don’t want to work on this! Let’s go take a walk – it’s beautiful outside.” No.
“You have to get up and go do something.” Like what? “I don’t know, but SOMETHING.” No.
“You deserve a break. Play Mine Sweeper.” No.
“Let’s surf the Internet!” [My response to that was to turn my cable modem off.]
“What the heck is that banging noise? Go to the window and check!” It’s not important.
“You need to stop and calculate how many words you must write per day in order to achieve your goal.” No, I do not, I just need to write the freaking words!
“Ha ha! I’ve made you write more on this list than you have so far on your manuscript!” Dammit.
“You need to go to garage sales and find a more comfortable desk chair. It would help your writing.” No, it would help my writing if you would LET ME FREAKING WRITE!
“You’re REALLY sleepy.” Damn, I am. Keep going through.
“You’re horny, thirsty, sleepy, hungry, and you need a shower! AND you need to wash dishes!” I give up. I’ll take a little break.
“You are SLEEPY!” Wow, I really am. To the point of it being useless sitting here fighting it.
[After the nap, the Anti-Muse wins again, guiding me to another light meal – after which I absent-mindedly surf the Internet for 45 minutes. Then after writing for only 15 minutes I’m sleepy again.]
“Hey, why don’t we watch YouTube?” Okay, whatever, let’s watch YouTube for an hour.
“You’re sleepy again.” True, I’ve only written for 15 minutes and now I’m falling asleep in front of the keyboard.
“You need to go kiss your girlfriend!” I agree with this one. I go give my girlfriend lots of kisses.
“You need to go take pictures of the sunset!” No.
“You really need to reorganize all ten-million files in your ‘My Documents’ folder!” [I fell for this one before I realized what I was doing.]
“You must reorganize all your MP3 files.” Ugh.
It was after this that I realized keeping the list, in itself, had turned into a major distraction. But the Anti-Muse continued this campaign unabated for three straight weeks, and I did not reach my goal.
The first draft of the manuscript is still unfinished.
Is this just me? Or do you have an Anti-Muse too?
I can’t really say I’m suffering from writer’s block. It’s more like “blecch.” Kind of what you’d feel the morning after a car wreck, or having drunkenly walked into a 
concrete streetlight. Somewhat, but not completely, like a hangover. Akin to a mild flu afflicting only the creative system.
Look at yourself in the bathroom mirror. Pull one lower eyelid down with your finger. Stick your tongue out. You realize you look like Mad Magazine’s Alfred E. Neuman.
“Blecch.”
Not sure exactly what has caused this. It’s probably a combination of one or more of the following:
- Deep undercurrent of social panic regarding the world financial situation
- Relocation stress
- iPhone addiction
- Insurmountable procrastination
- Farm area harvest time allergies
- My soul is still somehow off-center
When all is said and done, the most likely cause is the iPhone addiction. I can’t keep my hands off the freaking thing. It’s hard to work on a novel when you spend 3 hours a day dinking with a little toy computer that doesn’t even have a keyboard.
This is a test to see how WordPress for iPhone handles uploading photos.
I’m working seriously on my current novel, back in the saddle after only lightly touching it for the past six months.
I write a bit, then have to check email. I write a bit, or — worse — just stare at the screen a bit, then decide I have to go read a blog or two. Or go get my hourly fix from that new SF website called io9.com (it’s crack for SF&F fans, I’m completely hooked).
Then I write a page or two, and think … wow, I’m lonely.
Sometimes I sit at Starbucks with my friend William Ledbetter, both of us whacking happily away at our laptop keyboards, each working on our various stories or projects. That, I realize, is when I’m most at ease with my writing. Writing is best done with a partner, even if you’re working on separate projects.
I remember my college days when I and a loose knit group of writing friends would all hang out at the local restaurant for hours, scribbling away with paper and pencil. Breaking every once in a while to ask a question or to read a passage. Those were the days.
And now I’ll return to writing my novel, and see how long I can go without interrupting myself like this again.
Fredric sent you a private message
Do you want Rolex?
I practically choked
My boyfriends’ putz keeps slipping out
Now it is possible to have sex more than ten times a day
See my penis pictures as proof
Join to society of real Men
Feel new sensations with your partner
This product is sooooooooo amazing
Just call the number below
With the advance in science…
You must be the Real Man with “huge dignity”
Be full of energy and fill your partner with it!
What is the dosage guideline for Wondercum?
I know you’ve thought about it.
I’m going to drop my daughters off at the Anime Festival downtown and then have the entire day to wander around with nothing to do. I’ll probably take my laptop and go write in a coffee house somewhere. I actually thought about just handing the keys to my elder girl but that would leave me stranded all day.
No, I don’t want to go. I’m not that into Anime. I did consider putting on those cool cat ears and going “Neko” as they call it, and wander around answering “Meow,” to anything anyone said to me. But, no, I’d rather get some work done on my current short story.
I do understand why my kids like it, though. It’s all about getting attention, and extended family.
Nowhere else have I seen more bare-chested Samurai wielding paper-machete swords, or cardboard robot-suits, or willowy nymphs with kitten ears and swinging furry tales. I’ve seen old ladies dressed as pirates, and satyrs with seven foot legs. They pose and preen for dozens of cameras like stars on a red carpet.
People call out to each other — total strangers — and rush together to embrace like old friends. Like family. Which in a way they are.
For one thing, they share in a tightly knit little subculture. Anime fans are, in a way, soap-opera fans, because of the episodic nature of the art. The stories they are immersive and touch upon serious issues. They’re also sci-fi and fantasy fans, which makes them one step removed from the mundane world. They’re also computer gaming fans, which marks them as preferring interactive — not passive — entertainment. Finally they’re artistic, because Anime is more than just a way of cartooning — it’s a serious art form — and many fans are also creators. Add to this an underlying Eastern flavor, with a strong Buddhist undercurrent, and you end up with a subculture with one of the highest senses of identity since the “deadheads” of the Grateful Dead era.
Within this subculture you have clans based upon favorite shows and characters. These translate into instant families, instant friends.
That I am convinced is the main attraction for these events. This is also why I’m so supportive of my kid’s interest in it.
I have a brain!
Is it just me, or does this MRI scan make me look a bit like Homer Simpson?
Ever seen that Seinfeld episode where the Soup Nazi would scream, “No soup for you!”
Well, there were no pomegranates for me. After a total of nine stores, one helpful produce person told me, “Oh, they’re out of season. You won’t find any anywhere for at least a couple months.”
Great.
Last night, working on my novel, I came to a scene where the characters are standing in front of a bin full of pomegranates, and I realized I really needed to have a pomegranate in front of me for the scene to continue. I need one in my hand.
Some call it research, some call it a sudden onset of writer’s procrastination, but I stopped right there and went for a walk to the local grocery store.
The sky outside still held an afterglow from the sunset, the last gasp of light from the day. The color mesmerized me. A very deep blue-purple (would that be called burple?) and bands of clouds like lines, so I walked in a daze. By the time I reached the store, a mere two blocks away, it had faded to black and it was full-on evening.
Inside I passed temptation after temptation. Beer, chips, candy, cookies … passed them all, intent on my mission. I must find a pomegranate.
The characters, you see, are discussing the seeds that Hades tricked Persephone into eating, thus binding her to the underworld and causing winter every year. It’s an important scene because the pomegranate seeds play an important role in my story.
Alas, as fate would have it, there were no pomegranates in the store!
Miffed, I picked up some bananas instead, and then consoled myself with a dozen flavored yogurts (need them for breakfast, anyway), and picked up a bottle of wine, and a jar of peanut butter, and some cookies, and a couple bags of chips… By the time I got up to the front register I had an entire basket full of stuff, things I’d put in the cart without even thinking of it because my mind was still on the novel. Fortunately I came to my senses before I actually entered the checkout line … I had come on foot! There was no empty trunk of a car waiting for all this stuff in the parking lot.
And then, standing there, blind spots appeared in my vision, and my heart sank. The sign of an oncoming migraine.
I abandoned the cart and walked quickly home, took meds, saved my files and shut down the computer, and went to bed.
This evening … as long as the migraine doesn’t make a return appearance … my quest for a pomegranate will continue.
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