A few months back I went down to the Simon & Schuster offices to record an interview for their newest website, in which they highlight their authors talking about all kinds of different topics. Here is little chunk of it, in which I talk about writer’s block. (The entire interview will be up - I’m told - at the end of February.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OrSknNYMkHk

Enjoy - and cheers!

CG

I am out of the muck and treading much warmer waters.

How, you may ask?

The honest answer is this: I said to hell with the first chapter. Literally. After months of struggling with it, this is what I said: “You’re wearing me out, big boy. Big time. I’m not going to have an ounce of strength left to write the rest of this damn book if I keep sitting down every day, trying to figure out what the hell you’re all about. So I’m moving on. I’ll come back later when - I trust - the rest of the book has helped me learn what you were supposed to be. But for now, I gotta get out. I gotta move forward. Otherwise, I’ll be stuck up to my eyes in mud and won’t be able to see clearly for months.

And so that’s what I did. I jumped feet first into Chapter Two.

Today, I finished Chapter Eight.

It was another good writing lesson for me to learn. I am forever straining to get things just right (dare I say the word perfect here?) before I take the next step. But learning that I can move ahead - and sometimes soar ahead - without everything being exactly in its place is a sit-up-and-pay-attention-here moment. 

Writing teaches me so much about life - every day. If I can learn to apply the lessons I learn on the page - trust, let go, listen, pay attention, be gentle, be strong, be fearless and honest - to my every day life, I think every day I will get a little closer to becoming the person I have always dreamed of becoming.

With or without chapter one.

Onward, always.

CG

So.

That darling little last post of mine? About the notebook full of character details that my subconscious gave me for Christmas? The one I was going to refer to over these next few weeks, months, as the first draft started to pour out of me?

Ha.

Not so fast, Little Smuggie Pants.

I have spent the last eight days referring to said notebook, writing and rewriting Chapter One according to those precious details, and guess what? It’s still not working.  It is still not *&^%$# working! Yesterday, as I wrote a paragraph, deleted it, and then wrote another one (which I knew I would then delete) it was all I could do not to grab the computer screen and hurl it out my window. Seriously. My mind went down all sorts of roads: “You’ve written five books; you don’t really need to write another. Close up shop, darlin.’ Your allotted time to create has come to an end.”

Honestly as I sit here writing this, my brain is still entertaining thoughts like these. (Although the desire to throw my computer out into the street has faded considerably.)  I am my own worst enemy, and it has never been more apparent to me than it is now as I continue, day after day, night after night, to wrestle this story to the ground. I have this horrible, nagging feeling that this may not be the story I am supposed to be writing right now, but how do I know that for sure? Am I having doubts because it is difficult? Or am I trying to force something that can’t be shaped?

All I know right now is this: I am slogging through a terrible, thick muck. And it is a horrible place to be. It’s lonely, wet, dirty, and cold. I feel like crying a lot. Or swearing. Or punching something. Or eating really bad food, like a Big Mac and supersize french fries with extra salt and ketchup. And an apple pie, too. With some vanilla ice cream.

But I also know this. (And I know this only because I have been here many, many times.) I will come back and sit in this damn chair and write my way out of this muck. Someone once said that the only way out is through. And as much as I hate that person right now, I know he or she is right. The only way out of any conundrum is walk through it. To be willing to sit with the discomfort and the cold and the wet until it passes.

It always, always passes. I am promising myself that right now, sitting here, staring again at a blank screen. It will pass.

Until then, I will try to keep myself company, wrapping my arms around myself when I start to shiver, and holding my umbrella up high.

And if anybody out there feels like giving me a shout of encouragement, I would welcome it with open arms.

Onward, always.

CG

Last n

I didn’t write about how hopeless I felt about my writing just before the holidays. (Who wants to hear someone griping about anything during Christmas?) But I did feel hopeless. And it wasn’t one of those “I’ve had a shitty day writing, so please leave me alone,” kind of thing. It was a deep hopelessness. An “I’ve spent the last two and a half months writing and every single page - every single word - of it has gone into the garbage,” hopeless.

Then Christmas came - and with it, all the demands of shopping and wrapping and being Santa Claus for our children. Whether I wanted to or not, I had to leave the manic pounding, the frantic searching of this character behind for a while. I had to sit still - in another kind of way - and be quiet.

And so I stood outside with my 5-year old on Christmas Eve night as she wrung her hands and stared up at the inky sky. “Don’t worry,” I said softly, anticipating her next question. “He knows the way.”

“But how?” she persisted. “Does he have a map?”

“I think so.”

“What if he loses it?”

I glanced over at my husband for help. “Rudolph knows,” he said, without missing a beat.

And that (thankfully) was enough. We put out a few extra carrots for Rudolph, (just in case he wasn’t sure how to get back home again) tucked them in, finished the wrapping and the displaying of gifts, and enjoyed a few hours of sleep. I tried not to think about all the time I had wasted over the last 75 days or so, time that - unless I emerge with something I can use - I always consider wasted until I finally remember that the opposite is in fact true: that time spent writing - anything - is never wasted. Period.

Over the next few days, strangely enough, something began to happen. Amid the family games of Wii and Twister, the annual Christmas Story movie marathon, and midnight consolings of my little boy who has suddenly developed a fear of invisible spiders, I watched as my mind wandered off on its own. Slowly, silently, away from the forced circumstances I was shoving my character in day after day, it began to lead me down corridors of her life that I had not known were there before - one a particularly dark one that I know will be difficult to write about - until a picture of her - an actual image - finally gleamed forth in my mind’s eye like a glorious, newborn baby.

Each time a new detail unearthed itself, I would get up and go over to my notebook and write it down. And this morning, as I sit at my desk and begin my daily solitary routine once more, I am filled with hope. Next to me is a tattered notebook full of images that I was given this holiday season. I realize now that it is a map of sorts. A silent, flying through the blackness, with just the glimmer of  light out front kind of map.

It knows the way.

Not me.

It is time to let her speak.

Onward, always.

CG