Following on ...

Following on from my thoughts yesterday...

I am now finishing off my last short story, for this month. 1200 words were done in my usual 'spew everything forth' method, with a few paragraphs after the introductory passage and an extra scene to fill with the remaining 800 words, I sat and did a little planning so I know the final direction of the piece. This has been a much more enjoyable process. 

Thursday, I was hoping the words didn't run dry. I managed to fill in the early paragraphs, setting the scene a little more. I was reasonably happy with the outcome. Last night (as is often)  that missing scene started forming itself (when I was brushing my teeth!) I have a small notebook by the bed that now has a paragraph or two, with notes. This is what I faced on Friday.

By lunch I had filled both 'holes' in the story, with an initial word count of 1915 words. After an intial proof reading, two rewrites, more proof reading, some editing and typo corrections, the final story Fashioned in Black was ready to post. One day before the postal deadline. 

This was a much more comfortable and more enjoyable write. I have a feeling of satisfaction and achievement that I did not get with the last story. This week has been an interesting experiment and I have discovered more about my writing processes, the genres I prefer to write and why I write. I have found that I have to write what I love; if I was forced to write something that I cannot put my heart into, the whole process is torture rather than a fun challenge. 
And then what would be the point.

Bogging up holes...and Pulling Teeth

I had the beginnings of a perfectly good  short story. The liked the idea. I was reasonably happy with the prose, I had another thousand words before I hit the maximum limit for this project. I had a beginning, part of the middle and a definite end. But it lacked a scene in the middle. 

My usual method of writing is to conjure up a main character, devise a reason for their being (at least in the story) and envisage a place for them to inhabit. Sometimes this was detailed. Sometimes this was very sketchy. For one story, this actually involved a complete family tree. 

Once this was achieved, I would have at least a vague idea of the ending I would like, or a twist or concept that I wanted to weave into the story. Then I would have to wait for those initial words. If they spilled out easily onto the page, I could write easily and have at least half of the story done. But there was no real plan. It just happened. The danger was always looming... that I would run out of words or write myself into a hole and have to do a total rewrite which costs a lot of time.

Recently, I have been experimenting with more organisation, attempting to plan at least the basic skeleton of the entire story (from the beginning) in an effort to reduce potential writers' block. However, there are always teething problems with starting a new method. I have just finished and posted a short story called Pieces of Time using this new criteria. 

For a while, I doubted that I would be able to finish this story using an unfamiliar approach to the writing. The first thousand words came easily, as usual; when it came to the crucial middle section, where we learnt more of the two main characters, it all fell quickly into a heap... and a week of frustration. Technically, I had the basics worked out but no words came. I could not follow the set structure. What did fall onto the page were more appropriately called Pieces of Crap. I wanted to go off on a tangent, but decided to try to stick to the plan. 

Eventually, I remember the number one mantra: Write anything. Even if it is crap. Six hundred words, four hours and well after midnight later, I crawled into bed feeling quite annoyed and ineffective. In the morning I surveyed the damage. While I was not happy with the construction of many sentences, I had at least got the intention down on the page. I spent the entire day re-writing, editing and grumbling. 

Finally, this morning Pieces of Time was finished, printed and in the post. While I was reasonably satisfied (though not overjoyed) with the outcome, this story involved the most unenjoyable writing process I have ever tried. I decided that writing to a completely set out rigid structure is not really how my brain works. It is not for me.

Where to now? Well, I can't just keep spewing out stories and hoping that it will all fall into place with absolutely no structure to follow. Conversely, after such a bad experience, I have realised (even though I get anal with the background and descriptions on occasion) that planning the structure of every part of my stories is also not conducive to my best work, nor to my stress levels so I have decided to try to land somewhere in the middle... hopefully.

Fear of Fear Itself.

I have written about procrastination before (Putting off til tomorrow... oops it's today) I started seriously thinking about the short story An Eye for Detail around 24th May. I wrote down some ideas and then sat on it. I did some research and then sat on it. I used several excuses to put off starting. 

• I just need a little more research
• I can't find the words for the perfect opening paragraph
• I want to let it all settle, to let the story bubble away so that it will all make sense later
• I need to get the house work done
• my other work has been stressful and I have to relax
• what if no one likes the way I write 

Sometimes it is genuine writers' block. Sometimes the story genuinely has to bubble away for a while to allow the characters to develop so that the plot can form but I can't always use this as an excuse. Sometimes the housework does need doing... but I can't always use this as an excuse either. 

I sat down earlier this week and tried to analyse the real reason behind my procrastination (I can't speak for other writers but suspect that the following is probably a universal one)

• the fear of an empty page and writers' block
• what if it is just really bad /fear of rejection 
• If I have lots of time, it should be perfect. If I have little time, then I have an excuse for it not being perfect.

In essence it is fear. Fear of failure. Fear of rejection. Fear of fear itself. 

I have read several times now, you can't call yourself a writer unless you actually, well... write! Don't worry if it is not fantastic, mind-blowing prose. The best piece of advice I have read was: Anything is better than nothing. If nothing else, it is learning the discipline of extracting words, from the mind, to describe the thoughts and ideas that reside there.  Recently, when I have had a block and started to procrastinate, I have tried writing something else. I have written about a random writing exercise in  Practice, Practice, Practice. Even this blog is a form of practicing the discipline of writing, as it provides me with a regular deadline. (even if the writing is not perfect).

Once committed to paper (or word processor), these words can be filed away or reworked. They can be used as notes or starting points, when a writers' block hits, in the future or used as part of a larger project. If they are not committed into readable words, then they are just that - an idea.  I am getting a box full of handwritten notes and a whole computer folder of 'use later?' and 'utter crap'. (Yes, they are actually named that).

I have also read (paraphrased here) that many people say they want to write but don't actually put pen to paper (or finger to the keyboard). Others start writing and then stop, never to finish any project. The second best advice I have read was: You can only call yourself a writer if you finish the story! When I am having a bad writing day, I keep telling myself this.  So when did I call myself a writer? I stuck to this definition and only dained to call myself a writer when I had finished a few stories and sent them off. (though I have also read since then, that blogs count in this definition). 

I often think of the above when I start procrastinating. Truthfully, is doesn't always get me off my butt. What it does is to remind me that I am not alone in my struggles. It gives me inspiration to write... something. Anything.  

Finally three weeks later, I am on the downhill slide and this short story is almost done. During this time, I have written down an idea for another short story, finished a section of an art project that I have (not surprisingly) put off and completed a first draft of another short story. I have now managed 2973 words, a spell check, a major edit, three minor re-edits and four proofreads (hopefully with the last one to go) of An Eye for Detail.  

It is due to be emailed out by the 20th so I have another week for the final stage. Fear of rejection. Every time I reach this stage of a short story, I start wondering if it will be good enough. I balk at the possibility of rejection. I then think of my two mantas (outlined above), yet again. 

Anything is better than nothing; it will never be perfect. and

You can only call yourself a writer if you finish  the story!

Within the next two days, I will regain my resolve, boosted with the above advise, and email the story. If I don't, I cannot call myself a writer and the dream will  dissolve. I would love another 1000 words to fill it out more but I am restricted with the word limit of 3000. I am content with the imperfect version I have now. I have come to terms with the fact that the story will never be perfect. I will keep the character development and interaction rather than re-writing and adding more detective stuff. It my choice. 

The competition is really just an excuse to give me a deadline and a spark for an idea. Ironically, I write because I enjoy it; I write because I have to. 

Yet I still procrastinate.

Practice, Practice, Practice. An impromptu writing exercise.

I noticed, dear readers, that many of you prefer gorey Vampires to Victorian stories. Hopefully you will like today's offering.
As today is my 100th blog post (partying will ensue later)... I give you a full story.

Yesterday, my friend Alonya and I were chatting away online.. I was supposed to be writing; she was supposed to be studying. She proposed some fun and started off a story. Some of you will probably recognise it as a form of writing exercise. Each person writes a sentence or paragraph and the next person is left to take up the story. Here is the result, published with permsission: My words are marked by 'K' and Alonya's with 'A'. 

Kitty versus the Zombies.(named post-writing)

A:  High on the seventh floor in an apartment on the other side of the country...

K: a cat pushed its way through the cat flap to find its owner lying face down in a pool of blood most inconveniently having had knocked over the food bowl.

A: On her neck was 3 claw marks...

K: suprisingly large for the small cats that frequented the abode.

A: But she had been researching claw marks for her writing and had discovered that cats have 5 claws on each front paw and 4 on each back foot.

K: Hmmm... thought the cat. I must really find a new residence. This one is getting too crowded.

A: However that cat upon trying to leave the residence found that the unusual sized door was in fact locked, thus trapping it inside alone with the dead owner.
K: There was a murmuring behind her. She turned to see her owner staring at her with blank eyes, clawing her way slowly along the floor towards where she sat.

A: Thought the cat. Here we could have some fun.

K: Maybe I should point out that it was sheep's brains in the food bowl.

A: As she nimbly jumped over the slow moving owner to a vantage point high above the shambling mound that once fed her...

K: ... she knocked over the candle that had been carelessly left alight.

A: As the wax dripped onto the floor the owner realised that the fire from the candle was something to be feared. The cat also was fearful of fire as had all animals been since the dawn of time.

K: Luckily, the owner had a habit of leaving the window open. Now if only she could guarantee landing on her feet, from the seventh floor!

A: The cat leaped out of the window in a single graceful movement to discover that the window lead to the balcony overlooking the river.

K: She glanced behind her. She would miss being fed and cuddled but there were many more (less-Zombiefied) owners in the world. That is what crazy cat ladies were for.

A: Scanning the area from the vantage point, the cat saw there was another balcony, just a short jump from her own balcony. Knowing that the other balcony was owned by another feeder that liked cats and would provide a sunny spot for sleeping and a full food bowl.

K: She could now smell the faint odour of burning flesh and hoped she could insinuate herself into the new household before the flames really took hold.

A: Upon landing on the wall of the balcony, she was immediately confronted by a large figure dressed in a shiny set of clothing unlike she had ever seen before. Kicking up her haunches ready to pounce, the shiny figure started to slowly move towards her.

Clank, clank, clank.

K: The cat, having led a relatively sheltered life until now, had never seen medieval (oid) armour before. Mind you, she had never encountered a zombie before either. This would really be something to tell the grand kids!

"Kitty!" cooed the metal encased stranger.

A:The armoured hand reached out towards the cat, hand opened. As the hand came closer she heard her name coming from the other seventh floor apartment.

K:  The cat blinked sweetly at the helmeted face. Hi, I am Kitty it thought. I don't know who that strange non-person is calling.

A: Kitty launched herself at the figure, all claws unsheathed ready to catch on as she landed.

K: As she glided through the doorway, into the new apartment, the figure lifted it's visor to reveal blank staring eyes and a drooling grin. 

Oh, f...! thought Kitty, as she twisted to avoid the armoured figure and landed inside the apartment. She looked up to see a sea of zombified faces looking at her....

A: Letting out a screeching yelp she launched herself in an all out panic streaking through the slow moving legs of the gathered zombies.

K: By chance, the last zombie to arrive to the gathering had left the front door open. Kitty barreled towards the door, sliding into the hallway and towards the lift. Smoke was starting to seep out of her old apartment, a thin layer collecting in the hallway. The door rattled and then opened. 

Flaming zombies! Kitty screeched as her ex-owner and her new friends shuffled through the smoke towards her.

A: At that moment, the lift door opened.

K: Kitty headed to the lift, the zombie hoarde following determinedly. She jumped into the lift. After what seemed several lifetimes, the doors slid shut, severing one of the probing zombie hands as it left the rest behind.

A: But Kitty realised she had a problem. With the doors closed behind her, she had no idea how to make the magical box work.

K: She could hear the scraping on the door of the box as it sat there for a few minutes. There was a sudden shudder as the lights on the wall lit up and flickered. The box started moving...

A: Down. Kitty realised that the box was falling. Crouched into the corner of the box she waited. With her ears flat, tail all fluffy, she waited. For the impact of the box. Suddenly the dropping stopped and the doors opened with a woosh. She could feel fresh air on her sensitive nose.

K:

She turned back towards the apartment building, now engulfed in flames. She decided apartment living was not for her; too many zombies. She walked off with her dignity intact, to find a crazy cat lady, preferably one that was very much alive.

------

It was a fun afternoon. This sort of writing exercise keeps me on my toes, not knowing where the story will lead. Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thanks Alonya!

(My first zombie story)