On getting sick of your writing

As authors, we go through a roller coaster of emotions when it comes to our own writing. We love the concept, but hate this scene we can't get quite right. We adore our main character, but hate that the villain seems to one-sided. We call in and out of love with many aspects of our stories.

I'm at this stage with The Unanswerable where I am sick of it. I wrote it two years ago, rewrote it earlier this year, edited it once a month ago, and now I'm editing it again.

There's a few scenes that I hate because they aren't right yet. There's a few scenes that I adore because they make me cry or bite my nails because they are spot on.

But I'm sick of my own story. Trying to make the blah scenes pop with the vitality they should have is frustrating. Combing over the good scenes to make them the best they can be is tedious. I've read the story too many times to have a fresh perspective. The concept, and the story itself, are starting to feel stale.

So what now? When your inspiration and motivation for a piece are gone, what do you do?

I force myself to edit it one more time, and then I pass it off to an alpha reader--in this case, my husband. He's my concept developer. When I want to make sure the story works, I ask him. He points out weak scenes, tells me what I've done well, and provides me with a fresh look on my writing.

Getting sick of my own work doesn't mean the story is bad. It means I need a new set of eyes; someone else to be nit-picky. I need someone to confirm, "Yes, this is a flaw" or tell me, "No, you're being overly critical."

Developmental feedback can be obtained through alpha readers, friends, or even a developmental editor. If you find your eyes glazing over at your own words, it's time for another person to step in.

Don't worry, The Unanswerable is still on its way to being published, even if I am sick of it. I still think it's a powerful story, I just can't figure out how to punch up the scenes that need work.

The second set of eyes always helps.

--

If you are looking for more advice on editing, consider reading Why We Edit, an article I wrote for the independent author collective, The Scriptors.

Day 21: Have a Teaser

She clung to her legs and squeezed her eyelids together.  Come on, she said to herself.  Come on, if I can just get back there one more time, I know I can figure it out.  She imagined the field.  She could almost taste the sweet air that had once filled her lungs.  A bird flapped its wings.  She opened her eyes and stared at the graffiti covered door in front of her.

Jess swung her leg out, kicking the toilet paper dispenser.  The force of it reverberated in the walls and sent a shock wave through her leg.  Her nose scrunched as the repugnant smell from the toilets reached her nostrils and nestled there.

Her head spun, the ground fell away from her feet.  She floated on nothing, and the turning of her stomach wouldn’t stop.  Jess hopped down from the toilet and threw the lid open, just in time to retch her stomach bile into the stained toilet.  It only made her gag more, seeing that spill out from inside her.  

-----

Though a part of me is disappointed, I am grateful my manuscript is no longer "hanging in the balance."  I received a solid "No," which means I have more places to submit it to!  I have never received a rejection, other than for short stories, because I've never submitted.  The fact that I had the strength to submit, finally, only gives me more hope for myself as a writer.

And besides, there were only 30 (35?) winners out of 300 - and there are some brilliant, unpublished authors out there.  RUHE may not be the strongest piece of work by me, but it is the first finished piece.  It is coherent, and it does have a decently strong female lead, but it is more of the typical coming of age.  

But I'm very excited for Soul Therapy (again, I still need a new title) because it is less typical, and my main character suffers from huge anxiety - see excerpt above.

I think she touches on something that a lot of people overlook.  Panic disorder is a real thing, something that many people struggle with, myself included.  Granted, I'm not nearly as bad as Jessica is, but I find it hard to control my own emotions.  A surge of fear sweeps over your every cell, the hairs on the back of your neck stretch upwards and you can't explain it, you simply are worried, panicking, over everything.  You think, this is it, this is the end of the world, the end of my life.  Your breath outruns you and your body starts to act like your are drowning on air.

It's heavy, it's frustrating.  And a lot of people don't discuss it.  Hell, a lot of people think that it is "normal" to have some anxiety.  There is a difference between a stressful situation versus being unable to breathe, move, or function because you are shaking so much.

If I had known panic attacks existed when I was younger, I wouldn't have assumed that it was "normal."  I would have realized that there was something different about the way I see the world.  And with that knowledge, I might have handled a lot of things in my teenage years in a very different manner.  Though, I must say, my curling up into a ball underneath the covers with my teeth chattering because I was freezing in 100 degree weather certainly makes for a good character.  Jess is the pinnacle of that:  Someone who is afraid of disappointing anyone with massive anxiety attached.

And I love her, probably a little bit too much, because she is so close to home.  RUHE was the opposite.  I had no knowledge of that girl's life, I had never been in her shoes - I still think her story is interesting, but I didn't have such a connection with her.  Jess is different.  We're kindred, and because of that, I think Soul Therapy will be my stronger piece, and possibly, the first piece I get published.

Oh Coffee, I loate you...

This is my ode to coffee.

My ode to a really, horribly sour deep brown that I used to spit out and cringe at the smell. My ode to adding in far too much sugar, natural and raw, and too much almond milk and still making the cringe when I sip through my cup.

I can drink tea plain, but not you, Coffee, no not you. You are too strong for my head, you cause swelling and pain and frustration. You smell so delicious after the flavors and sugars and creams that I feel delighted, enticed by you. But that the end of the day, you remain the same. A now milky brown liquid that has the same, devastating effect on me.

I sip you from my royal blue cup and inhale your intoxication. I swim in the magic of your caffeinated dreams for just a moment. I perk up because of you, get more intense with my words, seeking and soaking in your wisdom. It isn't you that motivates me, but it is me consuming you that keeps me going.

So my ode to you, coffee, and your horrible nature, your deadly grasp on my brain. I wish I could quit, sometimes, because of what happens to my sleep.

Sleep, my ode to sleep, my ode to dreams, my odes...

My night is spent tossing and turning, awake and yearning for the sweet caress of the sandman. I awake not once, not twice, but three times from dreams, small bumps in the night, and I'm alert. A switch got flicked on in my brain and it swells with thoughts mixed with dreams. I cannot tell if I am awake or sleeping until I realize I've been wide-awake the whole time. Eyes open, glazed over, transported to another place. Another moment where the demons come out, haunted by your touch. You've awoken them, you have, with that claw you wrap around my dreams.

Oh, Coffee, why is our relationship so tumultuous? The interesting, shadowy nightmares, the desire for more vivid an imagination, a more un-tapped deeper, darker place. You bring me there. My writer's eye is so fascinated, but my soul is shivering, alone in the corner, begging the writer to drink tea again. Stop with the coffee, she says. The writer waves her away, no, we need to see where this rabbit hole goes. And we drop further down, mixing our dreams with reality until the very essence of both are lost, wrapped up together, as one.

Yes, Coffee, I do hate you, even though I still drink you. The dreams you give me are horribly frightening, but the creative switch that it triggers is greatly enlightening.

-------

I know this technically isn't poetry, but I couldn't think of a better main category to stick it into. I find that this would probably be better named "slam poetry" or something of that nature. No, it isn't traditional, but yes, I am a writer, and I can break the rules (sometimes).

Delete

He stared at the letter, reading the words over and over to himself, his eyes skimming the page backwards and forwards.  He couldn't believe that he had received another one.  Frustrated, his fingers clenched on the keys.  He wanted to find the right words to send back, something to scream "You made the wrong choice."  But instead, they just softened instead.  His right hand moved over to the mouse and he hovered the cursor over the "Delete" key.  If only there were some way to go back, edit the past, make him look and sound better on paper.  Write a biography about himself and send it for review - he was interesting, he was an asset, he was helpful, but here he was stuck, like moss growing on a tree.  He feared that if he moved, he would shrivel to pieces, his whole life would unravel.  Maybe that's why he never tried to "sell himself on paper."

"We regret to inform you that you have not been chosen for this position."  Number seventeen?

Was he to remain stuck at this job for ever.  He looked around his cubicle office, drones of faces, long from boredom, paste white from lack of healthy vitamin D.  He could almost see people throwing themselves out the windows in their mind's eye.  Was he the only one going this crazy, or did people see these things when they looked at him?  A rat clawing at the bars of his cage, praying that the grubby fingers from that chunky five year old won't come back to knock him around.  Hoping that there will be a chance to move through the maze, get the prize at the end and finally rest for a moment in piece.

It had taken this job two months to get back to him, he had almost completely forgotten about it since he had given up hope.  But instead of deciding that he wasn't good enough, he just became pissed off.  He was good enough, and he wanted to rise up and scream it.  In fact, he was rising up and screaming it.

"WHY THE HELL CAN'T I FIND A JOB?!"  He stood on his desk, the soapbox of his life, his moment to live, his moment to decide that survival was better than money.  "All of you, can't you see it, why do you stand for this?!"  He pointed wildly out the window, their building stood facing the bricks of another building, "That view isn't reality, neither is this!"  He kicked over his keyboard, attempted to kick down the cubical wall, but it wouldn't budge from the weight of all the other walls stacked against it.  His foot throbbed in his polished, now scuffed, black dress shoe.  "The real world isn't stuck in your monitors, your life doesn't need to be here!"  His hair shifted into an unruly, brown mesh on the top of his head, his eyes sank from years of committing his life to being in this place.  He remembered all the moments that he waited patiently for a raise, a promotion, something so that he could get a little more money, save more, retire early, finally do what he wanted to do.

"I've been waiting too long!  And I think you have to!"  He climbed over the gray cubical, half walking, half jogging away from the security guards that were now encroaching on his space.  Papers flew out from under his feet, people dodged into their corners, one person from the mail room and copy center clapped, a few sparse chuckles were heard in the office, but mostly, people were scared.

"I'm telling you!  Get out!  Don't waste your life like me!"  As the security guards took this man away, my friend turned to me and asked me if I knew who he was.

I shook my head, "But I'll tell you what, it's these moments that are the only reason worth working in a place like this - when people go crazy.  Everyone has that breaking point."

My friend scowled, "So what happens when you reach yours?"

I smirked, "I just hope that I put on a better show than anyone else - one that people talk about for years to come."

Whipping Boy

His fingernails turned black with dirt, the shovel just wasn't fast enough and his back hurt from the long day.  He turned the soil over, digging farther and farther down.  He kept looking back and forth, measuring with his eyes, making sure that he, indeed, had enough space.  Just a few more inches, he thought, a sly grin growing across his face.  The sky seemed to dance, captivated in his eyes.  A huge weight was lifted off his shoulders as he breathed in the freshly turned dirt - this should be the way everyone celebrates the end of their work week.  He wished so deeply that he could share this strange euphoria with his co-workers.  Maybe they could feel the same, if only they knew his secret.

With a gruff huff, he shoved himself off the ground, wiping his soiled hands on his khaki pants.  He almost laughed at the hand print streaks that they made, how his wife would be so angry with him for messing in the garden again, or what she thought was the garden. 

He walked a few feet east where the five foot some inches long bag was sitting.  He grabbed one edge of it and dragged it slowly towards the slightly longer three foot deep hole in the ground.  The bag rolled into the hole with a sickening thud.  The man scratched his itchy nose and then took another deep breath of fresh dirt and forest.  He didn't care how long it took the cops to find the body, he didn't care if he died after this, he just knew it was time to bask.  He could bask in the moments at work without someone breathing down his shoulder, he could finish his memoirs as everyone frantically figured out what happened to their fearful leader, he might even be congratulated for doing the deed that no one else dreamed of completing, but everyone wished they had the guts to.  Sadly, there was nothing redeemable about the boss in the bag, and although one might wish that there was - that such a cruel act of human violence should be punished, but honestly, this wasn't the person to miss.  The slave driver, manipulator, the person that stepped on everyone else and kept everyone down while clawing their way up the corporate ladder.

Yes, he thought, this was a good thing - and as he covered the bag and dirt sprinkled on the plastic like rain on a rooftop, he knew that this was the only way he could keep living.  It was either the whipper or the whipping boy, and frankly, he thought, there was no way he'd let himself end up in a shallow grave - even if he now would meet his death in a chair.

-----

It's been awhile since I've written.  I wrote another piece that will be submitted to a publisher - once I polish it.  I went on vacation - to a Unitarian Universalist camp in the woods, and it was super relaxing.  It put me back in touch with myself, made me self-reflect.  But while I was lost inside my own head, it was hard to put myself into another set of shoes.  I actually love the feeling that I get from writing.  It was nice to reflect on that, realizing that I am made for something more, and having some people affirm that I am, indeed, a half decent, if not good, writer.  So now I'm back, in full force, for one blog entry a day.  It's go time.

The Empty Page

Dazing, empty page,
Empty words, thoughtless phrases,
Pushing, rotating, drifting,
The heat of worry,
Shoved forward - what if
These are no good - what if
They do not convey
All rushing thoughts
My dreams portrayed
With all to bear,
And we move - what if
They do not say - what if
This is needed
End of the day
Dusky clouds, floating
Thoughts, roaming dreams
Curling the muse up,
How it ought to be,
This is me,
Dazing, empty pages.

Jess

“Anthony, you can’t keep doing this!  We worry about you so much, and … god, I sound like your mom.”

“So then stop worrying okay?  It’s whatever.”  He was lying back on our couch, eating the food that Tyler had just made for him, after we picked him up half dead in the rain storm, and he wanted us not to worry?  Seriously?!

“No, this isn’t okay!  It’s not just whatever!”  Tyler grabbed my arm and I shot bullets at him, “Don’t you stick up for him, not again!”  I stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind me.  I breathed several breaths, calming my head.  Okay, I know, he has a tough life, but to make all of us worry, keep all of us on edge like he does – I never will understand why the rest of the band fell in love with this kid.  He’s like a lost puppy that refuses any real help, but will take the occasional hand out after life really shits on him.  I sighed.

I twisted my lips in thought and marched back into the living room.  “I’m sorry.  That was rude, you called us because you needed help.  And we do love you, it’s just hard to help you when you don’t act like you want it.”

“I never asked for help, I asked for a place to stay.  I asked for some food, and yeah, maybe that’s help, but damn it, what the fuck else am I supposed to do?”  He sat up and we got into a staring contest.  “You want me to just walk back home, hey mom and dad, it’s me, do you love me yet?  Can I talk to you about my fucking problems?  Sorry, I don’t have a support system.” 

My face got hot, “You want to talk to me about support systems, see this?”  I held up Tyler’s arm.  “This is mine!  No parents, no bullshit like that – you don’t like your home life, just get out!”

Anthony rubbed his face with his hands, “Who the hell do you think I go to for support, Jess?”

I was taken aback.  It wasn’t the band that wanted to care for Anthony – it wasn’t that they loved him, it was that Anthony needed them.  As much as I needed Tyler, he depended on these guys to be there for them.  And while it was endearing, it was infuriating to have him bunk with us on so many occasions, have us taxi him around numerous times, play house and act like the adults while he throws away any chance at a normal life.

“Okay, I’m sorry, I got it…”  I sat down next to Tyler, “It’s been a long day, and picking you up at 2am didn’t really help.  I’m exhausted.”

Anthony uncrossed his arms and moved his hair out of his face, “I guess I really don’t thank you guys as much as I should… so, thank you.”  He looked between me and Tyler, “I mean, honestly, I don’t know what else I would do if you two hadn’t come into my life.”  The stupid, dark gray-eyed kid had a way of melting your heart for him.  Even I wanted to protect him, and sometimes, I absolutely hated him.

Jaden

            The lights went down and the energy in the club instantly dwindled to nothing.  I turned on my heels and started walking out the door.  I hesitated for a moment.  What if I'm right, what if he is?  I glanced back to the stage and looked him over - brown hair covering his dark, brooding eyes.  His ripped jeans, his cruddy band t-shirt, everything about him breathed some weird kind of oozing sex drive.  I couldn't peel my eyes off of him.  But I saw the way he interacted with his band mates.  No, he was just another guy, just one of the guys.  And they had their girl groupies already approaching them.  So, I finished my walk out the door and started towards the subway. 

            The street had cleared up a lot in the few minutes that I had hung around.  Thing was, no one wanted to be around here at night - it was the shit part of the city.  Dirty streets, dirty people, and well, me.  I wasn't necessarily dirty, but I'm never going to admit to being the cleanest guy in all of the town either.  But this was also where all the violence happened - and that's what I was thinking about "Geez, I hope no one decides to attack me" when I got dragged into an alleyway by my collar.

            A sharp pain shot through my side, knocking the wind out of me.  "Fucking faggot."  I opened my mouth to scream and felt cold fists cut through my skin, at least it felt that way.  It felt like my head was splitting in two, it felt like my body had given up.  I was caught completely off guard, and I wasn't a fighter anyway.  I was that kid that sat in middle, listened to his parents, and did alright by what "society taught me."  My teachers would call me "goal-oriented."  Hey, no gay bashers, it's totally cool, I'm goal-oriented.  I'm going to give back to society.  Please stop beating me up.  I couldn't even bring my ears to hear what they were yelling, or listen to myself as I sputtered sick copper tasting blood over the pavement.  

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I got stuck creatively.  I continued to write some nonsensical things in a document until something more came out.  This is actually a piece about one of my characters from my novel.  The main character, and the first person, is this guy Anthony - who Jaden meets after this unfortunate incident.  But I felt like, maybe, I should get a better look inside my other character's heads, especially since I can't really write anything right now, this is a good exercise.

But a fun except out of my struggling process:

Tapping my fingers to the sounds of Our Lady Peace thudding through my speakers.  Here I am, now where are you?  The brilliant, creative spirit that has been giving me so much motivation, so many words, and so many ideas.  Here is my time, it's on a platter, open to whatever you feel like filling it with.

Waits.

Waits.

Waiting.

Fine.  I tap my fingers some more at you Sir and/or Madam!

-------

And later: 

RAWR.

RAWR RAWR RAWR.  This is the most frustrating, non-creative day I've had in a very long time.  I'm still convincing myself that if I keep writing something good will happen because of it.  Something good usually happens when I keep writing.  I just have to focus, breathe, fill my energy with positive, "You can totally do it!" thoughts.

Different music.

And so the process goes :)