NEW YEAR'S RESOLU...OH, TO HECK WITH ALL THAT!

I struggle at this time of the year. Not so much with the shiny, squeaky new beginnings. More with maintaining a regular regime built on those rose-coloured fresh-out-of-the-box intentions. 

At the start of a new year, my heart rebels against the traditions of diary keeping, resolution making, to-do list mania. By just about now, I miss a day, or several days, a week, and suddenly, the perfectionist in me feels it's getting left behind on the starting blocks! Then the problem’s doubled with every passing day. The more I feel I’ve missed or dropped the ball while playing 'keepy-uppy', the more overwhelming it seems to get 'back on track'. Crazy but true! I should resolve to do better this year, but there I go again. It’s those darned resolutions that seem to press the pause button on forward motion!

It can apply to all sorts. Diary entries. Blogging. Arbitrary targets. The more goals I set, the less I feel inspired. I'm one of those who thrives on wiggle room. Not least in writing. What about you? I find the ideas that get me buzzing come unbidden in the dead of the night, or after an hour in the silence, off piste, off the map, off the timetable. 

Socrates, now. He didn't think much of writing. (Sorry, Soxy boy, I know that's an outrageous oversimplification!) He never wrote down his thoughts. It took his pupil Plato, among others, to commit his master’s words to paper and hand them down to future generations. Socrates said (or was it Plato putting words in his mouth?) that writing things down leads to forgetfulness. For me, regimented writing, the diaries and the spreadsheets, just because night's turned to day or there's an r in the month, kills my vibe. Once pressure is off, I can gladly and gratefully scribble away at any hour of day or night. 

Not writing things down? No. Never going to happen. How do inspirations get processed and passed along if you don't record them somehow? Even when you have a Plato to your Socrates, you’re dependent on the one who curates your content and on what they think you said. Socrates had his Plato, so we know him principally that way, by pupil proxy. But at best, it's going to be lost in translation, whispered from lip to ear round the circle in a Victorian parlour game, emerging as something barely resembling the original.

Unlike Socrates, I can’t imagine not writing. It’s my preferred way of relaxing, of challenging myself, of finding out what I actually think or feel or intuit and then sharing it, connecting with others. I have no plans to stop, even if I could! 

I enjoyed every second of writing my first novel, editing it, typesetting it, getting it out there, blogging about its background and genesis. I enjoy sharing it. I enjoy the feedback. I love that people enjoy it, or get frustrated at or enchanted by one of the characters.

I'm enjoying planning my second book, the writing, the letting it all coalesce and mature. Then come the expectations. As soon as you realise other people are hanging on the hope of a sequel, the pressure is on, like the unwritten diary page or the missed appointment. We need to hang on mindfully to the truth that every word we write is first for ourselves, then for others if they happen to choose to read it. We really need to stop concerning ourselves, as writers, as humans, with what others think, or demand or expect. 

Just breathe, one breath, then the next breath and the one after that.  One step, then the next, one foot in front of the other. One word, then another, then the one after that. For the sheer joy of it, always.

Sometimes, we feel the pressure to match or compare one piece of writing with the next. Maybe we need to let go of wanting the present moment's project to rival anything, but just to let what we produce become exactly what it needs to be, precious in its own right. Able to be graciously marinaded in the edit or fed without regrets into the shredder.

As I coax my characters through their story arcs, piecing together their universe, it’s as if I don’t want to let them down. The same with each poem. I want them to be everything I desire for them, like children. Yet, like children, I know I just have to bring them into the world, love them, nurture them and let them go, toddling out into print so they can be friends with people who haven't even met them yet. 

A  daily straitjacket, especially now my energy levels are so variable in chronic illness, sometimes trips me up or freezes me out from the fires of spontaneity . This year is going to be different! (Was that a pesky new year resolution, sneaking in, there?) It’s down to me, calmly staying present, being very gentle and kind to myself. Are you planning to give yourself the same TLC this year? Be your own best encourager. Your own cheerleader. Go on, why not? Don't be so hard on yourself. Failure isn’t an option. Precisely because nothing is failure, unless you label it so. This year, dear one, don't punish yourself. Rip up the calendar if you need to. Just never let your fire go out!

BLOCK-BUSTERS THAT HELP BUST THROUGH CREATIVE BLOCKS

We all bash our heads on them, sometimes, don't we? Brick walls. Creative blocks.

Sometimes the block's as wrinkly and stubborn as the biggest elephant you can fit in the room.

Sometimes the block comes over all soft and squishy but it still ends up suffocating your flow like a massive pillow with odd feathers spilling out to make you sneeze with sheer frustration.

I don't so much get blocked with writing in general. Oh no. It's much more specific than that. It's only now in enforced ill-health retirement I'm getting down to penning the novels I've always dreamed of writing, those longer projects, that the dreaded block taps me smugly on my unsuspecting shoulder.

Indignant me growls: "But I love this story! I love writing it! So why am I more inclined to write my boring old shopping list than pick up where I left off with the first draft?"

Yes. I get blocked with whatever the main project is. All other writing becomes a tempting seductress of a sideline. I can procrastinate as much as I like,  writing other things, shorts, poems, comments, letters, emails, blogposts, serendipitous daily scribblings. Nothing wrong with any of that. Trouble is, the block's still there, waiting, where it was all along. Helping me avoid the risk of not getting the perfect word in the perfect sentence first time around. Not reaching 'The End'.

Once I realise what the block really is, I can face it. I can thumb my nose at it and get on with the job in hand. It isn't an anonymous block, you see. It's that little voice inside me that talks in the irritating critical accent only I can understand.

For me it's my perfectionism.

For me it's my fear of failure.

For me it's my wanting to keep my options open.

For me it's the ludicrous grammar nerdish inner pedant.

It's all manner of unhelpful things. Specific things. Specific lies. Once I've identified them and pinned them to the desk, they haven't the power to bully me into neglecting the very thing that brings me most joy, for one moment longer.

So I self-medicate these days for this common ailment of us crazy creatives.

There is help out there. Help that rings true because it comes from other writers who have been there. Like most of us, they've been there daily but won't quit!

Two books I find especially therapeutic for kicking the blocks into touch and tricking my inner critic into allowing me back to the page, I always keep at my elbow as I write these days. I think of them as my block-busters. My life-savers!

One was a present from a very dear writer friend who had found it helpful.

Julia Cameron's "The Artist's Way Every Day; a Year of Creative Living."

The other was bought as a treat for myself after I read it in the bibliography to another of Cameron's books and simply couldn't resist the title:

Susan Shaughnessy's "Walking on Alligators: a book of meditations for writers."

Wherever I open them, there are bite-sized nuggets of good-humoured wisdom. Best thing is, they really help me get past my pesky personal writing-resistant sticking points. Perhaps the latter's my favourite writing encouragement book of all. My go-to lifesaver block-buster!

A page or two and I can laugh at my inner cowardly lion or elephant again. Laugh at it, cuddle it compassionately and more importantly, plunge back into writing the manuscript.

I wonder what your own personal blocks and block-busters are?

I'd really love to hear about them! (In the moments before we all head thankfully back to the unwritten page only we can write!)

Thanks for stopping by!

Writer's Block Buster: 'Play-date' with my heroine brings fresh insights and inspiration

You know the classic cartoon meme of the hapless character who runs off the cliff, but only falls when he looks down, causing suspended gravity to kick in, splattering him on the canyon floor?

Do you ever get to a point in your first draft when, like that character, you're running along at breakneck speed, creating your fiction with blissful abandon? Then, two thirds of the way through, as the plot becomes ever more clear to you, you grind to a halt, over-analyzing and second guessing yourself ? You itch to edit edit edit, change course, look down, and suddenly you're stymied and blocked, lying splattered with bruised wings on the canyon floor?

That's what happened to me last week while scooting gleefully through the first draft of my second novel "Kittiwake and Cloudhover." My feisty heroine Thirza and my wildlife whispering hero Bram from "Goatsucker Harvest" find themselves hurtling towards the dizzying cliffs of Flamborough on the Holderness Coast, summer 1856. Suddenly, I found myself temporarily stuck in the wet sand, caught in a bind between my writing and editing brains.

So, I was inspired to try to find my own solution. Maybe you'll find this approach helpful, too. Maybe you have your own self-restart buttons to press? I'd love to hear about them!

I let myself skip off for a quick off-piste "play date" with my heroine, letting Thirza tell me, in her own inimitable voice, how she saw the plot, the other characters, from start to finish.

It gave my querulous inner critic the night off. 8000 words later, I had some useful fresh plot twists, insights and inspiration. I'd also been able to "kill" some of my floppier "darlings" plus some of Thirza's turns of phrase cried out for inclusion in future drafts.

So, with a clearer road map, a renewed purpose, rested and refreshed, it's a joy to put my hands back on the tiller and steer for the end of the first draft again.

I'm excited for the day in the future when I can share more of these crazy, cliffhanging emotional adventures with you!

Thanks for reading and for all your support, amazing reviews, laughs, and for sharing my writing journey!

Writing as sculpture: finding and freeing the treasure hidden inside the rock

Writing feels to me a bit like carving a sculpture: it's as if I'm finding and freeing the treasure hidden inside the rock.

First come the seed ideas, the months of thinking and dreaming about my characters, their lives, their situations, the plot, the research that may never make its way into the finished novel, but which is the solid grounding reality and background to everything. That's the stone.

Then second, once it reaches a tipping point where all the elements are in place and I can no longer resist the writing, comes the first draft. That helps me see clearly the seams and fault lines of my characters, the shape and flow of the plot, the dovetailing strands of the story as I chip away. Now I can make full eye contact with the characters I dreamed up, hear them speak, smell and taste their world more vividly than before. That's the sculpting.

Then comes the editing, editing and re-editing which I love. It's like the tumble-polishing of the whole piece, murdering my darlings, killing dead adjectives, spotting typos, reordering, throwing it out to my faithful proofreaders to savage and sniff out the impurities and howlers. That's the smoothing.

Once it's published and out in the world with the readers it was born to meet, my writing can then be enjoyed and explored by everybody from their different viewpoints, preferences, angles, looking at the crystal with all its different facets, each reader taking away something different from my story. Such a privilege and joy when some are unable to look away until the end, getting what they need from the book I sculpted, perhaps treasuring it as a favourite read to return to again and again, each time getting something different from it.

I'm currently having such fun immersed in the sculpting stage of my second novel, which sees my heroine and hero from "Goatsucker Harvest" going into deep waters, dangers and wildlife dilemmas in a Humber Keel off Yorkshire's Holderness Coast and the sea cliffs and caves around Flamborough Head in the 1850s.

If you enjoyed this blog post, please let me know by commenting and please feel free to share your own ideas and experiences of writing and reading.

Thanks for stopping by!

You can find me on Facebook Twitter and Goodreads



.

Dribbles and Dabbles with Drabbles

Dribbles? Drabbles?

Not altogether gobbledygook if you bear with me!

When you're writing, "dribbles" often describes the fragmented way the storytelling progresses: a dribble of inspiration here, a dribble of frantic scribbling there, seasoned with a dribble of banging your head on the keyboard!

"Drabbles" on the other hand, are a method I find useful to help pull my "dribbles" of creativity together along the writing journey. I hope this idea may help you, too. Sometimes when those "dribbles" seem to be drying up, a "drabble" or two can prime the pump and get your story-brain refreshed, released and ready to weave those words into gold.

I'm reaching the tipping point of my new novel. The research is done. The plot is arced. The procrastinating side-projects are frustratingly complete. The blind alleys of my storyland are cordoned off with Hi-Vis "Do Not Enter" tape. The characters are alive in my head. I can hear what they'd say and picture the situations they're about to get themselves into. The sense of place just off the Yorkshire Coast is so real to me I can smell the seaweed and feel the spray stinging my characters' skin and the change of light before dusk. I've chalk under my nails from clinging onto the sheer cliffs in my imagination. I'm raring to go! My first draft is beckoning me to plunge over the edge of those risky still-blank pages and swim for dear life to the shore at the end of the tale.

So, when your dribbles run dry, maybe it's time for a dabble with a drabble!

The wiki says: Drabble: A drabble is a short work of fiction of around one hundred words in length, not necessarily including the title. The purpose of the drabble is brevity, testing the author's ability to express interesting and meaningful ideas in a confined space.

In other words, flash fiction. For me, it's just a great way of getting my writing flowing whenever it stalls. If I have a scene from the novel that's in my mind for later, getting in the way of the current plotline, a "drabble" dealing with that character, that plot twist, that conflict, that setting, is a way of getting creative instead of blocked. Maybe the seeds from the drabble will be grist to the mill of a new story, an unexpected turn, a deepening of some exchange within the book. It doesn't even have to be connected. A drabble can get you writing again when you're overwhelmed. It's non-threatening, expendable, achievable almost anywhere, anytime. It's that blank page clothed in purpose, colour, forward motion.

It can even become a part of your work in progress. It can ignite a dormant creative spark. It can be your own private pool of light-bulb moments. It can be a short holiday break for your imagination to go exploring again before coming home rejuvenated to the work in hand. It can be just what you need it to be!

Wishing you joy and word-woven blessings, whether you're a fellow writer, reader, a fan of GOATSUCKER HARVEST or you've just wandered in to do a bit of procrastination from your own personal challenges today! Welcome!

"Tropical Storm Zeta 2005" by NASA image courtesy Jeff Schmaltz, MODIS Rapid Response Team, Goddard Space Flight Center 

Here's a quick 102-word drabble I've written which may or may not get its seat at the banquet in my WIP:



Waves roll upside down, sucking the sky beneath through lips like a dolphin's. Head spinning now.
A guillemot skittles out of a cliff-face inverted inches from her nose. A vortex of fish oil tang closes her throat. 
"Did you see it? Careful! Sit down, you'll have us overboard!"
Disembodied voices far above.
"Below, I mean..." Trying to correct herself, steady herself. The strap creaks. Too much give in it.
Blood-singing, suffocating closeness all around, yet the salt spray's icy, flinging itself down in an arc and falling back upwards into stormclouds.
The scream seems to be her own as the sea explodes.

Like Joyce Barrass - author on Facebook
Follow me on Goodreads
Find out more on Joyce Barrass's Amazon author page
Follow me on Joyce's Twitter
Joyce on Google +