WARNING: This is a post of whimsy and a stream of consciousness under the influence of a glass of wine and the pressure of a thirty minute countdown until my better half returns home.
LOCATION: Kitchen Table
DOING: Typing on iPad, iPod dock on with music on shuffle
My mind has been busy during the week since I have last posted. And I don’t mean with the humdrum of life, I mean between washing the dishes, going to work, picking out what to wear in the morning, cooking the tea etc.
It’s like my mind has developed it’s own way of occupying itself during those normally blank and serene moments.
It’s trying to problem solve the embryonic plot I have whirling around the recesses of my brain but it’s whirling so fast I can’t catch it. And when I try to, it ricochets off the wall of my consciousness and sets off down a different path.
And then I trance out to the musical accompaniment that is inevitably playing in the background.
This could be in the car on the way to or from work, in the kitchen when I am washing the dishes or in my mind when it wanders to the safety of musical verse.
Music is great for providing nostalgia. A time, a place, an emotion – sometimes all of the above. Then the threads of nostalgia weave me back into writer mode – how can I capture that? How can I describe that feeling? Would my characters feel like that?
Can I write that?
And then I panic.
I’ve become a ‘wannabe’ writer.
I’ve subscribed to a writing magazine.
I’m a member of writing forums.
I’ve signed up to a course.
I scour the competition pages.
I have index cards, A3 paper, a white board and marker pens.
I have a cloud based research account.
I have a writers notebook.
I read. Alot.
I have a bluetooth keyboard for my iPad.
But the only thing I can bring myself to write is this blog.
I have the ‘Writers and Artists Guide: How to Write’ on the table next to me. I picked it up from my bedside table at the same time I picked up this iPad. And instead of reading about writing, I opted to write instead.
Which I guess is good.
But something deep in my gut remains unfulfilled.
My characters aren’t fully formed, my plot is full of holes, my world is full of contradictions and my conflict is undetermined.
I want to create characters like the ones that lived with me when I was growing up, in fact sometimes still live with me now. It doesn’t take much to recall them but when they appear, they are as 3D and as comforting as they were when I first discovered them.
If I can’t create my own characters that I want to spend time with, fight for – even fight with – then this writing game might not be for me after all.
I’m a writer in crisis.