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Wednesday was one of the strangest days I’ve had in recent writing. I woke up sore, and it took half an hour to get my joints to agree to rise. The syndrome pain was a little worse than usual, enough to make concentrating difficult. It seemed the harder I tried to focus, the less I could hold on, and so it was two hours before I hit my proper flow in composition.
The above isn’t so strange. Nor was it so strange that
hitting my daily 1,000 words left me mentally exhausted, unable even to follow
a television show. The syndrome seemed to insist on worsening, and I hit
exercise as early as possible to head off what was coming.
I almost passed out stepping off the elliptical. My body was
furious with me for trying to exercise, summoning its typical muscle spasms and
joint-locking. I tried to soak and found we were out of hot water. I made tea that was too bitter no matter what I put in it.
My typical healthy dinner felt entirely unfilling, yet I couldn’t figure out
what else to eat. My nightly check-in with my grandfather was unusually rough, as his dementia was acting up, leaving him aware that he couldn't finish his own sentences, and very frustrated with it. There was nothing appealing on television, the internet
seemed dry of anything except partisan bitching, and thanks to the atrocious
Battle.net, Diablo 3 was lagging to unplayable levels. I couldn’t even sell off
my old gear at their Auction House because their authentication scheme required
devices I don’t own.
When I tried reading A
Feast for Crows, I found I was in that dead zone near the center with all
the extraneous new characters that fans found boring. I confess thinking that
if I was going to do anything with words tonight, it ought to be producing
them, not consuming Martin’s chapter about a knight fingering a pregnant woman.
Tea, dinner and books are all supposed to calm me down from
writing, yet with every passing hour I got worse. By 10:00 PM I was a
rigorously unpleasant human being to be around. And so I gave up on everything
else, and just dove back into the manuscript. I fell into a sweet spot where I
was just uncritical enough to produce and critical enough to streamline that I
lost track of time.
By midnight, even with a hazy mind, I was up to 3,000 words.
It was my single most productive day writing in years. Loving this novel certainly
helps, but I loved it yesterday and only logged half that progress. It’s more
perplexing because I’ll typically give writing a shot no matter how burned by
the syndrome my mind gets, and usually I fail or only make it a little ways in.
I’ve been pushing my limits for the last several weeks.
40,000 words in 26 days is hoofing it by my history. I’ve been discovering ways
to trick myself into working more, or returning later. Where evenings were
impossible last year, they’re back as creative times now. Still I’m wondering
how Wednesday night worked. I didn’t just add several thousand words; I
corrected a bunch more, all while hardly able to sit up, sometimes leaning on
the desk for support. And I know I laughed often doing it.
Has anyone else had such experiences, in their mental or
emotional wastelands? Are they outliers for you, or are you used to them?
You are a far better and more dedicated soul than I. In those instances, I give up and sleep. I'm no good to right when surly and pessimistic. I'm no good for anything.
ReplyDeleteI'm glad you were able to channel it all into writing and editing.
Stacey
I've had a little practice at dedication. What's weird is when the taxing thing is more relaxing than all the other things one could be doing. I still don't understand how it works cognitively.
DeleteDefinitely. I am most productive in the waste.
ReplyDeleteDoes that mean you seek out the waste, Ross?
DeleteNah. It knows where to find me. It looks like Gmork from the NeverEnding Story. It always brings a cheap bottle of wine even though I don't drink, and leaves the tap dripping after using the bathroom.
DeleteThis makes total sense to me. The night I wrote the first story I ever sold, I was up way too late, I was incredibly pissed off about something (funny how you can never remember what later on), and I was just getting over a cold. When the words started coming, I wasn't even trying to write. I remember panicking that I would forget the introduction in the few seconds it took to launch the word processor application.
ReplyDeleteHaha, oh I've opened Microsoft Word in haste so many times in the pursuits of getting an idea down. I can't remember the last time I wrote anything other than an essay in anger, though. I tend to sublimate, or the negativity at least tends to spread out into other manifestations, like the general bitchyness I experienced Wednesday.
DeleteI can't really relate to this, I just sit down and write, I write all over the place, I don't push myself, I just do it even when I physically shouldn't, but sometimes I back off , like now and give myself a complete rest from it.
ReplyDeleteYou are hard on yourself John, but I can see that you channel your discomfort into something productive that gives you a sense of pleasure and achievement - well done!
Of course I'm hard on myself. Who else will let me be hard on them other than me?
DeleteI'd say I envied your more laid back approach to composition, but I honestly love what I'm producing, even if I am getting worried about potential consequences. I'm so excited for things coming up in later chapters.
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DeleteJohn, what I love about the writerly community is that you realise you truly aren't alone. Yes I have those days, and in the old days I'd usually hate on eveything I wrote and bin the lot. However my writing group threatened me with violence if I trashed any more of the MS while in a funk. The result is, strangely, the work is usually pretty good (or at least useable) in the clear light of a better day. I sure don't understand the creative process...
ReplyDeleteSometimes what comes out of a wasteland period is trash, and it just has to be dumped. But sometimes I find myself tapping irreverence or blasphemy that I couldn't have brought my mind to in a more composed state. That was the Wednesday experience, including the midnight setup of a later chapter that will be over the top in a way I just can't wait to write.
DeleteI'm a four-year veteran of National Novel Writing Month, which I now use as the centerpiece of a four-to-five-month novel drafting process. Yes, the feeling you describe is more than familiar; I call it "the awful noise of the rubber hitting the road." It's the feeling that sets in as the brain realizes you mean business, and the solution is the classical butt-in-chair.
ReplyDeleteAnd by the way, the quality of the work is completely independent of your feeling while doing it.
When I'm angry and out-of-joint, I don't write. Maybe I'd get more words on the page if I did.
ReplyDelete