Okay… okay, I’ll admit it – I haven’t written anything in probably a month. Well, actually, I’ve written things on here, short stories, and some poetry. But I mean something substantial – working on my novel, (if you can call it that!)
Since I’ve started writing semi-seriously, which I suppose has been for the last three years, I have started many novels. Though never finished one, never even coming close to such a feat. I think the furthest I ever got was about 75k words, 200 pages. It was called ‘The World Now,’ and frankly it was shite. Then there came a slew of ideas that never breached the 20k margin. I group these into the ‘No Man’s Land’ of works. Things I don’t remember. Things that were thrown away to never see the light of day again.Then, we reach present day. The period which I like to call ‘The Renaissance.’ A time in which things come together. A place where walls are broken down. Somewhere once hidden values and secrets are placed into a jumble of words to form a sentence. Out of this came the novel I’m still ‘working’ on – ‘Chaos Theory.’ And then the latter stages arrived, a period of little to no writing.
With each iteration, each evolution of my writing, things have become both clearer and impossibly more elusive. The effort required has gone through the roof. And with it the love ascribed. Things have come to weigh much more heavily on my conscience – who my characters are and the actions they undertake. Everything has somehow taken on a whole lot more meaning. Throughout this I have been open to change. Laying down two or three thousand words a day is bound to do that to a person. I accepted that my characters would be part myself, and I part them. Every writer has to do this. We have to thrust ourselves headfirst into it. Otherwise what’s on the page will be two-dimensional, vague, thin.
Some days I found it impossible to write. Lately that has transgressed to all days.
How do I break the cycle? How do I get back into writing every day? It is not so easy. Is it writers block? No, I don’t think so. I’m not sure I believe in such a notion. The act of writing is a complex task. Sometimes the ideas do not flow. Sometimes the words are stale. Sometimes there are no words at all. It is these days I hate the most. The days when I look forward to the future when I will be able to write once again.
I don’t punish myself for this. There will come a time when all returns, as vibrant as ever.
I keep looking upon the last word of the last thing I have written. It says ‘Shadmu,’ the name of a mysterious character I have developed. And I cannot think beyond that point. I cannot arrive at the destination that follows. It is a funny thing to delve into the consciousness of ideas and be greeted with utter emptiness. The feeling of nothing being there, and yet knowing it’s all there, only hiding.
I wait. Maybe it will be tomorrow. Maybe it will be the day after. Or the week after. Or the month after. However long, the words will come. I’m ccertain of it.