#either way brian michael bendis might be my new worst enemy

[bobbinalong]

i just cannot stand the way bendis writes. if 40% of the page is covered in speech bubbles, maybe cut down the fucking dialogue, dear god

[seanpatricklittlewriter]

Vicious Cycle

 A while back, I wrote about the physical aspects of my creative process—where I write, the tools I used, etc… Now, to mix it up a little bit, I want to talk about the mental aspects of the creative process, at least the mental aspects of my creative process. I can’t speak for every creative person, and I certainly can’t speak for other writers.

 I am impressed by how some writers have an incredible, workman-like approach to the craft. Stephen King is amazing, of course. He is prolific. He writes every day, rain or shine, holiday or not. He’s at his desk by seven or eight in the morning, and he goes until lunch, maybe later.  Of course, there are other writers than make King look like he’s suffering from writer’s block. John Creasy, a British mystery novelist, has written over 500 books under a dozen pen names. That guy is a workhorse.  In Stephen King’s book, ON WRITING: A MEMOIR OF THE CRAFT, King talks about Anthony Trollope:

“At the other end of the spectrum, there are writers like Anthony Trollope. He wrote humongous novels (Can You Forgive Her? is a fair enough example; for modern audiences it might be retitled Can You Possibly Finish It?), and he pumped them out with amazing regularity. His day job was as a clerk in the British Postal Department (the red public mailboxes all over Britain were Anthony Trollope’s invention); he wrote for two and a half hours each morning before leaving for work. This schedule was ironclad. If he was in mid-sentence when the two and a half hours expired, he left that sentence unfinished until the next morning. And if he happened to finish one of his six-hundred-page heavyweights with fifteen minutes of the session remaining, he wrote The End, set the manuscript aside, and began work on the next book.”

That is an admirable work ethic. And an incredible pace. Every writer has to figure out what works for him or herself. Writing is a personal art. Some people work better at night. Some in the early morning. Some need quiet. Some blast music (the louder, the better). Some have little spaces set up where they write daily. Some write in various locations—you get the idea. Whatever works best for you, you must do. When people tell me they’d like to write, but they don’t have the time, I always think, “Then you don’t really want to write.” You  make time for what’s important to you, always. If you value television (as I do), you find the time to watch. Runners find time to run. Anglers find time to fish. Painters find time to paint. Barbarian hordes find time to bathe in the blood of their enemies. You make time for what is important to you.

When it comes to the amount of dedication it takes to write 300 pages of a rough draft, that has never been a problem for me. I have been churning out novels since I was in high school. I wrote at least one or two piles of garbage in high school, and I probably cranked out several thousand pages of unreadable hack when I was in college. (This is a good thing, though—Brian Michael Bendis said that you have to write about 20,000 pages of slop before you start to figure out what you’re doing.) I can always find time to write. Even when I worked jobs that had me doing 12-hour days, I would manage to scrape out a paragraph or two at night. Before John Grisham quit law to write full-time, he wrote on legal pads between court cases. I read a story about a mystery writer who was driving semis, and he would dictate his story into cassettes while he drove, then he paid a local gal in his hometown to transcribe the stories to MS Word for him. I have known servers who wrote scraps of stories in order pads with cheap pens standing at the counter waiting for an order to be put up. Point is—if it is important to you, you’ll do it.

Writing isn’t about waiting for some mythical muse to kick you in the ass. It’s not about art. It’s not about being attuned to the celestial heavens. Over my lifetime of writing, reading about writing, taking classes on writing, and teaching classes on writing, more than anything else I’ve learned, writing is about putting your butt in a seat and writing. That’s it. No magic. No inspiration. Just sit and do. If you can’t do that, you can’t write. I get people (especially students) telling me about stories they have in their heads. They can summarize them well. They can tell you about them for days. However, the story stays unwritten until they can put themselves in the chair and write it out. My good friend, Nella Citino, gave me a mug a few years ago that I keep on my desk at home. It says, “Any idiot can come up with a good idea—get it written!”  That is the truth of the matter. Put up, or shut up. Sit down and write.

That’s all fine and dandy to say, I know. The actual practice of it is much harder in reality. I have learned that my own creative process tends to follow an ebb and flow. When I’m writing, I’m 100 percent writing. I don’t want to edit. I don’t want to read someone else’s book. I don’t want to watch TV. I write as long and as hard as I can. I write until the backs of my hands hurt from typing. I write until my vision goes blurry from staring at the screen.

When I get into editing, I don’t have time for writing. The two modes are different parts of my brain, it seems. I cannot switch back and forth between the modes easily. I don’t have time for someone else’s book, either. I cannot enjoy reading a new book when I’m in editing mode. I get too critical. I get too into the “That’s not what I would have done there…” mode, and I start to hate that book. I feel like I have unfairly subjected some authors to that mode of my brain and now I dislike their stuff.

When I am out of the writing and editing modes, I get fully into the reading mode. I will read six or seven hours a day. I will put away three or four books a week when I’m in that mode. I have always been a fast reader, and when I’m in that mode, I read even faster. I enjoy reading in that mode. When I’m trying to read when I’m in writing mode, I have no patience for reading. Why read someone else’s story when I’m not done telling my own, yet? I do force myself to read when I’m in writing mode, but it’s only after I’ve put in a full day of writing, or I’ve had to take a break from writing because my hands hurt too much to continue. (Getting old is for the birds.)

My final mode in the creative process is the do nothing mode. It happens usually after I first finish a book and my brain begins to feed me the “why bother” rap it has perfected over the years. “Why bother?” it says. “Wouldn’t you be happier lounging back into depression and playing video games for fourteen straight hours?”

--You have a point, Brain.

“How about you maybe just watch Scrubs reruns instead of writing?”

--Brain, you are on fire!

“Hey—remember five years ago when you accidently read that really negative review of one of your books? Go back and reread that comment so you know not to do this anymore.”

--As you command, Overlord.

This do-nothing mode is one of the worst things my brain tries to do to me. It is very easy to slip into, because doing nothing is literally the easiest thing in the world to do. Doing nothing requires zero effort. Doing anything at all requires 100 percent more effort than doing nothing.

I have quit writing books at least a thousand times in my life, maybe more. Every time this weird creative cycle in my brain hits this point in the rotation, I quit being a writer. “Been thirty years with no real success to show for it, Fatso,” says my Brain. “Do the world a favor and shelf your keyboard.”

And I do. I do every time. Every time I hit that point in my creative process, I officially quit writing.

Sometimes, that brain-forced retirement lasts months. Sometimes, it’s only a few hours. But I always quit.

I also always come back.

In the movie, THROW MOMMA FROM THE TRAIN, Billy Crystal uses the expression, “Writers write. Always.” It is something my father has repeated to me many times over the years. It is something I have imparted to my students many times. It is okay to quit writing. If you stay retired from it, though—that is where you run into problems.

I have found that I am able to claw my way back from those self-imposed bouts of retirement through sheer force of will. Pick up the computer. Open the file. Put your damn hands on the keyboard and make some words. Sometimes, I do that, and I will only get a few words, maybe a sentence or two. Nevertheless, I will have written something. That’s the key. The next day, I might only get a few words again. Maybe I only sat at the computer for ten minutes before letting that negative part of my brain take over for the day. (“C’mon Fatboy…let’s go re-watch THE PRINCESS BRIDE.”  –Swell idea, Brain.) But it IS a few words that I did not have that morning, and that is what counts.

I am getting better and the productivity side of writing. I am getting better at knowing that I can sit down and churn out five or ten pages in a sitting, even if I don’t “feel” like doing it. Those pages might need some enhancement later on, but they will exist. It is always easier to go back and enhance. You cannot edit if the pages don’t exist.

I know I’m hardly an expert on writing. I know that my pathetic sales are a misty, almost evaporated drop in the wide and vast lake of publishing. I know that I am not an expert on the creative process. This is just a summary of how my brain works when I write. It is why I do what I do. And why I want to write. It might not help you, but it is something to read and consider.

If you struggle in a creative field like I do, like so many of us do, I think it is important to remember that we are not alone. We are all tiny little ships making our own way on a large, cruel sea. Your mast might snap. You might hit a rock. A big whale might sneeze on you. Maybe you don’t feel like holding the tiller anymore. This is okay. It is all part of the process.

But don’t give up.

Keep sailing.

I hope we all get to where we want to go.