THBBM - Yokusei geijutsuka

Yokusei geijutsuka
Sumimasen, osewa ni narimashita…
5-27

Last night I spent an ungodly amount of time looking at a blank page on a word processor. Kim wasn't feeling well, and I put her and the boy to bed pretty early. A lot of previously laid weekend plans had fallen through, and the last thing I was expecting to have was an extended stretch of free time that I could spend writing.

But here it was.

A fresh pot of coffee; Erykah Badu, Rashaan Roland Kirk, Jill Scott, and Me'shell Ndegeocello softly alternating on the stereo, something about wanting to hear that soulful fender rhodes sound…

The cursor blinked. The steam from the coffee cup tickled my upper lip as I held the mug in both hands close to my face. The music haunted the air exactly as I had wanted it to.

As a matter of fact, all of the pieces I had put into play to help facilitate the process I was hoping to jump into were doing their part -- complimenting each other beautifully.

All the pieces, that is, except me.

I don't have a special place to write. No secret ceremonial rites, or superstitious acts that I must complete for the words to start flowing (as a matter of fact, when I start doing things like playing music and brewing coffee to see if it will help me write better, that's almost always when I know it's going to be a long haul). I just sit down with an idea in my head, and I put it down on paper.

And that's the problem lately. More and more I have felt the pull inside of myself to write on a more frequent basis, to get into the meat of the process more often, because deep down inside of myself I know that I enjoy it. I like the place I go to when I get wrapped up in my own creativity. I love the sense that I am immersed in the words, the feelings, the characters, and the settings that I create.

And I like the feeling that comes when other people read my work. The feeling I get when they email or IM me and let me know that they were affected by my writing in one form or another.

But I've always been an artist of inspiration. I get an idea inside my head, buzzing around like an insect, and I have to get it out onto the page or the fretboard as soon as I can. I can usually work on something over a period of days, but if I don't at least get the initial inspiration down in ink somewhere, the spirit of the thing tends to suffer. If I let it sit too long, then the other things in my life can find ways to fade in, blurring the spark from me just enough to keep it from coming to fruition.

I wish I were the type to be able sit down and say to myself, "OK, this is the time to write, so lets just do some writing right now!" But it rarely works that way for me. In fact, the work that I accomplish when I sit down with the express purpose of creating something brilliant usually comes out sounding forced and plastic.

My muse, like all muses I suppose, is evasive. In attempting to capture my creativity in some permanent form, I create my process -- my method as an artist.

Which sounds important and vital when you say it, but as is the case with many vital and important things - it never quite matches up when you look at it in real life.

The problem is that I know my muse is an occasional one. So I've developed a habit of living my life in a state of readiness for it. Staying up late, forging my workweek to where I can carve out a few hours each day if the need should arise.

It's a pensive arrangement, but one that seems to work for both of us.

The only time I hate this truce is when there is that time, that unexpected blessing of hours. I find myself pacing the room, trying in vain to summon that part-time laureate within me.

And that's the way it was the this night.

Looking for something to rant about, I perused the web -- hunting for stories of interest, issues that raised my ire. There were such issues, such stories -- but nothing that worked it's way into my mind like a burrowing termite looking to get out.

I turned on the television. I turned off the television. I changed the mood from Jazz to Rock, Rock to Classical, Classical to Punk. I perused the library of books in the house. I browsed through Parzival; I read mythology from the Luyia tribes in Africa. On a whim, I flipped through a collection of Maori short stories and poems from a collection called Te Kaihau -- The Windeater.

I looked through old yearbooks, listened to the sound of my own guitar playing, both in the present and on old, faceless cassette tapes without labels…

Nothing.

The hours were starting to roll by, closing the window between my ability to work into the small hours of the morning and my need for at least a couple hours of rest before going in to my job the next day.

There are always ideas and characters floating around in my mind, but it's not every night that I can just pull them together to create something.

And yet that is what I felt that I absolutely had to do. I wanted that feeling, that escape, that sense of self-importance and accomplishment I get when I write. And yes, I wanted that feeling of validation that comes when I know that my work is being read.

So I forced it.

"Richard and Elizabeth" is an idea that I've had lurking in my mind for a while. A while back I read a story about a married couple that worked in the adult film industry, had been married even before they got into the business, and even went so far as to make movies where they only performed with each other. The woman was a high profile actress (in the genre), but often made enemies for herself in the business because she only did scenes with her husband, and not with any of the popular male stars of the time.

Something about the whole situation was oddly romantic, and interesting. And at the same time, I always wondered what it would be like for a married couple like that to make friends with another married couple, one who had no connection to any of that sort of thing. Married couples, especially those with children will often make friends of strangers, using their membership in the "committed club" as an icebreaker. I always felt like there was a place for a romantic comedy to be created somewhere within those boundaries.

But when I started writing, Chris and Jo came out. They were engaging characters, real in many senses. And with the two of them as props, I allowed myself to play in their home, experiment with their emotions towards each other, expound some of the ups and downs of being married through the two of them.

By the time Richard and Elizabeth showed up, they were almost like unwanted guests.

But the whole idea of the story revolved around their odd entanglement with this "normal" couple I had created….

I'm not usually one to outline or structure my stories. I sort of let them flow out, run off in tangents, go where they may. It's more fun for me that way, and in this particular case, I had no real direction in mind - I was just writing. The plot, the climax, and the ending -- I was sure that these things would all eventually present themselves to me... All I had to do was keep stirring at the words until the right thread came to the surface.

The idea of Beth 'perhaps' being interested in Chris was one such thread.

There's something about being a guy, especially a guy in a relationship, when another woman starts staring at you with what just might be flirtatious intentions. You get flustered, knowing that it's not something you should probably entertain, something that might get you in trouble -- but at the same time, there's still that excitement in being attractive to someone else again...

It's the trust, the intimate knowing that comes from being madly in love with someone that creates the fire that warms you, but there's always a magnetism that comes with "something new" that's hard not to at least toy with.

It questions your convictions. Plays with your dark side. I found myself curious to see what Chris would do if presented with such a thing, especially after what we had seen of him and Jo so far.

It was fertile ground. I ran with it.

Then more unwanted guests showed up.

By this point in the day, I found myself going in several directions. I had created some good characters, some engaging situations, but there was still nothing underneath -- nothing pulling the characters to an end, nothing pulling the reader (or the writer, for that matter) to deeply care about what happened by the time dinner was served.

On top of all this, I still had a boatload of job work that needed to be attended to, and I was dealing with the aftereffects of an unexpected case of food poisoning. I was perhaps close to breaking through with the story, but my life was starting to get in the way.

After a while it became clear that the story needed real work, and perhaps needed to just be considered freewriting, character development, or just riffing.

But I wanted something new on the site. I wanted to be a writer before the week was done.

I stayed up late -- rewording, reworking. I found there were parts that I could discard, but more often I came across sections that I felt I needed to keep - even when their contribution to the story wasn't clear, or positive.

It wasn't about the story. It was about the process.

When I posted it I knew it wasn't "there" yet. I read it back the next day and found myself liking things, hating things, wondering why I had gone here instead of there, wondering how this much text came out of this little story line, and then again, wondering just how far away this tale was from being a good thing.

There are some good things in this story, but it isn't really finished yet. I knew it when I posted it, but I felt the impermanence of the journal would protect it, allow me to go back when I got some space between us.

But the farther away I get, the more I see it as an unfortunate experiment that got out of control, and can't be returned to it's base chemical states anymore.

It's tough to think of yourself as being good at something, only to sit down and produce chum once in a while. Especially when your recent work has been so good, it feels disappointing inside to realize that those stank moments haven't been left too far behind.

I want to shine every time I post something. It puts a lot of pressure on me, almost as if I was in competition with myself. I know that it's a lot to ask, but I feel like I can do it.

If I want to be a successful writer, I feel like I have to do it.

I need to get my work right before I feel like I can give it to an agent or a publisher, or else I know how the story will end.

…Sitting at the keyboard, not sure of what to say next.

"Shame and honour clash where the courage of a steadfast man is motley like the magpie. But such a man may yet make merry, for Heaven and Hell have equal part in him." -- Wolfram Von Eschenbach, Parzival