Blocked as a Rock

I’m still feeling emotional. I’m still walking around a gooey mess, and this seems to have put a real halt to my creative abilities. I’ve only written five pages on my new story so far. That’s one page more than I had last week. And so I want to talk about this block.

This is what I am up against

I sit at the blank page day after day. I write a sentence, I erase it. I write a paragraph & go over it twenty times, changing the order, changing verbs. I’ve looked through craft books & thought about doing some of the exercises, but can’t bring myself to make the effort. I’ve written in a journal about the character. I know about the character. But action? The story seems as incapable as I am of making a move.

I know, I know. Kill the inner critic and just write something, anything. But I can’t. I type another sentence and spend an hour polishing it. I’m waiting for the dam to crack. I’m

anticipating a flood any day now. Bound to happen.

But while it isn’t happening, while I’m sitting here contemplating why I can’t manage to write anymore, I put forth the idea that there is a certain amount of stimulus that we are comfortable working with. We want small dramas, or if we have big dramas, we need distance before we can write about them. Small dramas because we need material, but we as writers cannot afford to be overwhelmed emotionally. Anything larger requires too much energy—energy that should be put into the writing.
Well, see, I’ve managed to at least put this down on paper. Maybe I’m on my way.

Oh, bug, thanks for the shout-out for the Thinking Blogger meme, but I think I'm gonna pass today, especially as most of my blog buddies have been tagged already from one person or the other. Just look to the left- all of the links listed are smarty-pants (to use Gili's terminology).

I'm Not Talking

There are times when you are going through something, something intense, but you just can't talk about it. That's what I've heard. Some people clam up when they are feeling emotional. Some people hate to share. Perhaps it makes them feel vulnerable. Perhaps they believe showing emotion will paint them as weak. Whatever their reasoning, let me say, I am not one of those people. In fact, I tend to be quite the opposite. If I have a hang nail I'm likely to whine about it to the guy next to me on the bus.

No, really, I'm not that bad. But I do like to talk about my pain. I like to share my uncomfortableness with my friends in the hopes that I will evoke some empathy. That's why we write, correct? To try somehow to identify what it is that makes us feel, what brings us joy; to evoke some empathy.

This has been a particularly emotional couple of weeks for me, and instead of talking about it, instead of being right up front here on the blog, I've chosen the other form. Upon advice given to me by others, I've joined the realm of clams. Honestly, it's almost physically painful to keep it in. I'm a born blabbermouth when it comes to my discomfort. So, until I can talk about it, until I'm ready to divulge the form my emotions have molded into, I'll just have to blog about my distress in a general, angsty sort of way. I'm feeling it.

Crunch Time

I'll tell you, life is so busy. All of the time, busy busy busy. I'm back at home and trying to catch up on my work for the book review class, with accounting for my husband's company, with the housework, and all those appointments you put off month after month that finally catch up with you (dentist, doctor, tune-up for the car). Add into the mix unexpected visits from friends and you've got yourself a booked calendar when all you really want to do is sit down and write a story or two. I'm looking forward to things settling down again soon, but I think perhaps I'm just fooling myself. They may never calm down. How will I ever fit in my bike rides?

Dirty Work

I've spent enough time this week winging about my work, so I don't want to go on and on, but there is something that happened yesterday that came very close to throwing me into a rage, which is something I try hard not to let work do to me. After all, what's the point? It is only hurting me.

Because I have spent many years in this business and have worked extremely hard to get where I am, gigs like this throw me for a loop. The position I accepted for this one is Master Electrician. That means I figure out the circuiting and power for instruments. I do it on paper and when we get to the venue, I have a crew to put it up. I explain to them where we want it. Simple enough.

But on this show, they didn't hire enough crew for me. So I have spent 12 hours a day for the last 4 days lifting heavy cable, pushing boxes around, climbing ladders & driving lifts. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind working. I don't even mind that much getting dirty, but there's always someone who will try to make you feel bad for just the things you should be proud of (i.e. hard work)

Yesterday, around my tenth hour of work (with no breaks, by the way, someone bringing me food) I was pushing a case out of the tent-- yes, the fashion show is in a tent-- there was a young man, I would guess around twenty, with a tailored shirt, designer jeans, and some product in his hair smoking a cigarette just where I needed to put the case. I think he was there setting up some display. Remember, this is a high-publicity fashion show, so every wanna be in the city is hanging around. I politely asked him if he would step aside, and the little shit wouldn't even look at me. He refused to budge. And I was 2 feet away from him. I know he heard me. Finally, his friend who was near pulled him over a step. I thanked him for moving. He still wouldn't acknowledge me.

This exchange took the wind out of me. All of a sudden because of this little prick I lost any sense of dignity I might have had about the job I was doing. I felt like a dirty, thirty-something low life. What a shame that somebody could hold that power. Class systems are a big point of contention with me, and I always make a point of treating all types of people equally. Now I need to work on not being so sensitive to those that don't.

Check out this post on one of my favorite's blog. We were feeling sympatico today.

Middle of the Night

I’ve spent most of the day alone, finishing up the last details of putting the rig together, doing paperwork and keeping my thoughts to myself. It’s now 2 am and I have to get up at 5 to fly to Houston and start the load in. I can never sleep the night before I travel (afraid of oversleeping) or the night before a load-in (afraid I forgot a piece of equipment), so I’m doubly cursed tonight. I’m alternating between reading and writing, tossing and turning, and trying to discern what the noisy people next door are saying. I haven’t understood a word. My room is scorched from the forced air heater and my throat feels like Mexican sand. Water has never tasted so sweet. When I lay my head back on my pillow once again I’m going to count my blessings instead of sheep. I’m going to remember all of the good things in my life.

I may not be with you all for a few days, but I’ll be back soon.

Somebody Help Me

This morning I am no longer apologizing for my condescending attitude towards my coworkers. I’ll give you an example, a piece of a conversation that took place after leaving a Thai restaurant (Yes, unbelievably they agreed to Thai food after grudgingly giving up the bar-b-que restaurant because I’m veggie):

The scene: Thai restaurant in a strip mall in Dallas, 3 male technicians, 1 female. At the next table, 4 obviously gay men having an excellent time. Technicians are talking loudly about the famous people they have worked with. Female coworker staring longingly at the other table, wishing she was with them.

Action: Technicians finish meal and leave restaurant.

Coworker #1: I think we weren’t gay enough for that restaurant.

Coworker #2: No kidding, man. [ Laughter]

Coworker #3: [sidelong glance at female coworker] At least we know its good food if the gays are going to it.

Coworker #1: So where are we going now?

Coworker #3: Anywhere they have beer.

Coworker #2: I saw a sportsbar on our way here.

Coworker #1: There’s a liquor store right there. We could just open a sixpack and sit on the floor & drink it. [Laughter]

Coworker #2: [They pile in the car] The bar’s just a couple of blocks.

Coworker #3: [Addresses female coworker] Are you in?

Female Coworker: I’ll just take a cab back to the hotel.

Already Bitter?

Here I find myself in the Lone Star State once again, feeling indeed a little bit lonely, a little forlorn driving around a town where I know about six people that I met last time I was here. People with lives of their own, people who want me to go have a drink with them after work but, to be truthful, we have so very little in common that I’m glad to have my schoolwork as an excuse to bail out. I may be missing an opportunity here to find that spark of human interest (perhaps a character study?) but the fact is I’ve known these guys. I’ve known hundreds of stagehands and industry workers and it is the rare fellow indeed who makes a comment of interest to me. Oh, there have been a few: the pot-smoking guitar tech that would find literary quotes and post them on his work box. After the tour was over I’d send him postcards with definitions of rarely used words. There was the electrician who was also a photographer and met each day with such joy, I couldn’t help but be elated by his contagious smile—and he liked to play Scrabble. We were immediate friends. Unfortunately, those fellows are few and far between here. I don’t like to be a snob, but I like even less wasting my time. I don’t want to go to the bar, to see a game, read industry mags about the latest technology or play video games. I don’t like being backstage at concerts and I don’t think this is the coolest job ever. I’m not interested in who you’ve worked for. If that’s all you’ve got to say to me, I’d rather not here it. Uh oh. I told myself I’d have a good attitude this week if I took this job. I better get moving on this writing thing.