I could write about Vang Vieng. I could write about Vientiane. All of these places. They're great to see, to stay a while in, to make friends in, to leave.
But my mind just isn't there right now. The chronological order sometimes feels like a mandate, but of course I'm not bound to anything. Just whatever is interesting. I'd give George R R Martin shit for blogging about the NFL when he has to tie up some loose ends in Westeros, but screw that noise. He can do whatever he pleases.
I can imagine the sort of determined work ethic you must develop as a professional writer. To be able to tell your brain to shut up about all of those other things and focus on the story at hand. How much control can one really have over their mind? Thoughts enter unbidden, surely altering the result of one's writing in innumerable, unknowable ways. Yet people still do it. They write hundreds or thousands of pages about a relatively tiny area of interest. A handful of characters (or fistfuls, Mister Martin), some places, and other basic pieces—but the threads come together in a cohesive story. Even the most outlandish motley of narrators can somehow paint a picture of some particular reality.
My problem is that I have trouble returning to those threads, to give them proper attention they need to take shape. Any writing I do is divided by the daily happenings of travel. My mind goes here and there, and some things are abandoned altogether before I begin on something else.
Additionally, I invest my energy in this blog. An undignified word—blogging—for what I'd like to accomplish someday, but nonetheless a blog is an appropriate place for such a chaotic nebula of thinking. One consolation is that I know, somewhere in this mess of a mind there are things worth telling. I just remind myself to write liberally, and when I'm done with one piece at a time I can judge it as worthy or not.
But going back to order and cohesion, I find that my attention wanders to other, irrelevant threads. How many stories am I trying to write at once? How he hell do you even finish a story? I know that the conceptual arrangement is where the fun is at, but I'm so indecisive about whether the figurative frame should be hung in the dining room or the bathroom (where most of my ideas end up going). It's difficult to decide when to shitcan an idea or instead... to pursue it. To build it up. And the further I go along, the trickier it gets to see if the foundation is still holding. Currently its just based on gut feelings, poorly developed intuition and inklings of what might be total shit.
But that's what I've got to work with. I must remind myself, anyway, that the process can always be put in simpler terms. Read and write rigorously, and the reward will come.
Stephen King touched on this in far more eloquent terms in his memoir On Writing. His take is about developing that steeled work ethic. To constantly be reading and engaging. To write at least a thousand words per day. It's no easy task, hence why not everybody writes books. He has plenty of useful advice, but I can't help but catch an undertone of "Good fucking luck" in the nicest way possible. It's not a cake walk at all, but if you're going to do it—go in full tilt.
So, King paints a daunting picture of what it's like to be a professional writer, but maybe the problem is that we think we need to do everything in a professional capacity—for money, namely. It's true that not everybody's work will come to bear fruit on the money tree, but that's also sort of liberating to think about. Well, if I'm not doing this to sustain a living or my kids or the things I enjoy doing, then I might as well be doing it solely for the pleasure. And writing is a pretty inexpensive hobby to get into. It may be time consuming, but unlike most stories, this one only ends when you do. Writing as an act, a mode of creation, can produce more than just novels.
Murakami, too, has some pretty fascinating insights on the subject. He expresses similar views to King, but one point that works in tandem with writing being a liberation rather than a burden is the idea of readership. Murakami says that if one in ten people enjoys a book he writes, he's satisifed with the result—the gist being that you can't please everybody, so don't set the bar so high for yourself. You shouldn't enslave yourself to the expectations of others. Set your own expectations and go from there.
Write something that makes you satisfied. And if you choose to share it someday, you might find that people tune in to it.
Speaking of Murakami, I don't know of many authors who run marathons and write books, but the parallels are astounding yet simple. You've probably already considered the obvious ones in between these sentences, but it's pretty cool to play with the ideology behind physical effort and creative effort—both of which are mentally taxing to the extreme. In case you're curious, check out his aptly titled memoir What I Talk About When I Talk About Running.
We cling to our idols, but also consider that they're just figuring it out as they go along.
In that sense, I can find solace in the act of writing alone. I certainly feel better now. Hopefully you do, too.
But my mind just isn't there right now. The chronological order sometimes feels like a mandate, but of course I'm not bound to anything. Just whatever is interesting. I'd give George R R Martin shit for blogging about the NFL when he has to tie up some loose ends in Westeros, but screw that noise. He can do whatever he pleases.
I can imagine the sort of determined work ethic you must develop as a professional writer. To be able to tell your brain to shut up about all of those other things and focus on the story at hand. How much control can one really have over their mind? Thoughts enter unbidden, surely altering the result of one's writing in innumerable, unknowable ways. Yet people still do it. They write hundreds or thousands of pages about a relatively tiny area of interest. A handful of characters (or fistfuls, Mister Martin), some places, and other basic pieces—but the threads come together in a cohesive story. Even the most outlandish motley of narrators can somehow paint a picture of some particular reality.
My problem is that I have trouble returning to those threads, to give them proper attention they need to take shape. Any writing I do is divided by the daily happenings of travel. My mind goes here and there, and some things are abandoned altogether before I begin on something else.
Additionally, I invest my energy in this blog. An undignified word—blogging—for what I'd like to accomplish someday, but nonetheless a blog is an appropriate place for such a chaotic nebula of thinking. One consolation is that I know, somewhere in this mess of a mind there are things worth telling. I just remind myself to write liberally, and when I'm done with one piece at a time I can judge it as worthy or not.
But going back to order and cohesion, I find that my attention wanders to other, irrelevant threads. How many stories am I trying to write at once? How he hell do you even finish a story? I know that the conceptual arrangement is where the fun is at, but I'm so indecisive about whether the figurative frame should be hung in the dining room or the bathroom (where most of my ideas end up going). It's difficult to decide when to shitcan an idea or instead... to pursue it. To build it up. And the further I go along, the trickier it gets to see if the foundation is still holding. Currently its just based on gut feelings, poorly developed intuition and inklings of what might be total shit.
But that's what I've got to work with. I must remind myself, anyway, that the process can always be put in simpler terms. Read and write rigorously, and the reward will come.
Stephen King touched on this in far more eloquent terms in his memoir On Writing. His take is about developing that steeled work ethic. To constantly be reading and engaging. To write at least a thousand words per day. It's no easy task, hence why not everybody writes books. He has plenty of useful advice, but I can't help but catch an undertone of "Good fucking luck" in the nicest way possible. It's not a cake walk at all, but if you're going to do it—go in full tilt.
So, King paints a daunting picture of what it's like to be a professional writer, but maybe the problem is that we think we need to do everything in a professional capacity—for money, namely. It's true that not everybody's work will come to bear fruit on the money tree, but that's also sort of liberating to think about. Well, if I'm not doing this to sustain a living or my kids or the things I enjoy doing, then I might as well be doing it solely for the pleasure. And writing is a pretty inexpensive hobby to get into. It may be time consuming, but unlike most stories, this one only ends when you do. Writing as an act, a mode of creation, can produce more than just novels.
Murakami, too, has some pretty fascinating insights on the subject. He expresses similar views to King, but one point that works in tandem with writing being a liberation rather than a burden is the idea of readership. Murakami says that if one in ten people enjoys a book he writes, he's satisifed with the result—the gist being that you can't please everybody, so don't set the bar so high for yourself. You shouldn't enslave yourself to the expectations of others. Set your own expectations and go from there.
Write something that makes you satisfied. And if you choose to share it someday, you might find that people tune in to it.
Speaking of Murakami, I don't know of many authors who run marathons and write books, but the parallels are astounding yet simple. You've probably already considered the obvious ones in between these sentences, but it's pretty cool to play with the ideology behind physical effort and creative effort—both of which are mentally taxing to the extreme. In case you're curious, check out his aptly titled memoir What I Talk About When I Talk About Running.
We cling to our idols, but also consider that they're just figuring it out as they go along.
In that sense, I can find solace in the act of writing alone. I certainly feel better now. Hopefully you do, too.
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