Unblocked

Last weekend I had it. First time in my short writing life. I knew it existed, but I didn't know what was it like. I would have passed, if you ask me, but what could I do?

On Friday I was staring at the screen, reading the last chapter of the novelette I'm working on. I knew it was leading nowhere. When I planned the story, in my mind I pictured something totally different. The characters just went off-track, wondering around, talking gibberish. And I was blocked.

I always imagined writer's block as staring at the blank screen, not knowing what to write. I never have that. I always know what to write, because I have so many ideas swirling in my head I could fill books with them. So I never have to ask myself: now what? It wasn't that kind of block last weekend. I could start to write if I wanted to, I could continue the story immediately, I could fill pages with words effortlessly. But man, I knew it ain't going nowhere.

So I didn't write a word on Saturday nor Sunday. It happens anyway, when I'm too busy with the family, or I have something really important to do. Or I'm too lazy to do something meaningful.

Walk the Dog and Think - Photo: danamason06

But it was different. I didn't write, because I didn't want the characters to kill the readers by boredom. Unfortunately I had no better idea for the time being, so I had to work it out. I got my brain to work, and I was thinking hard for two days. (At least when not watching films or playing computer games). I was thinking while helping my wife to vacuum the floor, arranging boxes in the garage, or walking the dog. By the way, have you tried it? To walk the dog and think about your ongoing project. While the dog smells everything and pisses on the wooden posts, you can fine-tune plots, find out characters, even create complete sentences in your head. Very effective.

I discovered the power of thinking again. In my opinion, it is integral part of the writing process, so I spend time cogitating. I can say, I don't stop thinking as a writer. (Big words from someone who isn't published. Yet. But hey, you have to write before you publish, right? I'm just not at that phase yet.)

After two days I sat and cut the whole last chapter out. I have put it in a separate note called trash. Because it was trash. But I didn't delete it permanently, later I may use a few descriptive sentences. Then I started to write a different angle, different thread. And it was much better.

Now I keep working on this new plot, and go along with it for a while. At least until it sidetracks again.

Zelda Pryce: The Demon Hunt by Joss Llewelyn

Jack and I are sitting in my car, waiting for Jenny, who is late. Girls and shopping - tell me about it! Jack taps his fingers on his knees, watching the people passing by on the sidewalk. He checks his watch hundredth time.

"She's late" he says.

I sigh, and reach to the back seat, pulling out my e-reader from my suitcase. I hand it to him and say:

"Here. Read something."

He shrugs, flips the cover open and switches the device on. He is silent for a while, browsing the titles, and I enjoy Vivaldi's Four Seasons playing from the CD.

"Hm... Zelda" says Jack. "Interesting name. What is this one about?"

I glance over, and see the cover of Zelda Pryce: The Demon Hunt written by Joss Llevelyn.

"Are you familiar with arcana?" I ask.

"Arcana? I have heard the word, but not sure what it is."

"It means deep, secret wisdom, known only by few selected."

"Kind of mysticism."

"Not exactly, but kinda."

"Like magic?"

"No. Arcana is more like science, but you won't read about it on the Popular Science's website."

"Because it's secret?"

"Known only by few." I nod.

He is clicking through the first pages to the beginning of the story.

"Is it a good one?" he asks.

"You bet. Zelda is a young arcanist, who builds arcane objects to help people. Prosthetic legs and arms, these kind of things."

"There is nothing mystic in a prosthesis." I can see the doubt on his face.

"There is, if it glues itself to the human body using arcane forces, and gives you the speed of a puma or the strong grip of a robot arm."

"Oh, cool."

"There are many exciting objects in the book. My favorite is the Certainty Engine, which predicts the future."

"That sounds interesting" says Jack and his expression changes, he is curious now. "Any action in the story?"

"A ton of action. Zelda and her friends go around the world to find this Certainty Engine. Exotic places. But I enjoyed more the cool ideas packed in the book. For example the one about the responsibility of humankind concerning the extinction of animal species."

"That's deep stuff, uncle."

"Yeah, it is."

"I will read this" says Jack and does as he says: starts reading immediately.

He doesn't get far, the back door opens, packages and shopping bags arrive at the back seat, followed by the smiling Jenny.

"Uncle, Jack, what's up?" she asks while arranging the packages next to her.

"You're late" says Jack.

"I'm sorry, but you know how it is when you do shopping. Time flies."

"My longest shopping was ten minutes" says Jack.

"Because all of your clothes looks the same."

"Hey, guys, just relax." I say, then start the engine. I pull out of the parking into the traffic.

"What are you reading?" asks Jenny.

"Zelda Pryce, the third book" says Jack.

In the mirror I see Jenny's wide smile.

"I love those books, especially the fantastic gadgets."she says. "I want Hypatian wings."

"What wings?" Jack turns towards Jenny with puzzled face.

"The ones made of copper. You put them on your back and you fly."

Smile appears on Jack's face, and he says:

"That's an excellent idea! Then you can go shopping with your little wings, and we don't need to spend the half of the day waiting for you."

I shake my head, but actually I can imagine her with those copper wings, flying around, laughing. It would be so Jenny.

Immersed in Hyperion

I'm sitting in the dark room, alone, my eyes tries to make out the forms in the shadows, and I see the furniture as pieces of the past long gone. I put my feet on the small table next to my armchair, like a wanderer who spends his well-deserved rest time after a long, exhausting journey. The fireplace glooms, flames dance around each other as they consume the logs relentlessly, converting the once living wood into dead ashes. Time seems to stop, like a slow creek entering the tranquil lake, which smooth as a mirror, in the absence of the wind. My mind wonders, I'm not in the room anymore, but I rise, I ascend high, I leave the stratosphere, and enter the metasphere, where space and time circle around each other trying to decide whether they are individual forces of nature, or they belong together joining their forces and swarming into a higher being, who may be perceived as hand of God. From here the material world is only the shallow playground of the soul, the human body is small, laughable, like the carapace of an ant. I recognise shadow-like figures around me, moving in slow determination towards their destiny. They are far, far away, yet so close I could touch them. They move to the rhythm, the symphony of the metasphere, they march to the sound of the drums of the time, unable to free themselves from the bonds of the space, determined to follow their destiny and fulfil their purpose. The game is set thousands of years ago, and I see unfolding the giant plot, which interlaces the galaxies, and moves the characters as marionettes on ropes. The symphony rises into a shattering crescendo, light fills the metasphere around me, the shadows are judged to extinction and cast out of the universe, the hero is lift up above all, and the justice wins once for all. Then everything becomes silent, very still, like dreams on the surface of the lake.
I open my eyes, and tapping on my mobile I close the audiobook application. I finished Fall of Hyperion written by Dan Simmons, narrated by Victor Bevine. It's not easy to return to the real world, but I stand up, go to my desk and opening my laptop I start to write the review of the book. I type: "I'm sitting in the dark room..."
Jack enters, but doesn't say anything. He takes advantage of that I'm sitting at my working desk, so my armchair is empty, and he sits down. He sits back, stretches his legs and clutches his nape with his hands. He waits until I stop typing and stare at the screen, still trying to figure out the emotions Hyperion caused inside me. Then he asks:
"What are you working on, uncle?"
"Writing review of Fall of Hyperion."
"Ah, Fall of Hyperion. That's an interesting one. What did you write so far?"
I'm reading the text aloud for him, like reciting a poem, my voice is trembling in some places, going sublime just before the end, then settling down like a fragile butterfly on a flower. The dim light of the fireplace and the screen of my computer add a soft touch to my performance.
"That's cool!" says Jack. "But not sure it's a review."
"I know, but it's hard to put Hyperion into a few sentences. I don't know what to think about it."
"Did you like it?"
"Yes. And no."
I hardly can see Jack's face, but I can tell he frowns. So I explain:
"I liked it, because there is cool stuff in it: space travel, teleport devices, future technology, cyborgs, artificial intelligence, time paradox and such. Simmons created a believable future world. The characters are alive, detailed. The story has a huge arc of events in space and time. There are a lot of compelling ideas."
"My favourite is Uman, the super intelligent being" - says Jack. Sometimes he surprises me with his preferences of story characters.
"But I didn't like that it was too complicated" I continue. "By the end of the book I felt it's just too much. Too many subplots, too many heroes, too many places."
"I hear you, uncle, the story is really complex. You should listen to the two Hyperion books again. Maybe you can grasp the details better."
"Maybe sometime later. Now I feel overwhelmed."
"You know what? Why don't we open a bottle of vine and talk about it?"
It's not a bad idea. The situation reminds me of my childhood summer camp when we sat around the camp fire and told ghost stories. I'm not a child anymore, and the Hyperion books are not ghost stories, but they have enough mysticism to talk about them next to the fire.
"I have a bottle of red Bordeaux" I say.
Ten minutes later I'm sitting in my armchair, Jack's in the other one. We nurture our vine in our hands, and staring into the dancing flames we talk about the fascinating world of Hyperion.

The power of words

I saw this video, and couldn't resist to share it. It's awesome, and soooo related to writing.