Keziah Sharpens Pencils

 

I’ve been having some fun with my five-year old niece, coming up with new ideas for some short pieces. These are two stories- one is about sharpening pencils, and the other is about facing some fears, at the pool. It was fun to share ideas with a fresh, young imagination. The spaces in the first one are to mark each page.

                    KEZIAH SHARPENS PENCILS

                            By Vicki-Keziah’s aunt 

                                (Victoria Simpson)

Keziah was sharpening pencils. They were all  dull. 

 

“They need to be sharper,” she said.

“Ok,” said her Aunt Vicki. “But don’t sharpen too long.”

“But I have a lot of pencils,” said Keziah. 

And she sharpened and sharpened. 

She sharpened all afternoon.  

 “You need to stop!” her Aunt Vicki said. 

But Keziah said, 

“I can’t- I have A LOT of pencils. I’m going to be sharpening all day and all night for two days to

get this done, and I won’t be able to stop for food or water, or to go to the bathroom.”

“But then you’re going to disappear in all the shavings!” said her Aunt Vicki.

Keziah was called to dinner. “I’ll be right back,” she said. “Don’t worry. Please watch my pencils and

make sure that no monsters, or elephants get them.”

“Ok,” said her Aunt Vicki. 

And so, Keziah went to dinner-it was her grandfather's birthday- and she ate everything BUT her 

broccoli. She came back and kept on going. 

She sharpened all day, and all night and while she was working, her Aunt Vicki wrote this story. 

Keziah ate left-over ice cream and cake with sprinkles and icing.  

And so that she didn’t get too thirsty, she drank raindrops at night and the dew from flowers.  

And sometimes her Aunt Vicki let her go to the bathroom.  

And finally….

after two days……

… she could draw this picture. 

                                       

  

                             KEZIAH VISITS THE POOL

                                    by Victoria Simpson

Keziah sat on the grass. She was very hot. She wanted to go swimming. 

“Then jump in,” said her Aunt Vicki.

“I WOULD but I can’t,” said Keziah. “I think it’s pretty obvious that it’s really likely there’s a very big sea monster waiting at the bottom of the pool. If you care to notice.”

“That could be,” said her Aunt Vicki.

Keziah moved to the edge of the water. She looked in.

“Hey, SEA monster!” she yelled. “This is a POOL- get out and go back the way you came!”   

And so a GIANT sea monster with many legs and two tails and fifteen ears jumped out of the water and onto the deck. He got water everywhere.

“See,” said Keziah. “I’m usually right.”

“Could you please move? You’re stepping on my towel,” Aunt Vicki said to the monster. 

He moved to the right. 

Keziah stood there in the sun. It was still very hot. 

“Well, it looks like the coast is clear,” said Aunt Vicki. “Everything’s safe.”

“Not really,” said the sea monster. “Not if you count the wild orangutans. They’re all still here.”

Aunt Vicki looked doubtful.

“This is a pool-there aren’t any monkeys around.”

 “Not monkeys- orangutans,” said Keziah, nodding. “And yes, there are. Obviously you can’t see them because you’re reading, but they’re here. They’re hanging from the trees!”

“That’s right,” said the sea monster. 

“Really,” said Aunt Vicki. 

“Sure,” said Keziah, and she took a step across the patio. 

“Ok, crazy orangutans-ok, great APES, that’s it! Everybody down! Everyone out of the branches!”

Keziah and Aunt Vicki and the sea monster waited. And then fifty-seven orangutans dropped from the pines and landed on the ground.

“Really? FIFTY-SEVEN?” said the sea monster, surprised. 

“It’s hot,” Keziah explained. “EVERYONE wants in the shade.”

 “EVERYONE. And I can still see them. And I’ll tell you-I’m coming to get you!”

And so, she took a long walk. She got the snake out of the garbage, and the tiger out of the recycling and the rats out the filters. She got the dragons out of the bushes, and the three-toed porcupines out of the snack box. And then she got the genie out of the sunscreen, and the snoring armadillo to come out of the shower.

 “That’s much better,” she said. 

The armadillo scratched his ears.

“It IS really hot,” he said.  

"Time to go SWIMMING!"

Remembering Uncle Ben

     It's been a long time since I've posted anything, but such is life- so many things are going on. This is a piece about a boy who's dealing with a death in the family. Last summer, my own family experienced a loss through divorce, and sometimes that feels a bit like a death. The person we 'lost' was a painter as well, and  it's funny how life can sometimes imitate writing. However, I started writing this piece long before any family news- probably a couple of years ago, (I'm ashamed to admit.) Only now, in light of personal events, has the piece taken on a new meaning.  To clear the record, :) that wasn't the first intention. I intended this to be a small story, standing on it's own, about a boy trying to hold onto memories of his uncle. Children don't get many chances to talk about death before it enters their life by force. I think it's ok to tackle some of the more serious topics now and again. This is very short- it's formatted for children's magazines- and I hope you enjoy it.

                                               REMEMBERING UNCLE BEN

                                                                       by

                                                          Victoria Simpson

     Steven sat in class. He felt like crying. His paper snowflake kept ripping when he tried to cut it out, but that wasn’t it. It was that his fish had died that morning and this reminded him of when his uncle had died last summer.

     He slammed his scissors down on the table and they made a loud CLAP!

     Miss Woo looked up from her desk.

     “Is something wrong?”

     “Yeah! Cutting paper snowflakes out is really stupid!” Steven exclaimed.

    He pushed his chair back from the table and walked out of the classroom. He just wanted to get away. And then he decided to say he had a stomachache. And so, he turned and headed towards the office.

      “Are you sure you’re sick? You felt fine this morning,” his grandfather commented later on. They were walking to the car, in the parking lot. Steven just shrugged his shoulders and looked away. He knew he wasn’t telling the truth but he didn’t know what to say.

                                                                        * * *

    At home, it was hard to figure out what to do. Steven's grandma was trying to pick out a new color to paint the living room walls and was really annoying. She kept doing things- she kept holding up colored pieces of paper, and walking around and moving the furniture.

     “Nothing works! Nothing's any good! We might as well paint the walls white and move to another house!” she exclaimed.

     Steven sat on the couch and rolled his eyes. He didn’t know why she needed to paint the walls in the first place.

     He got up and walked down the hallway. He passed his dad's study which was a small room made out of a big closet and it looked dark and inviting, like a cave. He just wanted to feel happy and safe- and so, he stepped inside. And that’s when he noticed it-the big stack of Uncle Ben's paintings sitting on the desk.

    Steven sat in the chair and picked a picture off the pile. And then, CRASH! The whole stack of art fell on the floor!

    “What are you doing?” his grandmother called out. She came rushing down the hallway. She stood in the doorway, watching.

    “I'm just looking at stuff,” Steven said. And then it came out. “I don't know-I guess I just want to remember the good things about Uncle Ben.”

    His grandmother's face softened and she looked surprised. 

    “I like remembering the good things, too.” She came in closer. She admired the painting. It had many fish on it, and long, green pieces of seaweed.

     “That was one of your uncle's favorites.”

      Steven smiled. “He had good taste. That's one of my favourites, too.” And then he had an idea.

     “Can we hang this up on the wall? Then you won't have to re-paint the whole living room. It will probably make things look nice all by itself!”

    His grandmother nodded and squeezed his shoulder.

    “Well, that's a very good idea!” 

                                                                            * * *

       Steven swung the hammer.  He hung the picture and stepped back to have a look. It wasn't as if you could fix something by putting a painting up on a wall, but he felt a bit better.

     His dad sat on the couch.

     “You know, sometimes I imagine that your uncle never left us,” he said. “I sit here and it's like he's sitting right here with me. And then I think of how sad it all is.”

     “I really miss him,” said Steven. “But sometimes it's so bad that I want to do bad things. Or run away, or never talk to people anymore.”

     His dad chuckled kindly and smiled.

    “That's o.k- that just means that you're human. All you can do is share how you're feeling. Try to do things that make you feel happy. And feel sad when you're sad. In time, we'll all feel better.”

     Steven watched as the grey light from the afternoon came in through the window. And then the doorbell rang. His friends Clare and Raheem were standing on the porch.

     “We came by to give you your homework,” Clare said.

     “Yeah, but don't worry about the paper snowflakes,” Raheem grinned. “We already cut them all up!”

     They all laughed. Steven invited them in. His mom came down the hallway to say 'hi'.

      “Do you two want to stay for dinner? We're having tacos and salad,” she said.

     “Sure!” replied Raheem. Clare nodded. Steven was glad they were there. He thought about apologizing to Ms. Woo, and when he was ready, he could even show his friends some of Uncle Ben's paintings.

       They had time before dinner and so they went upstairs. They played with Steven's Lego. They built a brand new world. And his mom set two extra places at the table.

(So, here’s a bit on my writing process, since this is a blog about writing.)

    As the title says, this is a piece about my writing process. I find it hard to really pinpoint how I work and why I like doing it, and so I apologize if this is sort of a wishy-washy description that doesn’t really say anything, and abandons ship once it does start to say something of any interest, which it might. Haha-but anyways, on that gung-ho sales pitch, here’s to fiction! 

    What’s your writing process like? Love to hear about it.

For the Love of It

     I’m a very slow writer. I can spend weeks on one paragraph, when it comes to fiction. As I work, I’ve come to accept that my brain is like ‘Turn Around Norman’, a street performer in Tom Robbins’ Skinny Legs and All. Norman poses on the sidewalk and turns around so slowly in one spot that onlookers can’t see him move. By the afternoon he’s guaranteed to be facing in a different direction than he was in the morning, and if you stay there long enough, you’ll see him come full circle, but stay for five minutes and he looks like a statue.

      And so, as a moving-statue-writer, well, things are… slow moving! Best-sellers fly by and underground e-books take off, and I’m likely still on page one. But that’s o.k., because I might be thinking about various different things-important things, and this takes time. There’s wondering about the correlation between woolen coat tails and parrots, for instance. And then there’s thinking about whether or not a train can travel faster at midnight in a monsoon than at noon, and how this correlates with Christmas. That’s right: complicated, rocket-science stuff. Kind of like counting tooth picks.

 
      But really, writing is a journey of pleasure and so I don’t mind at all how long a piece might take. I love the different cages of the mind, the dream spaces, the hallways and walls- I love the process that’s like a chess game, where the words and ideas are the pieces, and the board is the blank slate of possibility. Because, to be honest, for the way I’m wired, there’s no place else that I’ve ever found such freedom. There are other freedoms for sure; an unexpected day off, or exploring through the city on a streetcar for fun with no particular destination, but the thing is that, really, even then, I’ll probably stay on the tracks. And I like a derailment. Big problems get me going. What’s great about writing is that you can get off the tracks-you can get off the rails, and then get back on again, and then dig them up and re-lay them in the snow in the woods, on a completely new route to China.

      And so, while this doesn’t really detail my process, maybe it starts to get at why I go at something and then fail, and then try and try again. I love dreaming while being awake!

     Here’s to endings that don’t fit middles, middles that don’t fit endings, and beginnings that don’t make any sense to begin. (And frequently everything all at once-really, the gods of writing should make it a combo on the menu!) Because when you’re able to type with one hand, eat lunch with the other, and answer the phone while marching Thor’s forgotten half-brother across the border into Thailand, you can suspect that you’re in it for good.

     Here’s to turning around slowly, with a pencil in hand.

                                                  

                                           

My Mom's Stuck in Her COMPUTER!!!

So, it’s March Break and I have more free time, and so…more blogging! My previous post was only a few days ago at the beginning of this week, but this one is centered around a children’s story. (The other post was for adults, one entry down. Check it out if you like.) 

THE COMPUTER

The story I’m putting up this time is called The Computer. It’s a draft for a picture book and while it could be fixed up a bit, I kind of like where it’s at right now too. Anyways, it’s a story about a boy whose mom gets stuck inside her computer monitor for a day, and it’s about the process of dealing with this and trying to get her out.

                                                The Computer by Victoria Simpson

     Juan’s mom was typing that day. Typing, and typing and typing. Clickety-clickety, klackety-klackety, click-clack, click-clack, click-clack, click-clack-CLICK! Juan was worried. If his mom worked any LONGER, her hands might become part of the keyboard and her eyes could grow into two big, round saucers that never blinked, like an alien’s. And this would be a problem. 

“We’re supposed to go swimming,” Juan said. He loved the pool. “When can we GO?” he asked, and peered over the screen. 

 “Just give me another minute,” said his mom. “I’m almost finished.”

  Well, Juan knew that it was never just ONE minute- it was always at least twenty or thirty- and so he went into the living room and turned on the T.V. Nothing much was on-it was a Saturday afternoon. He picked up a robot he’d been working on that was lying on the couch and fiddled with the arm that was falling off. He stuck the legs out so it looked like a star. And then something terrible happened. It was horrible. Juan heard a terrible sound and it made him feel awful. There was a great big, wide, long… g-g-GLOOOOMP! And then a… KERRR-runka-runka-runka-runka-CHUNK! It was a loud sound, with gnashing teeth. And then there was a scream- “AAAAHHHHH!!” He dashed down the hallway and rounded the corner. He threw open the door. The computer had eaten his mom.

                                                                    

 He threw his hands up in the air.  

  “Well, that’s just GREAT!” he said. “How the heck am I going to get to the pool NOW?” 

 But then he felt a bit bad because his mom DID look really uncomfortable. Her face was squished right up in the corners of the screen. What a way to ruin a day. 

“Can you hear me, Mom??” Juan asked. But Mrs. Gonzalez just raised her eyebrows and shook her head.

  

Well, Juan didn’t know what to do. He’d once seen a person get their hand caught in the disk drive, but he’d never seen anyone swallowed right up. And so, he pressed ‘enter’.  He turned everything off and then he turned it all back on again. He found a number and phoned the computer company and he tried to make a deal for some answers, but nothing worked. It cost fifty-three dollars and no one could help. And so, after saying, “I’m sorry, Mom,” instead of wasting a big sunny day inside, he put on his jacket and went next door to find his friend Billy. 

 

  “How’s it going?” Billy asked. He was leaning against the door frame, looking out at the park.  

 

  “It’s ok,” answered Juan-but he kept his eyes on his feet, looking pretty glum. 

  “I’d ask you inside, but my sister’s got her friends over,” said Billy. 

  “That’s ok, I don’t really want to go inside, anyways,” Juan answered. Billy looked at his friend. 

  “Is something the matter?” And Juan didn’t know how to say it. 

  “The computer ate my mom,” he mumbled. And to his surprise, Billy nodded. His friend knew what it was like. 

  “The phone ate my dad once,” he said. “He went right through the receiver. He was gone for a really long time. It was almost two weeks.” Billy shrugged and gave a sigh. “I guess it was a really long conversation.” Juan shrugged too.  

  “You want to ride bikes and go over to the big hill? We could race between the swings and slides, or even go between the pine trees.” 

 “Sure,” said Billy. And the wind whipped up and off they went.

  They flew over the dirt and curved by the fountain on the path. The mist sprayed their faces like an ocean breaking on the rocks. And when they reached the open space, Juan put his bike down on the grass and Billy zoomed over to the slides. 

  “Let’s go back and forth seventeen times!” Billy said. And so they did. And then he said, “We could do anything.” They climbed up the trees. They put out fires and ran in the castle. They carved new swords. And then Juan looked down from a bridge and said, 

  “Let’s go for a trip on the ocean.”

Well, it sounded like a good idea, but Billy wasn’t sure. 

  “How can we run a whole ship when there’s only just the two of us?” His friend gave a pause. 

  “Just watch,” Juan said. And he raised his hands and put out a call. Everyone came over. Billy and Juan became Captain Ronald and Pirate Pete, and the sailors built a mighty ship. They worked very hard-they crossed the waters and slew angry dragons, and then when it was time and everyone was tired, all the pirates got twenty-seven weeks of vacation.

  Which was very nice. 

But with all their time, they decided to do more. And so, they sailed off to India. They went to Australia. They saw beaches with coconuts and carnivals with clowns, and they even felt the whistling ice of the North Pole. “Vacation is fun!” someone said in the sun.

 

  And Juan said, “Yes. No one should ever have to work. Ever.”  

  “But maybe just enough to make a boat-” said his friend. 

  “Perhaps,” said Juan.

  And then they sailed home.

  As the long shadows of the afternoon came down, it was time to go in. And so, they put their sticks in a pile by the tree for the next time, because sometimes it’s the simple things. 

 The boys crossed the park. Billy put his bike back on the porch.  “Are you sure you’ll be all right? With your mom and all?” he asked. 

  “Yeah,” said Juan. “We’ll figure it out.” And they both said goodbye.

 Juan walked in gently through the hallways. His dad was asleep in his chair. He tiptoed back towards the study. And he felt unhappy because he still couldn’t see his mom. But then he remembered that sometimes, it IS the simple things. All of this traveling had given him an idea. He opened the door and went to the computer. It was the one thing that he hadn’t done yet. He tried it. He pressed ‘PRINT’. And Juan was right-out popped Mrs. Gonzalez. She gave a big, big stretch. 

  “Thanks so much dear, it was sure getting stuffy inside. Was I in there all day?” she asked. 

  “Almost,” said Juan. And he gave her her hat and she gave him a hug. “Come on, let’s go,” he said. “It’s a big wide world out there.” 

  “Good thinking,” said his mom. And they went outside.

                                                                      

                                           

 

FILES FROM THE PAST

Hi. I haven’t done anything in a while. I’ll re-phrase that: I haven’t done anything directly related to this blog. And so, finally, here we are.

The truth is, I’ve gotten side-tracked and gone back to working on a short story for adults that I began a while back, maybe a year ago. As in many projects, I had the beginning of something but I wasn’t sure which mountain top to take the story to in order to continue it. (I’ve been avoiding mountain tops of late but it’s probably time to start climbing-I do hear that’s where the best view is, haha...) 

Anyways, after critique dinners with friends, fried chicken, and lattes with hipsters, I’ve decided to give the rest of the work a try. It's funny how some projects need to lie in waiting for quite a while before we can get the right amount of courage to continue them. 

I'm sharing the writing, here- the intro. Please feel free to read it and provide any kind of feedback you like.

I hope you enjoy it. It’s the beginning of a tale about Axl Rose and his quest to better the world by giving out free cheese cakes. And it’s about enlightenment in Toronto.

Here's a summary:

Direct and to-the-point, Lilly’s leadership and trailblazing skills have served her well, leading her far away from the sticks and tumbleweeds of hick town. The traffic lights of Toronto’s city streets now make her happy and she plans to keep it that way- what with a sane, faithful husband at her side, a bottle of filtered reverse-osmosis water on her desk, and a pair of feet planted firmly in the international downtown business world. Life couldn’t be a happier thing. Her family's bewildering antics and hippiness are well out of reach. But all of that's about to change when a new adventure sets in, with an aim to bring all the craziness back. And it all starts backwards- with dessert first.

   

                             *                                     *                                 *

                                                         Some Dessert 

                                                                                        

                                                                               by 

                                                                  Victoria Simpson

     “Hey, who brought the cheese cake?”

     Tom was sitting with his feet up on the desk near the printer, when a tall woman in a smart orange blouse marched around the corner, ready for her morning. Lilly stopped short in her tracks and visibly brought her mind to the present situation.

     “What cheesecake?”

     A blank.

     “The one that’s sitting there, next to your husband,” said Tom. He made a nod towards her desk.

Lilly put her laptop and attaché case down on the chair in her cubicle and went over to the box that was sitting beside a framed photo of Greg, her husband, that had been taken hang gliding over fields off the escarpment in southern Ontario, last summer. The box had a neat pink bow tied around it and a triangular sticker. Pink and blue- a classical font. It read: “Kurry’s Kitchen-Proper Cakes since 1889.”

     “It was here when I got here,” said Tom. He shrugged. “I thought maybe you’d come in early or something. O.K! So, here’s to another glowing round of who can underscore Walter’s prices first and put Strathcome out to sea before lunch, having them begging..BEGGING for…”

 Lilly turned the box around and picked it up. It was heavy-heavier than a bunt at least, and much more solid. She placed it back down.

     “Well, who put it here?” she asked, her back to Tom.

     “No idea, my friend. C’est un mystere. Why ME askin’ CHEW.”

     Lilly hesitated.

     “But was anyone in the area? Someone must have seen someone.”

     “Nada. No clue,” said Tom. He started in on his computer. A small envelope lay behind the cake, close to Lilly’s electric pencil sharpener and she hadn’t seen it before. And so, she picked it up and opened it.

     “Dear Madam,” it read. It was scripted in Word; an Edwardian font. Not hand-done, but Lilly could appreciate the fancy curls and swirls, nonetheless. She continued:

     “Good morning. You are the recipient of my twenty-fifth cheesecake. We’re on a bit of a trial        

      run, and trying cherry this time. I’m starting a campaign on embracing the ‘sweeter things’ in     

      life and cheesecakes are first on my list. Basically, I feel that the world needs to slow down

     and savour what it’s got. I’ll see you soon to find out how it went.

     Eat slowly,

     Sincerely,

     Axl Rose

                                        

Lilly closed the card. She wasn’t sure, entirely, WHO Axl Rose was. She knew he was in a band, one of those heavy metal ones, big rock sounds- head wraps, long hair, lots of black on their posters, that sort of thing-but, when put on the spot, she didn’t know really exactly where he fell. But she felt safer now about opening the box, even if it could have been a rather false sense of security. A tad bit more snuggly. (Was Axl Rose snuggly?)

     “You know, I was thinkin’ you know, what if it’s a BOMB-“ said Tom. He chuckled and kept on typing.

     “You open it…and KAPOW!! All of us are blown to smithereens,” he laughed more loosely. “Yowsers! All of that for a cheesecake!”

     Lilly ignored him. Standing next to the box, she felt a closer kinship with Aerosmith or Guns’n Roses, or Metallica. She cut the seal with her nail.

     “You want some? It’s cherry.” She lifted the lid and took a lick with her finger. Mmmm…rich and creamy.

     Tom failed to turn around but logged quickly into Facebook.

     “Wow-O.K-! Umm…no thanks. There’s always poison.”

     As a hungry employee who’d skipped yet another breakfast, Lilly felt differently. She took the dessert from the box and cleared a space for it on the metal filing cabinet and let the

sweetness of sugar and vanilla creep upwards for a moment, spreading itself out in the air and caressing her nostrils with the slightest wave of enduring aroma.

     She took a serviette from her drawer and with the help of a ruler, (which had never in its desk life, actually, as of yet been used,) Lilly cut a small sliver from the pie and placed it neatly on the napkin in her hand. She broke off the end and tasted it. A tangy sweetness; a bit of zest mixed with cheese and waves of custard-filled dreams inundated the senses like a welcome spring meandering through town on a hot Iowa afternoon. The experience wafted down her throat, massaging the esophagus as it went.

    And that’s when he appeared. And not as Lilly had expected. He didn’t jump up from the product development department or come forth from the hallway planter, oozing out from the tangled ferns and the dying bamboo. Nope. He simply sauntered gently around the corner. He admitted later that, in fact, in future circumstances, yes, he would provide more time for reflection. It was difficult for the recipient to give any kind of detailed feedback on the food with such a small window of opportunity to taste. But she’d swallowed, and there he was.

Axel. Or rather, Axl.

     “Hey there, m’lady- how was it?” he’d asked. Lilly’d searched her mind for an answer.

     “It was rockin’….man,” she replied. As if trying to fit in-crowds and crowds of Axl Rose.

     “No, but the cherry- you know, did it come across?” he’d sounded uncertain. “Because we’ve

 been trying a new recipe, and”- Lilly had cut him off, words come tumbling out.

      “It was fantastic! It was wonderful. It was- I’ve never had such fruit

sensations...It was as if-”

And that was all it took. Over the course of a conversation and through the simplest mention of orange rind, not only did what some would type-cast as the best entertainer of all time meet

Des Moines’ top project manager of 2009, but it was at this point that a particular path was begun for both. A path down which there would be a simultaneous discovery-in different rooms, and in different time zones, mind you, but a discovery nonetheless-of one of life’s little mysteries. Which could solidly be classified as the divine connection they both shared through Great Aunt Helga.

NO IDEAS- WHY ME? WHY NOW?

The writing process has so many parts and everyone has different ways of approaching them. Like peeling an orange, there is a beginning and an end, but how to reveal the juicy fruit waiting inside, is entirely up to the writer. However, it’s not always easy to do. This is an entry about that part when the peel gets stuck-commonly known as writer’s block. Because sometimes I feel that the writing process isn’t analogous to peeling a wonderful fruit at all- it’s more like trying to find the beginning on a roll of packing tape. It’s a frustrating situation, and as you search the roll over and over, you just can’t seem to find the place where the tape was last cut. For some reason, that tantalizing edge is glued in place and seems to have magically disappeared.

WRITER’S BLOCK- WHY DOES IT HAPPEN?

So, why does it happen? It may sound gruesome but I think, like bombing at the high school prom, hitting a writing wall is telling us something. It’s a canary in the gold mine.

Everyone is different. My experience has been that I get stuck when I’m missing something essential in my work. It can be one of a few things. Maybe I haven’t taken the time and things are left out- there’s information that the reader needs in order to create tension in imagining the narrative and it’s not there. Or maybe I’ve written too much, but I haven’t hit on the right theme.  I’ve skipped over parts that need to be improved and developed upon and I haven’t given them space and importance on the page. Basically, I’ve started focusing too much on the finished product and I’ve stream-lined my mind; it’s no longer revving in the right gear for producing results. 

SO, WHAT TO DO?

Pinpointing the places that need fixing and figuring out how to do it is definitely the hard part! When it comes to myself, I guess you could say that I take the easy road out. Before I can assess anything, I need some space and so, usually, I abandon ship. I move to another project. I start something new, (like writing a blog, ahem…) or I go back to an old piece of writing and work on that for a while. Sometimes I move to another activity, entirely. There’s nothing like going biking, taking a road trip to see friends, playing a bunch of music, or overloading on shopping to clear my mind from its troubles. Alternative activities don’t always move my brain into the right place for good writing right away, but they do start new roads growing. This lets the kinks in the old ones rest for a while, while they figure themselves out and stop throwing dishes and cutlery over the breakfast table.

AND IN THE FINAL ANALYSIS, IF I’M STILL STUCK- LIKE, WE’RE TALKING CRAZY GLUE…

When it’s really bad, I don’t know what to say-all I know is that when a lack of writing becomes a life and death situation, it’s all too daunting. The idea that only I can save myself is all too much pressure. And so, tomorrow is another day! When I’m super-stuck, I look to the past to look to the future: there were good ideas before, there will be good ideas again. And they will come in due time. Like potty-training, they can’t be rushed!

And so, I’ll end with this: writing needs ideas, and ideas are like children: we have to let them grow.  And in turn, we need to be childlike to foster them: sometimes the brain says ‘no’ simply because we need to go out and have some fun…and bring that back to our work. 

Here are some sites with ideas on creativity and working through hurdles:

http://www.creativityforlife.com/full_article.php?article_id=3

http://www.ted.com/talks/tags/id/71

http://www.writerswrite.com/journal/nov97/hughes3.htm

http://www.suite101.com/content/working-through-writers-block-a115725

www.100words.com