Moving onward

No rest for the weary

So I got 2 hours of sleep. I've been in worse shape, but I'm still feeling some energy from people getting on board with me and seeing where this takes us. However, this isn't a diary so I digress...

I usually get my quotes from goodreads.com. Back in the olden days one would buy a book of quotes and have to scour through the pages to find that exact right phrase that someone famous once said to validate your own point. Today it's much easier, but I can't feel confident or guarantee accuracy with this whole Internet thingy. There's a lot of crap out there. But I've brought myself around to words I had found before that troubled me as a writer. The quote is attributed to Stephen King and states:

“If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.”

I've thought about this a great deal over the last 20 years as my love for reading greatly diminished. I read only what I had to, for school or work. Engrossed in text books, contrived literature, emails, manuals, leadership books, assignments all of them, just to glean the necessary information and move on. No love. No passion for the words that surrounded me.

I read as a child. Starting early. Not like reading Chaucer in utero, but early. Both of my parents were teachers so I didn't stand a chance. They had me hooked before I knew what I was getting myself into. Like any child that learns words and objects, eventually it all has meaning. But in the beginning there is reward for recognizing and repeating words and knowing what those words represent. And you feel a mother's love and a father's pride, the words take on a life of their own. They warm you like a blanket on a cold night or nuzzle you softly, comforting you like a fluffy stuffed animal.

You fall in love with reading, more words, more stories, more characters and places that are so far away and you want to go and visit...but later you grow up. The characters aren't real anymore, the stories no longer excite you. The words become meaningless. You begin to write your own meaningless words, but they're not yours, not you.

The night grows long

I can't sleep again tonight. I started writing this earlier in the day and I was a little more chipper. Now I have too many thoughts and the lapping waves aren't cascading over my feet softly on an endless beach, but crashing overhead, knocking me down and I can't get up before the next one hits me from behind. There's saltwater in my eyes and my ears...I can't see or hear, and I shake my head a little, rubbing my eyes, trying to stand, but I'm turned around again. I flail my arms and I'm suddenly clear, I can see the beach but the current is taking me back toward the waves and then another crashes and I'm thrown down again. I gasp for air but only take in water, choking, struggling to breathe. I want to get out but I'm getting tired, but not enough to give up although that would be preferable now...You could say I feel a little overwhelmed.

But that's more like me. The rambling, wordy, overstimulated human being that people have come to know. My editor is pulling her hair out now and there are red marks on her computer screen or tablet or smartphone or whatever she's using today, feverishly crossing out the unnecessary words that I find ancillary (especially words like ancillary,) but I'm going to click the publish button before she gets to see it because I'm a little stubborn and childish like that.

Ok. This has really turned into more of a misguided journal entry and I'm obviously too tired to make sense, (it's 1:46 am, and my daughter came out of her room, so she's still awake - there really is something wrong with that girl) but I'm just going to push through it. Perhaps in doing so my voice will gain definition, I will achieve some clarity and the words will come back to comfort me (and stop tormenting you.)

In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

I've taken some deep breaths and now I'm ready to focus again. My editor is going to hate me later for publishing this, but the process isn't always pretty. Ugly thoughts on the back burner for another day. Time to focus.

So, writers write. But they also read. After all, knowledge is power. Besides, how can you know what good looks like if you haven't seen it with your own eyes, taken it apart and put it back together again? Stories have structure. Words have meaning. Characters have purpose. Creating a harmonious blend doesn't just happen. It's learned by reading other writers, researching to make your stories feel real, developing characters that live beyond your pages.

Coming back around again

I'm going to have to start small to get back into this reading thing. I was considering picking up Space by James Michener again, but I don't think I have the fortitude, although his descriptions of places and people are something I find amazing. I aspire to one day write like that. No. A little smaller, but I think I need to read something I've read before, something familiar, an author whose words grabbed me and shook me a little.

I thought about The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis, which I read long before Aslan's glorious mane graced the silver screen. I own 3 sets of the 7 book series, which I was first began reading in the 2nd grade. Fantastical tales and wondrous characters but I just don't think I can climb back into the wardrobe again. That "Dawn Treader" has sailed.

Alright, got done digging through several bookcases and I think I'm ready to do this. The Anything Box by Zenna Henderson. Science fiction. A little creepy. Short stories. Oh yeah. This is the one. I had a great teacher, Mrs. Rozewski, in the 7th grade that introduced me to this one.

Well, this one was a little messy today, but my day was kind of messy too and I felt like I had to get it out of my system. Like I said, the process isn't always pretty...especially when you live each day as the Incomplete Writer.