The Fallow Fields and the Pursuit of Newness
What happened to me? No—[takes your hand]—what happened to us?
I announced on Twitter I was taking a hiatus on this newsletter, which was partly a forced condition and partly elective: I received a lot of non-writing work (still in progress) and I was happy to focus on other projects for a while, a feeling which I associate with normalcy when it comes to creative careers. Sometimes you have to let one ball drop to give space to another. I will continue to drop little tidbits in your inbox like a cat bringing home the occasional mouse once a month or so while I build up my article stores—mostly unscheduled musings about my successes and failures, if you can stand that sort of thing. Otherwise I’ll see you in a few months when I get a weekly schedule up and running again.
I wish I was coming to you with great tell of my successes. While November was a very average month for wordcount—35,517 words—I did not succeed at my other goals, which were to win NaNoWriMo, release a romance self-pub, and redraft my fantasy novel. Part of my problem was overambition. Haha! But part was also a series of external circumstances I could not control. As a result of these happenings, I tripped and fell into a proper extended writer’s block—the kind where just thinking about writing made my chest go all tight and I had to panic-clean (different from stress-cleaning in that there is no catharsis, just fear).
I think this is Type 1 Writer’s Block, or not the kind that is a desert; I had ideas, and the desire to write, but something that was not writing was lodged in the way. Disappointment in myself, in my (in)ability to do the work, and formulating a final acknowledgment that the schedule I have been trying to force myself into over the past several months was not realistic—these were all major factors. To mix several metaphors, my writing plans were a house of cards, and then the house of cards collapsed, and also the cards were made out of glass, and now I’m trying to piece it together shard by shard until I have something recognizable as a method again.
This is what I had a character say last week while I was a drafting fictional encounter aloud in the shower, by the way, because sitting down to write hurt too badly but I was still bursting with ideas. Thanks, fictional grief-haver. Maybe the real grief-haver was the shower-cryer we met along the way.
The point is that I’ve spent the last week tumbling downhill in slow motion while forced to admit that what I’ve been doing (trying to do) (haha!) isn’t working. Trying to make 50k every month isn’t working. Trying to force my self-pub efforts to a certain timely release schedule really isn’t working. In fact, every hare-brained scheme I’ve come up with in the past six months to maximize my productivity—the ones I’ve written about and the ones I haven’t—has fallen flat on its face. I did not stick to a semester schedule; I did not write 50k; I was not able to redraft a fantasy novel from the beginning while polishing off a romance draft.
My process, it seems, does not fit to plan, no matter how much time and intensive thought and newsletter publication I put into the subject. The admission has been harrowing to weather. I am used to being a person who, down to the wire, will sit down and force the issue. For one reason or another—maybe simply my own higher standards—this is no longer possible. I should be thankful. I should be pleased that my internal metre of quality is more refined.
I am trying to explain how for the best this is. I am trying very hard to believe this is for the best.
The trouble is that I’m trying to build a career out of this sort of dithering around and flailing. I do in fact need to publish things in order to generate an income. For two years now, I have failed step one. Not for lack of trying; especially in 2020, I have a lot to show for my efforts. Independently of material results, I am really proud of what I achieved.
I am trying to come to terms with where, exactly, the contradiction is in the notion of a “creative career.” I can honour my creative process, or I can publish things I am not happy with for the sake of a “product” and languish in self-loathing about them. I am the sort of person for whom the latter is spiritually intolerable. I have constructed these circumstances myself; I am to blame; I am trying to treat this fact with as much neutrality as I can muster. I have published nothing for two years under this standard. Pour one out. I’ve poured several.
Yesterday, I felt the kind of spark that changes things for the better. I picked up a book that challenged the conception of what a novel can look like on a structural level (Thirteen Storeys, Jonathan Sims—a novel in, as suggested, 13 parts). This reminded me about the concept of narrative frames, and how they function in fiction. Then I turned on my favourite movie (Atonement (2007)), and it fixed the problem I was having with writing my fantasy novel by, once again, reminding me about narrative frames. Then, in the middle of complaining about Alexa-based interactive stories to friends—“Why don’t these publishers just do text-based RPGs instead?”—a block fell into place for what kind of new-media efforts I can be putting my energies toward while my novel-writing brain is whittling away on my five novels at once or whatever the fuck kind of bullshitery my ““process”” has come up with this time.
Today I opened Twine, a good little open-source program for interactive narratives, and discovered that five years ago I wrote a wee interactive piece in it, abandoned it just before completion, and then entirely forgot about it. So not only do I have a new story form to play with, I already know I can do it. It will force me to write short, something I’ve been trying to do for a long time; and I will allow myself to play with a new medium and new structures in the process, even while I stay plunking away at my various novel efforts with slow and steady progress.
I can’t describe how much better I feel having sat down and found some new things to learn. Today I’ve just written 1600 words on this newsletter in an hour, which is better than I’ve done in a couple of weeks. I think, to stay creatively happy, I need to stay in pursuit of newness. Part of what contributed to my slow down and then abrupt stop in productivity was being in the end stages of a romance novel and being committed to that project alone: focusing on one task (editing) on one project taking one form and in one stage of completion actually wore me down.
Trying new things, experimenting with new forms, and possibly switching between projects in different stages of completion might help my creativity feel fresh and alive. It sure as shit can’t hurt at this point. It may be an unfortunate reality and a flaw revealing of my character that I have such trouble finishing things, but from understanding comes innovation and so on and so forth.
I don’t know which of my current projects will turn into something anymore. I think it’s necessary for me to maintain that uncertainty to make any progress at all, or I don’t feel the drive to move forward. At the face of it, this seems like electing for “creative” over “career,” if there is such a choice—but the more projects I have done work on, the more projects are closer to completion. Right? :) When has anything I’ve said ever backfired before.
It’s fine. We’ll see. It’s almost 2021, which I like as a concept just because I like arbitrary landmarks for fresh starts. My December wordcount has tanked, it will not end strong, I will not hit my goal of 425k for the year, and that is something I have made genuine peace with. I will beat 400k, which is a massive achievement. Most of a book will have been written, and I’ve flexed my skills in other stories across all kinds of fields, and I am proud of that. I’ll be back to tell you about them in the new year, plus hopefully I’ll have something to say for myself about how it’s gone and how much better I feel.
Speaking of moving forward! For 2021, I have a good few plans that require the old trial-and-error razzle dazzle. One thing I am doing for sure is Get Your Words Out, which is a year-long writing goals community hosted here on Dreamwidth. My goal will be listed as 500k under the eventual username leightonlowry, but I will be inputting 400k into my spreadsheet as my actual goal. If I get more, that’s grand. You can find more info on GYWO here. Sign-ups open this weekend. Please do let me know if you’re signing up; I will love keeping an eye out for your username in the master spreadsheet throughout the year.
Speaking of spreadsheets, if you are looking for a way to track your numbers, I make a tracking spreadsheet each year. It autocalculates totals on a daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly basis to save you the math. You can have a look and save a copy for yourself here, if you like that sort of thing.
I am also going to start a Bookstagram in 2021, with a goal of reading a book a week. It is going to be kind of pathetic optics-wise, since I read most of my books on my Kindle, but I will post pictures of my cat. Maybe I will fail at this! I am pleased to try anyway! You can follow me on the account I will be using for that at @spunastory, though posts will also be linked to my Twitter.
I genuinely hate the fallow periods of writing. Writing is one of those things that makes me feel like being alive is really good, and when I’m hitting my head against the wall, it feels like I’ve entered an empty, desolate place. But there is always another side, and the more fallow periods I weather, the more I hope I know it won’t last forever. It’s just a matter of finding the foothold.
If you’re struggling right now too, I am rooting for you with all I have. It’s a hard time of year. It’s okay if our best is shitty right now. I’m right there with you, trialing and erroring, panic-cleaning my house.
You’ve been reading OUT OF CHARACTER. Let’s put something on the page—or cry in the shower about not doing that, if that’s where you are in life. That’s good, too. We got this, I swear.