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greygirlbeastThere's this thing that's been happening with increasing regularity the last few months. I sit down to write, and I lock up. And I can't imagine anything more terrifying for someone in my position. I'll have an idea (which used to be the hardest part), but then I can't find the tone, the words, the characters. For me, writing is never easy. It's always like pulling teeth. The last few months, it's been like pulling teeth without anything to numb the pain. Now, I'm smart enough and experienced enough to know that this is happening because I'm writing far too much (just consider, for instance, the 60+ stories I've done for Sirenia Digest since December 2005), story-after-story, novel-after-novel, without significant breaks. I also know that being so reclusive, rarely leaving the house, rarely speaking to anyone but Spooky, that's not helping either. I also know that the workload isn't going to get lighter anytime in the foreseeable future, not if I want to keep the bills paid. Oh, and then there's the stress, and the constant insomnia. And the seizures. But I place most of the blame on too much work and too little time Outside.
Yesterday, I sat down to begin a new sf story that's due at the end of May, one that really means a lot to me. I've got an idea I love. It's familiar territory. I even found the title with relative ease. "Galápagos." And then...nothing. The words wouldn't come. I locked up. I panicked. After a couple of hours of feeling as though I was suffocating, I got up and went to the front parlor where Spooky was sewing. We talked for a while, about all this, only in far greater detail than I'll go into here. I resolved to do the only thing I can do. Keep writing, trying to cut myself a little slack, shelve one or two projects that really wouldn't have helped out that much financially (never mind if I wanted to do them), and get out more often. The last one is the most important, I think. I cannot write about a world I never fucking see. I cannot continue to write about people when I've stopped talking to people. My imagination can only get me so far without actual input from external sources. I went back into my office and wrote 668 words on the new story. Not great, but better than the zero word count I'd expected to have for the day.
---
When I was done for the evening, we got dressed and dove down to South County and Moonstone Beach. We'd not been to Moonstone since that frigid day in February when we rescued the steamquid. Despite a forecast calling for rain, the day was bright and sunny and almost warm (66F or so). As we left Providence, I was pleased to see that the trees are all green and leafy. The woods are beginning to look like summer, even if it feels like early spring out there (my expectations have yet to adjust to the realities of New England seasons). This changed a little as we got closer to the beach. Down there, the trees are not so far along, not so leafy. But it was good just to be out of the house, away from the keyboard.
There was a mist racing across Trustom Pond, and we parked in the turn around and headed across the dunes to Moonstone Beach. To the south, towards Greenhill, I could see a wall of mist moving in. It's late enough in the year that most of the beach is fenced off again, because it's a protected nesting area for piping plovers and least terns. We walked among the sand and cobbles, just soaking in the salty air and the roar of the breakers. I found a moonstone (the plagioclase feldspar oligocase) almost as big as my fist, almost perfectly round. We found a few unusually large pieces of beach glass. There were birds everywhere, especially back in the dog roses behind the dunes: catbirds, wrens, red-winged blackbirds, robins, mockingbirds, gulls, cormorants. Spooky spotted a Yellow Warbler (Dendroica petechia), which was a new one for both of us. After half an hour or so, the fog rolled in, and the temperature plummeted. The sun became a dim smudge in the sky. We stuck it out a little longer, then headed back to the car. We had dinner at Iggy's in Narragansett, then drove down to the Point Judith lighthouse for a bit. The tide was further out than I'd ever seen at the point, and there was a man fishing, and a guy on a surfboard, almost lost in the fog. I think we made it back to Providence about 9 p.m.
---
We finished watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer last night (second time for both of us). I think I've come to the conclusion that the series was at its best in seasons four and five, and that the last episode of Season Five would have made a marvelous conclusion for the story. Paradoxically, though, some of the series' very best episodes don't come along until seasons six and seven, despite those weaker story arcs that characterize the last two seasons. The first two seasons are hardly watchable, and it amazes me that the show survived long enough to find its footing. Still, glad it did. And after Buffy, we watched Repo — The Genetic Opera (2008) again, because we've both been wanting to see it a second time.
And that was yesterday, snipped and styled and prettied up.
Spooky's got new stuff up in her Etsy shop, Dreaming Squid, including the cats that everyone seems to love so much.
If I'm forgetting anything, it can wait until later. There are photos from yesterday, of course:
Moonstone Beach, view to the southwest, as the fog bank approaches.
View to the northeast, as I pretend not to shiver.
Spooky looking for "mermaid's tears." View to the southwest.
The thicket of dog roses on the dunes dividing Trustom Pond from Moonstone Beach. View to the northwest.
Fog on Trustom Pond, view to the southwest.
All photographs Copyright © 2009 by Caitlín R. Kiernan and Kathryn A. Pollnac
Yesterday, I sat down to begin a new sf story that's due at the end of May, one that really means a lot to me. I've got an idea I love. It's familiar territory. I even found the title with relative ease. "Galápagos." And then...nothing. The words wouldn't come. I locked up. I panicked. After a couple of hours of feeling as though I was suffocating, I got up and went to the front parlor where Spooky was sewing. We talked for a while, about all this, only in far greater detail than I'll go into here. I resolved to do the only thing I can do. Keep writing, trying to cut myself a little slack, shelve one or two projects that really wouldn't have helped out that much financially (never mind if I wanted to do them), and get out more often. The last one is the most important, I think. I cannot write about a world I never fucking see. I cannot continue to write about people when I've stopped talking to people. My imagination can only get me so far without actual input from external sources. I went back into my office and wrote 668 words on the new story. Not great, but better than the zero word count I'd expected to have for the day.
---
When I was done for the evening, we got dressed and dove down to South County and Moonstone Beach. We'd not been to Moonstone since that frigid day in February when we rescued the steamquid. Despite a forecast calling for rain, the day was bright and sunny and almost warm (66F or so). As we left Providence, I was pleased to see that the trees are all green and leafy. The woods are beginning to look like summer, even if it feels like early spring out there (my expectations have yet to adjust to the realities of New England seasons). This changed a little as we got closer to the beach. Down there, the trees are not so far along, not so leafy. But it was good just to be out of the house, away from the keyboard.
There was a mist racing across Trustom Pond, and we parked in the turn around and headed across the dunes to Moonstone Beach. To the south, towards Greenhill, I could see a wall of mist moving in. It's late enough in the year that most of the beach is fenced off again, because it's a protected nesting area for piping plovers and least terns. We walked among the sand and cobbles, just soaking in the salty air and the roar of the breakers. I found a moonstone (the plagioclase feldspar oligocase) almost as big as my fist, almost perfectly round. We found a few unusually large pieces of beach glass. There were birds everywhere, especially back in the dog roses behind the dunes: catbirds, wrens, red-winged blackbirds, robins, mockingbirds, gulls, cormorants. Spooky spotted a Yellow Warbler (Dendroica petechia), which was a new one for both of us. After half an hour or so, the fog rolled in, and the temperature plummeted. The sun became a dim smudge in the sky. We stuck it out a little longer, then headed back to the car. We had dinner at Iggy's in Narragansett, then drove down to the Point Judith lighthouse for a bit. The tide was further out than I'd ever seen at the point, and there was a man fishing, and a guy on a surfboard, almost lost in the fog. I think we made it back to Providence about 9 p.m.
---
We finished watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer last night (second time for both of us). I think I've come to the conclusion that the series was at its best in seasons four and five, and that the last episode of Season Five would have made a marvelous conclusion for the story. Paradoxically, though, some of the series' very best episodes don't come along until seasons six and seven, despite those weaker story arcs that characterize the last two seasons. The first two seasons are hardly watchable, and it amazes me that the show survived long enough to find its footing. Still, glad it did. And after Buffy, we watched Repo — The Genetic Opera (2008) again, because we've both been wanting to see it a second time.
And that was yesterday, snipped and styled and prettied up.
Spooky's got new stuff up in her Etsy shop, Dreaming Squid, including the cats that everyone seems to love so much.
If I'm forgetting anything, it can wait until later. There are photos from yesterday, of course:
Moonstone Beach, view to the southwest, as the fog bank approaches.
View to the northeast, as I pretend not to shiver.
Spooky looking for "mermaid's tears." View to the southwest.
The thicket of dog roses on the dunes dividing Trustom Pond from Moonstone Beach. View to the northwest.
Fog on Trustom Pond, view to the southwest.
All photographs Copyright © 2009 by Caitlín R. Kiernan and Kathryn A. Pollnac
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no subject
Date: 2009-05-16 05:49 pm (UTC)I'll also hope for the world to treat you more gently, so that you're more likely to be in the mood to be out, observing and interacting. The world is far moe interesting with you in it. (I can agree with Lecter without being like Lecter.)
And I'll remain glad that you have people who understand you. Having the sypathetic ears of Spooky, Neil, Poppy and Harlan can be a gladdening thing. Much better to have all of them in your corner than on the other side of the ring. (This may be the first boxing metaphor ever in your journal.)
no subject
Date: 2009-05-16 06:01 pm (UTC)This is one of those times when it kind of sucks to be self-aware, isn't it? I know the problems, I know the solutions or at least the paths towards the solutions, but both the problems and the solutions are tough.
And it's not really a new problem. I've seen this coming since at least 2003, but it just keeps getting worse. Which is one of the really frustrating aspects. Identifying (and, actually, having predicted) the problem is insufficient.
o that you're more likely to be in the mood to be out, observing and interacting.
I am trying.
I can agree with Lecter without being like Lecter.
I often do, myself.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-17 12:52 am (UTC)I often do, myself.
I remember in the early 90s how, according to some psychiatrists, patients were telling them they hoped for a psychiatrist as perceptive as Lecter...and it seemed some patients didn't add the caveat that they'd also prefer their psychiatrists not EAT PEOPLE. Made some psychiatrists a little uncomfortable. But Lecter is an attractive personality, in his way. At least compelling. Still, uncomfortable. (Like how I still feel a little uncomfortable with how I hope I can be a partner and lover like Oz from Buffy -- except for the whole turning into a ravening werewolf thing.)
I am trying.
Do what you can. Simple advice, but good.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-17 01:13 am (UTC)except for the whole turning into a ravening werewolf thing.
C'mon. That's like a cake with no frosting.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-17 02:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-16 06:08 pm (UTC)Tension breeds tension. Although pricey, a professional massage can sometimes work wonders.
Good luck.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-16 06:11 pm (UTC)Although pricey, a professional massage can sometimes work wonders.
As it happens, Spooky's sister is a professional masseuse. But, alas, she's in faraway Brooklyn.
And yeah, stress begets stress begets stress ad infinitum.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-16 06:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-16 07:04 pm (UTC)Exercise helps, too. Perhaps a nice bicycle ride
I'm working on that, as well. Though, because I have so much trouble with my feet (numbness and pain from neuromas in both), I can't do bicycles.
(or a damned vigorous rogering ... I'm sure Spooky would be happy to oblige).
Now, now...you'll make me blush.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-16 10:04 pm (UTC)And seriously, maybe swimming can help, too. Not in your part of the Atlantic, but in a pool. (But then, I've braved Oregon Coast water, and even in August that stuff is cold. It was still worth it.) Anyway. What's your experience with swimming? Seem to remember that coming up before.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-16 10:11 pm (UTC)Nebari can blush??!
Actually...no. Figure of speech. Well, except there's this genital thing that happens during sex, but..never mind.
What's your experience with swimming? Seem to remember that coming up before.
I love swimming. And there are some decent places to swim hereabouts. Plan to do a bit of it this summer.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-16 06:24 pm (UTC)I love that sort of thing, and its hard not to bring everything home with me...
no subject
Date: 2009-05-16 06:31 pm (UTC)so many people walk without looking down to see where they are putting their feet, the score of the moonstone is amazing, and beach glass.
Truthfully, it's hard for me to remember to look up.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-16 06:34 pm (UTC)Journey Far For Inspiration
Date: 2009-05-16 07:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-16 08:09 pm (UTC)I know what you're going through with the writing, because I've been going through a bit of the same thing. My big moment happened when I deleted three scenes in a dark fantasy novel thinking they were shit. Turned out I liked stuff in them, and because of that, I panicked. I could sleep, and as you said, I felt like I was suffocating. I ended up rewriting the scenes (and better) but that only started the first little bit of this 'mehness.'
I've written around 20-thousand words since that happened in the beginning of April (with two different projects,) but it doesn't help that I've been wanting to push further in the dark fantasy novel, which is currently at 13K and climbing. I ended up switching to a shorter, horror novel and have written around 10K in that since then.
The one thing that keeps me from going nuts is that said projects WILL get done. I'm like you, but without the deadline(s). [Unless you count a serial novel and telling an editor you'll get a novella to her soon.] I'll worry about writing, because if I'm not writing, I'm not doing much else (I don't have a normal job yet.) Writing's basically my life.
I'd like to suggest something that helped me last night though. When I was writing in that horror novel I mentioned, I found that I wasn't sure of what I'd written (mostly because I'd had a kinda bad-ish day, right at the very end of it, no doubt.) I put what I wrote in a seperate folder (simply titled BUG -- Three Scenes,) just so I can start fresh tonight (or whenever I sit down to right--hopefully tonight.) After that, I decided to open what I call my Writing Sketches file. This is where I write whatever comes to mind at the time, be it a novel I'll eventually focus all my attention on, or other short things. What I lacked in writing in my novel-novel I wrote in something I will eventually continue to write in the future.
Sorry for a novel of response, but I figured I'd post this, just to let you know that you're not the only one who goes through this. It sounds like you need a break, if even a small one. If your publishers start bitching, just say, 'Would you rather me send you shit now, or send you gold later?'
Good luck. And great pictures! It looks really pretty there. It hadn't occured to me until now how cool a dead crab would look as a necklace (if it was smaller, and preserved, lol. >.>)
no subject
Date: 2009-05-16 08:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-16 08:15 pm (UTC)Thank you for taking the time to write all that out.
If your publishers start bitching, just say, 'Would you rather me send you shit now, or send you gold later?'
They would reply, in most cases, that they have no say in the matter, that they have deadlines of their own imposed from above, and that if it isn't my best, well, than it isn't my best. Better luck next time. It's happened more than once.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-16 08:18 pm (UTC)And no problem--I know how it feels to be frustrated and depressed about not writing. I guess it's the curse of being creatively-driven--sometimes it goes low (or drains completely) and it drives you nuts because you want to write, but can't seem to be able to. -_-