The Bitter Quill

I started a new project tonight and, in a feverish burst of energy, pounded out about six hundred words without breaking a sweat. This is an auspicious start! Now if I can only summon up the staying power to carry it through, I’ll be a happy man.

I love a good pen; I love the heft of them, to roll them in my fingers and to compare how their nib feeds ink into various paper stocks. I also can’t tell you the last time I used one to write anything longer than a phone message.

Upon consideration, it makes sense; most of what I write these days is destined for electronic distribution, whether it be email or blog fodder or professional documents. However, there was a time when I happily filled lined notebooks with my wild ramblings. Maybe there would only be a single worthwhile idea or turn of phrase to pursue – and somehow with my hand trailing across the page as they were set down, I felt somehow connected to them. There’s something more sterile about typing ideas directly into well-formed, consistently-spaced black lettering against the white monitor screen. With their responsive keys, spell-checking and automatic formatting, sometimes it makes things too easy. Even typewriters, with their hard-pressed keys, their clickety-click and turning of the ink cartridge around the spool offers a much more sensational writing experience.

Yes, yes, writing is about the writing, not about the tools…but I do think the tools can make a difference. Computers especially, since they serve so many other purposes. My computer, in addition to being a word processor, also serves as: my gateway to the internet, my television, my organizer, my entertainment center and my main (and preferred) method of contact with the outside world. Staying focused is difficult enough some days; and the natural drive to multi-task when writing on a PC is an additional burden.

This past week, my internet connection and I have been at terrible odds; mostly about connectivity issues. And as I’ve spent hours wrestling with them when I meant to get other things done, I begin to wonder if this marvel of the modern age is not equal parts blessing and curse. At worst my pens sinned by running out of ink; it never took hours of my life away demanding complex (and inconclusive) diagnostics; and the only place it took my attention to was further in my head. Even now, as I write this, I have my modem and router shut-off in order to resist the temptation of quickly checking the weather, my e-mail or browsing the web while I collect my thoughts. And even with all that shut down, I cannot stop myself from browsing past MP3s as they come up on iTunes. I’m doomed.

I’m not sure I can go back to the pen, though. Like my memory, my handwriting (never good) has become lax to near illegibility due to lack of practice. I don’t know which is the better option…to write less hindered and more freely, or to be able to read the fruits of my labor once I’m done.

Hmm…maybe I need one of those digital notepads that translates your handwriting into legible text. That’d be sweet.

I have decided to end my already-tenuous association with Phillyist, the blog for which I was a writer. I’d like to say that the reasons are many, but really there’s just one: They now require their writers to indemnify them fully against slander and libel charges. What that means is that if someone should sue Phillyist for something that I said, like “Your food made me sick!”, I would be legally and financially responsible.

Now, the editors (disclaimer: One of them, Star Foster, writes for me here at Bitter Quill) assure me that the Gothamist Network (the folks that run all of the “-ist” blogs) management only included that language because of their lawyer, and they will in fact be happy to defend me against any potential legal difficulties that arise. While I don’t doubt the editors’ earnest intentions, I also don’t have great faith in Gothamist’s continued selflessness. If they had no intention of ever leaving me in the lurch, they wouldn’t have included the language in their disclaimer.

On the one hand, I stand by what I write, and accept responsiblity for my own actions. On the other, I’ll be damned if I’ll provide Gothamist with content that helps their network grow, all the while hanging my own neck on the line, for a measly two bucks a post. After all, I’m not exactly always nice in my reviews. The last thing I need is some irate restauranteur with more cash than sanitary kitchen safeguards siccing a pack of suits on me because I write about how his restaurant made me sick in a public forum.

Does this mean that the Cranky Cocktail is dead? Not necessarily. I may revive him at some point in the future — he’s practically begging for his own blog. In the meantime, I’ll be concentrating on my other writing projects, and my other blogging gig.

Hmmm. I wonder if the Phillyist editors (at least two of them read this blog) will link to this post in their regular local blog roundup feature? I think it would be awfully courageous of them if they did.

Recently, guest editor and all-around awesome chica, Gillian Neff, wrote the following:
I know writing is pretty much always a painful process, so I suppose my point in this little public blood-letting is tell those of you who DO have ideas to go with it, despite the pain.

It struck me as funny when I read it; not because the pain of creation is a funny thing (although some times it can be), but because when I was thinking about what to write here this week, pain was also on my mind. Perhaps the creative process is not unlike menstrual cycles; we all sync up if we spend too much time together. (Yes, Bitter boys; that means you too.)
I recently re-read something I wrote…indeed something that I wrote not that long ago, a month at most…and I found I had little-to-no emotional connection to it.

Well..that’s not entirely true. I want people to enjoy it or to be moved or inspired by it, to be upset or troubled or angered or even disgusted by it; anything but bored or disinterested. But that’s not emotion, that’s just ego. What it is I don’t feel, what is suddenly missing, is the passion I had while I was in the midst of it. Gone is my concern for the characters, vanished my empathy for the challenges they face, my familiarity with the landscape in which they exist entirely dissipated. I suffered with them, suffered through them - battling not only their own demons but my own fears of the dreaded white space, writerly inadequacy and easy distraction just to get their story told. And now that it’s told, I shrug my shoulder in their direction and move on to something else. I know that I did write it, but I remember very little of the actual process. In some cases, I’m hard pressed to believe the words on the page are my words - so far removed are they from my current frame of mind.

It’s not just this recent piece, either. In the end, I’m like this with everything I write. In the most extreme cases, I’ll take something up to read it immediately after writing it down, and find myself surprised by the content on the page. However, the mighty afflatus is rarely this strong, and I more often than not I struggle with the mere putting down of words - wrestling with willful protagonists and unwilling syllables until I’m clutching at my head and pressing my eyes as though the mounting tension in my brain could be translated into the right words, the key to the great, unfolding mystery, if only I could massage them out. When in this state, even when I’m not actively writing, I’m continually considering and composing. (I’m useless to talk to during these times; all social (and oftimes professioanl) functions go on autopilot so that the story can work itself out.) In the thick of it, I am all afire. And yet, even after all this, I will later find my the fruits of my labor surprising, sometimes alien to me. How is it that these things can consume me so completely one moment - then have no meaning to me the next?

Let’s leave the obvious answer of “madness” out of it for a moment. My working theory (and the one I’m sticking to) is that this process is the necessary stretching, sweating, swearing & tearing of creation (whole lives - indeed, whole realities - don’t come into being simply, but sanguinary). And, like the more standard sort of births, that we are eventually permitted to be aware that there was pain, but not to remember the pain itself so that we’ll keep on going - willing to bear it again.

Which, I suppose, is a kind of madness in itself.

I don’t believe I could stand to be in that heightened state perpetually; although I do believe there are people who can and do. Whethere they’re the geniuses or the burnouts I don’t rightly know. Does this separation happen to anyone else - or is it just my own brand of crazy?

EDITOR’S NOTE: Today’s contribution comes from special guest Gillian Neff, who is some sort of big muckety-muck editor for some fancy-pants cancer research journal. Her red pen is fearsome indeed! Thank you so much, Gillian.

People who know me are always surprised that I don’t write fiction. I read fiction constantly. I’m a relatively creative person, and I am absolutely fascinated with words and lingual history (I am obsessed enough that I have occasionally considered getting the first few lines of the Beowulf Manuscript tattooed on me). A good turn of phrase, whether written or spoken, is enough to give someone my life-long admiration, and I consider written wit as high an art as a Giotto fresco. I know my grammar rules and have a good feel for the flow of language. I have done plenty of editing, and I flatter myself that I’m fairly good at it, based on the number of my friends/coworkers who have turned to me for help on numerous occasions.

Yet I, myself, do not write.

Certain teachers and friends of mine, particularly our Esteemed Host, have attempted to rectify this by inspiring me with kind words and advice. Several times I have sat down in front of the computer and started putting down words. Sometimes the words came easily, and sometimes it felt more like trying to convince a cat to take a shower – futile and sort of bloody. But in either case, I discovered the same thing.

I have absolutely nothing to say.

I am utterly, completely, and 100% devoid of inspiration. Sometimes I’ll get short scenes in my head that I like, or snatches of sentences. However, it’s never enough to craft into anything so long as even a one-page story. And if I try to massage it into a longer form, I find that it feels trite and contrived.

This is a point of much frustration to me. Despite being a person of an otherwise creative nature, it’s like there’s a black hole in my brain where plot would come from. I’ve tried brainstorming exercises and role-playing, I’ve tried just writing and seeing where it goes, I’ve tried expanding on my germs of words and ideas, but still — nothing that hasn’t been done a billion times previously leaps to the fore. Yes, I know the old saw about there being only 100 plots or somesuch, but some people are able to take those same plots and graft their own, new ideas over the old, synthesizing them into something new and interesting people would actually care to read. I missed that gene, or that training, or whatever it is that gives you that ability.

I know writing is pretty much always a painful process, so I suppose my point in this little public blood-letting is tell those of you who DO have ideas to go with it, despite the pain. Let the ideas fill you and inspire you and drive you. Run with those little plots and themes as far and fast as you can. Writing really is a gift, and it deserves free reign. So go, write your little hearts out, and I’ll just wait here with my red pen for when you’re done.

Demanding? DEMANDING? I’ll give you demanding, you…

Ahem.

It’s true. Everyone seems a tad weary right now (and, dare I say, a little edgy too). Midwinter malaise, maybe? My writing projects have stalled and I’m filled with sloth and ennui. On the bright side, this weekend I’m going to attend Boskone in order to give one of my favourite authors a thank-you letter from the Child’s Play Charity folks. I organized a holiday fundraiser this year on behalf of his fan club.

Yeah, I belong to a fan club. Wanna make something of it? It’s actually a valuable networking tool. Not only do I get to meet some fantastic people, but I also get to hobnob and rub elbows with many professionals in the field to which I aspire. Plus, the charity drive that I organized raised a lot of money for a good cause.

It ain’t a bad deal.

Weariness seems to be common among the Bitter Quill contributors. Perhaps it’s related to the desire for winter hibernation. Perhaps it’s the demands of our day jobs. Or perhaps it’s Bitter Quill’s demanding editor—although I hear he’s pretty tired too.

Whatever it is, the result is a feeling of exhaustion that has managed to put me behind on several deadlines. Fortunately, I have kind editors (who also happen to live too far to easily do me physical harm). Knowing that my editors are willing to allow me some leeway, I have decided to take as much of a vacation as I can.

Like Star, I’ve decided to make some time for reading. I’ve even managed to finish one of those books I was stuck in: James Herriot’s Every Living Thing. Of course, I still have to chip away at my projects, but perhaps I’ll be able to do so with a renewed sense of energy.

Today I’m the world’s grumpiest ingrate. I say to the world, “I want to write!” And the world says, “By all means, Ms. Foster, then write.” To which I reply, “But world, I also want to have a roof over my head and a place to sleep and food to eat.” And the world says, “I see your point. However, if you seek for them, you will find people who will pay for what you have written.” And so they do. And so often I count myself fortunate that every day I am afforded the opportunity to take my dreams, my craft, and what I (perhaps overdramtically) like to think of as my vocation, and put it to practical use. Between 9-5 I write in the business world. Years ago it was technical documentation and evaluations, these days it’s more official missives and marketing materials; bland work, largely uninspiring, but it does pay the bills. Then, in my morning and evening hours I get to write on things about which I am passionate, and submit them to be read by international audiences and for the occassional bit of pocket cash. That’s no shabby deal.

But every so often, I fall prey to..what? Exhaustion? Frustration? The inevitable writer’s block? I find myself berefet of stories, without inner intrigues or outre ideas, & I become convinced that I lack the time to explore them even if I had. I am nothing…a hack, useless, another wannabe who turns to the web because she’d never find validation in more professional quarters. But, (my inner monolouge insists) this wouldn’t be the case if I weren’t so busy depleteing my energies writing in support of other people’s agendas. Clearly my authorial genius is only being hampered by my inability to pursue my own projects. If only I had all the time in the world, I’d be spending my entire day in pajamas, writing the fifth book in my best-selling series of shockingly original, alternate historical, sci-fi horror, novels; and when I needed a break, I would dust my Pulitzer Prizes with the piles of spare cash I had around after being awared the “Genius Grant.”

Thankfully - this kind of brooding doesn’t go on long. A few hours, perhaps - a few days at the most. Eventually, I remind myself that I spent a year unemployed (thanks alot, Dot Com “Boom”) and instead of dedicating myself to my writing, I squandered it fretting over how I was clearly never going to work again and slaying Kobolds and other beasites in Everquest. And just yesterday, I spent several hours watching a The Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy marathon.

So, my lack of MacArthur Fellowship nominations isn’t just a question of time. It’s also about dedication. And effort. And perhaps unplugging the consumer electronics.

However, I do think I suffer from writing exhaustion from time to time, because no matter how badly I would like writing to be the way I win my bread and butter, when I am sitting here wrestling with deadlines…particular deadlines induced my an outside source…what is almost always joy can occasionally feel very much like, well, work. And when your main escape is suddenly you job, it becomes desirable to look elsewhere for creative and mental release.

I’m disgruntled because I am, for myself, between personal projects. The last was done with a partner for a contest (which just had it’s voting deadline extended…which has me all the more aggravated since it still leaves it somehow…unfinished until the contest is done) and I have no definable goal on what to work on next. It is easy to blame my creative inertia on burnout, but that’s simply not fair. If my creative juices need to break and recharge that’s fine; I don’t begrudge them that need. (After all, there are reasons for vacations.) I just need to refocus my energies so I’m recharging them by reading and observing and digesting input from the world around me and not simply by stamping my foot and pointing fingers and denying responsibilty.

“Do or do not,” Yoda said. Never once did he say “Whine.”

So I am giving myself permission to get out of my own head for a while. I am making time for reading and for going out and new experiences. And hopefully, after a week or so I will feel refreshed I recall the stories I want to tell, what it is I want to say. If I don’t know after two weeks, then too bad; I will still watch fewer marathons and start enforcing regular, dedicated writing time - and just figure out what I’m saying while I’m going along. It may not stop me from me a hack, but it will make me happy to rediscover my own stories and revisit my words - even if no one every pays me for them and no one reads them but me.

I say to the world, “I should have been more specific. I want a multi-volume book deal.” And the world says, “Sorry, honey. We love you, but you still have to pay your dues.”

I’m telling one of my friends about the latest crisis in my love life, and he says, “Is this the kind of thing you write about?” It’s not that my social dilemmas are that dramatic, it’s just that my phrasing struck him as writerly.

I write everything that happens to me, or at least everything that hits me hard enough to leave a mark. Some things don’t make it to paper (or computer screen), but I write them in my head. When I lie in bed at night, I take the things that bother me and I find words for them. The more something bothers, the more I rewrite it, until I can capture it with words. I tell and retell things. I make them funny. I find the words for what happened and how I felt. Writing my life, I’m in control of it.

I’m not sure when I started this. In college, I started my blog one dismal summer in Buffalo. In high school, my best friend and I went out for coffee every night, and I told him the stories of everything that happened to me, and it made things okay. In junior high school, I wrote truly awful poetry. Maybe I’ve always written and re-written my life, just like I’ve always wanted to be a writer.

This is what makes me think that I’ll always be somewhat of a writer, no matter how much my “career” goals change. I have to write. It’s something I just do, it’s the way I live. If I get stranded on a desert island with nothing to write with and no one to talk to, I’ll be making up stories about how much it sucks to live on coconuts and seaweed. It’s just who I am.

This site was intended to be as much a personal chronicle of the progress of our writing career as it was to be about writing itself, so with that I have an exciting announcement to make. Well, it’s exciting for me, anyway:

I’ve been offered a real-live writing job. Someone wants me to write for them, and they’re willing to pay me money to do it!

It is (with apologies to Star Foster) a new media job. In other words, I’m being hired as a blogger. No, this won’t replace my day job — the gig is paid, but it’s not that paid. I’m just going to have a little less time to myself after I finish my 9-5 grind. But hot damn, I’m going to be paid to write! The offer has been extended and I’ve accepted, contingent upon seeing the final contract and so forth, so I’m not going to release any details until things are signed, sealed and delivered.

Paid! Writing! Gig! I’m all a-tingle!