I've been in a bit of a funk this week, and haven't felt much like writing.

Actually, that's not true. I've been writing. Maybe the writing is part of the reason I've been in The Funk.

I've started writing a new piece this week, inspired by a talk with Tim, my psuedo-brother-in-law, as I like to refer to him. Sarah and Tim came in town last weekend (as did the rest of the fam, evidenced below), and a great time was had by all at the BBQ of much effort and lots of lights and much chopping of vegetables and lots of tortillas burning and many birthday cake cones imploding and much good times with family and friends. After everyone left, Tim and I got into one of those late night deep conversations in which I rambled about various things and Tim tried to follow my ramblings and make sense of it all. Waking up the next day, I remembered very little of what I actually said, some of what Tim said, and had a vague impression that it's about time I let go of the excuses and just, you know, started writing again. Creatively.

(By the way, do you know how many times I tried to spell vague before I got it right? Four. The "u" is tricky. Not where I would put it, that's for sure.)

So, I did. Start writing. Creatively.

I should preface this by telling you that there are two, possibly three, big stories that have been living in my head for close to five years now. Several of those five years were spent living my actual growing-up life and creating drama and learning from circumstances and consequences of said drama, a year or so was spent recovering from the aftermath of the drama, and the last couple of years have been about rebuilding my life into something recognizable to me as a responsible adult with goals and a car payment. All of those experiences are coming together in my head now, and I'm trying to piece what I've learned and observed together with my motivation and will to express myself.

(It's been a run-on, convoluted sentence kind of week. Trust me.)

On Monday, when I got home from work, I sat down at my computer and had a talk with myself. "Self," I started, as you know I like to start. "Self, dude." ("Dude" is the acceptable way of saying, "What the hell is going on here?" without being totally harsh. For the X and Y generations, anyway. (Are we still called the X and Y generations, or did anyone ever come up with better names for children who grew up caught between disco, Men At Work, and Debbie Gibson?) (Also, parentheticals hidden inside parentheticals prefaced by and referring to other parentheticals signal that the writer of said parentheticals is either really deep, or really confused.) (Just follow along. Nothing to see here.))

"Dude," I said again. (If you say "dude" twice in a row, that means this is serious, for realz.) "The time has come. You either sit here, and starting writing the damn stories that you've been saving up in your head for a better time, or you write other stories and watch reality TV and read other people's blogs and think about this story and how someday you'll write it down, you'll tell it, but that someday is not today, it's possibly tomorrow or next week, but certainly you're too tired to start it today. One or the other, self. Which will it be?"

So, I started it. On Monday. I've been working diligently on it every night this week, every night that The Bachelor season finale wasn't on, that is. I started it on Monday. Today is Thursday.

I'm on page four.

Four is good, right? I mean, that's about a page a day. How many pages is the average book, like 200? I could finish a book in less than a year, right? Wait, I just picked up a random book next to me, and it's 360 pages. 360 is still less than a year!

That's assuming that I write a page a day.

Sometimes this week, the pages have gone well. They've flown right out of my fingertips and onto the page, and I've sat back for second and thought, this feels good. Other times, it's not so much with the flowing and feeling good stuff. Sometimes I write a page, or half a page, and think, is this the direction I want to be going right now?

Wait. I'm not sure if I like that paragraph right there. The third one down on the second page. It's... weak. But I'm not sure why. Let's take out that "ing" word, and try to create a sentence with some action it it.

Well, that's a tiny bit better.

Hmm. Now, let's start at the top of the page and read down as if I'm, say, my neighbor, the one who called the cops to my house last week for eating pizza with Sarah and Tim and Brad on the back porch. Would his shriveled soul understand what I'm trying to get across on this page? What about the girl I talked to on the phone at work today when I was ordering fax toner - would she appreciate the inner conflict I'm trying to get across by the way the main character casually touches her ear when she's nervous?

NO. They wouldn't get it. Maybe I should just move this whole paragraph, and put it over here. Underneath the fourth paragraph. How does that look? Oh, wait, hold on now. It doesn't make sense there, now does it? Maybe I should just highlight the whole thing, like this, and then... hit the delete key.

Much better.

Hence, The Funk. I'm driving myself crazy.

I've woken up every morning this week and thought about the characters I'm creating. I've written down notes. I've changed my mind several times. When all else has failed, I've picked up some of my favorite books to see how the authors started their stories, just for comparison.

This morning, I opened up the book Playing the Bones by Louise Redd, one of my all time favorite works of fiction. Here's how she starts her first page:

On my list of One Hundred Things I Want Out of Life, hearing a certain man say "Hey my baby" is Number 2.

Well, damnit. Let's just stop right there. What business do I have trying to write a book when the best opening line of a novel ever is already taken? It gets better (or worse, in my case):

Eva, my therapist, opens every session with the same question. This Tuesday is no different from the others.

"Lacey," she says, "may we fill in the first slot on your list today?"

The list was Eva's idea. I've managed the other ninety-nine, but the list is under constant revision, like everything in my life. To avoid her question I scribble lyrics on a legal pad in my lap. I don't play an instrument, nor do I sing, rap, dance, perform card tricks, or even make love very well. When I become accomplished at any of these things, spaces in my heart will open up like popcorn.

Well, excuse me while I fill out my law school application. Obviously I'm need in of a major career rethinking.

And that, my friends, is my week so far, in a nutshell. I wish I could write a happy, snappy ending, but it's only just begun. I'm right at the tip, the very tip tip top of the very large canyon I will have to struggle through to find my voice, my courage, and my self-confidence when it comes to my Writing Career. The Writing Career in which I actually Write. In hopes of having A Career. Writing.

You get it, I'm sure.

I'll keep you posted on how it works out.

Lucy loves you |