Slipping the Creative Gears

Some days you hit, other days you miss.  It’s impossible to stay on top of everything, what with all that goes on in life anymore.  Yesterday was busy for me:  up for breakfast, shopping, meeting online with friends, watching a little TV, dinner, and then writing–

Yeah, about that last.

Last night was another of those frustrating moment in writing where it seemed like nothing I wanted to write came out quite the way I expected.  I’d thought out all the stuff in this scene ahead of time–which I normally do–but it just wasn’t happening how it was in my mind when I put it onto the paper.  It was, in a word, a mess.

"No, their suppose to invite them to sit down, not sign a murder pact in blood!  Damn you all to hell!"

“They’re suppose to invite the others to sit down and talk, not sign a murder pact in their blood! Damn you all to hell!”

Now, I will admit I was partially distracted last night by The Lost Weekend, which was playing at low volume as I–and I use the term loosely–wrote.  That probably played a big part in what I was doing wrong last night, because when I should have been tap-tapping upon on my keyboard, I was getting yanked into Ray Milland’s plight with the bottle and imaginary bats eating mice as he watched in horror.  And falling down some stairs while trying to pawn his typewriter, which now that I think about it might have been a clue for me to hang it up at some point during the evening.

This has happened before:  not the distractions, but the inability to get things out the way I want.  It happens.  There are times when the juices don’t flow, you can’t write your scenes as they should be written, and everything has a stilted feeling that leaves you a bit off-center from reality.  It’s not a lot of fun, but it’s normal.

At least I think it is.  It certainly felt frustrating.

I know–oh yes, I do–I know there are probably a few people saying as they read this, “But, silly, this was your characters telling you they didn’t want to do that, they wanted to do something else.”  If that’s the case, they can rewrite the damn scene themselves while I’m at work and save me the trouble of having to rewrite nearly five hundred words.  The character are never going to tell me they want to do something else, because they aren’t real:  they have no life save what I first give them, then whatever comes from others reading them.  No, my kids are stuck waiting for me to tell them what to do–just like actors in a movie who don’t know what is coming up thirty-three scenes from now in the movie they’re filming.  Though if it’s a Micheal Bay movie, it probably involves explosions.

This gives me something to look forward to tonight.  Come home, cook dinner, put on music, repair this lonely mess of words, then continue writing the scene.  Keep the distractions to a minimum and pull out what should have came out last night.

And stay away from movies about the DTs.  I have enough problems as it is.