First things first: If you have not yet read Ray Bradbury’s Zen in the Art of Writing, please do so immediately. Thank you.
If you’ve peeked at the “About” page, you will know that I believe writing can’t be taught, but it can be encouraged. Part of encouraging writing is changing the way people think about the process. Part of changing the way people think about the process is saying, Here’s something I do when I write. See if it works for you. This was the best thing the Bradbury book did for me. It gave me ideas to consider. Many of them I don’t recall, which means that no, they didn’t work for me. I’ve often said that every piece of writing advice you get is another tool in your toolbox; it’s up to you to decide which tools you use, and which are right for the job at hand. Can’t turn a screw with a hammer.
One bit of Bradburian advice that I’ve always held onto is that if something isn’t working, put it away.
Let me use this moment and that thought to free you from the misconception of the bullshit excuse known as “writer’s block.” People say they’ve got writer’s block when they need a handy and virtually irrefutable alibi to explain why they’re not writing. It sounds better than “there was something good on tv” or “I was in prison on trumped-up morals charges.” Even if you’ve hit a point in the thing you’re currently writing where you feel you can’t push forward, it’s not that your brain has been seized by some sort of avocation-specific infirmity. You’re not blocked for all writing, you’re blocked on the thing you’re writing now. We all get that way. You’re cruising along on your latest masterpiece and blam–you hit a big plot hole or a logic roadblock or you realize you’ve fallen asleep at the wheel and you have no idea where you and your story have gotten off to. A quick check on my hard drives shows that I have more than 20 pieces, from plays to short stories, that have stalled out in the middle of the writing road, a couple dating back to 2004-05. Do I have writer’s block? No. Am I blocked on those pieces at the moment? Yes. At the moment.
Boy, this piece has a lot of italics.
The problem which you are choosing to label as writer’s block is essentially the same problem you have when someone asks you a stupid trivia question that you know you know the answer to, but it won’t come to you. You think and think and think and it’s not coming and you bang your head with your fist or someone else’s fist or a small woodland creature, but it still won’t come. Sixteen hours later when you’re making a nice cheese souffle or practicing your harmonium, you suddenly shout out the answer to the trivia question. You were right–you knew it. But you were thinking so hard about it, it wouldn’t come.
Picture your thought process as existing in a channel with a bottom and a top. Your brain wave wobbles along at the bottom. When you’re not thinking all that hard, it’s a little wobble, and there’s plenty of room above it for your thoughts to flow freely. When you start to concentrate on one thing, it rises up like a bell curve in the middle of the channel, effectively narrowing the available bandwidth for your brilliant thoughts. So when you’re trying to remember the name of the Partridge Family’s manager and it won’t come to you right then even though you know it, this is why. And this is why, when you think you’ve got writer’s block on the amazing bit of work at hand, all it is is that you’re thinking too hard about this one thing. Your bell curve has risen. You need to either a) go do something different for a few days, like volcano surfing or making macrame bondage gear or b) start writing something else. When your bell curve reduces itself, you’ll be fine.
Sometimes we end up putting things away for quite a while, and this is absolutely okay. In one of the essays in Zen…, Bradbury talks about keeping a box of ideas. Literally a box, just an index card holder, in which he’d keep story ideas, random sentences like “the toybox at the top of the stairs,” or even just interesting words. They may have meant something at the time he wrote them down, or they may have been random wisps of thought he knew he needed to hang on to because they might turn into something else later. And that thing could be entirely different than the thing they started out as.
What brings this all about, seven hundred words later, is that after a recent conversation with a writer friend, I had occasion to look over some fantasy fiction I wrote well over a decade ago. It had been better than five or six years since I’d even looked at the thing. I had some small success in the 90s in the genre, publishing ten or twelve short pieces in small press magazines and online zines. Fantasy writing in general fell by the wayside as my interest waned, taking this novel, among other things, with it. While it wasn’t the legendary “block,” per se, it was a form of it. It needed to be walked away from because the urge to write it was gone. Coming back to it now, I was surprised at how little I cringed at my younger self’s writing. In fact, there is what I consider to be some pretty sharp stuff in there. Meeting all these characters again, I found myself re-investing in them. They seemed like good characters, unique and individual and, in the 80 pages I’d managed to grunt out, well on their way to being quite nicely fleshed out. With this new-found energy, I started editing a little, poking around at the words, realizing I used “like” way too many times. I started taking the adverbs off my “said”s and left them to stand unadorned. The further in I went, the more I wanted to see this world again. I wanted to follow these people and get them moving back on the path down which I’d started them back when I had less gut and more hair. This isn’t to say I will, but…
[Here, the author gives a vague yet somehow knowing smile that whispers of possibilities.]
The very interesting part for me was looking back at the guy who wanted to write a fantasy novel. More than one, naturally, because these books don’t sell well in singles. But there’s this guy who likes to claim that he prefers not having to write descriptive phrases like “A cold sweat of mist glistened on the face of the Black Tower that rose at the city’s center” and that’s why he took up writing plays. Then he sees that sort of phrase and thinks, Hmm. And he nods because he’s maybe a little pleased with himself.
Hmm.
The great thing about stepping back from your work, whether for a day or a decade, is that when you come back at it, you’ll see one of two things. One, that you were better than you thought you were or two, that you’re better now than you were, and you can make that older stuff better. Admittedly, sometimes crap is crap and you have to accept that, or sift through it to find the one shiny thing that might be buried in there. More often than not, though, like Bradbury opening his idea box, looking back on what you did then can help you move forward with what you’re doing now–especially if right now you’re not doing anything at all.
You know…if you’re suffering from “writer’s block.” You bullshit artist.
And now, just for fun, the prologue of that long-unfinished fantasy novel. Enjoy. (If you’re a fantasy fan. If not, see you next Sunday.)
Even in the innocent light of dawn, the gateless black wall of Val Diara seemed built from nightmare. Emerging out of the folds of the night like the coming of death, it was fear made real in seamless stone. Fog rolling in from the mountains on late winter winds slithered down its dark battlements to lay in wait on the wide meadow of beaten shale ringing the city. A cold sweat of mist glistened on the face of the Black Tower that rose at the city’s center, a scar torn across the sky.
On the rolling plains behind him, Darion Silversword could hear the quiet hustle of the waking troops. The scent of cookfires mixed in the air with the metallic tang of freshly honed blades. Horses tromped in makeshift stables. Nervous laughter and barked orders carried on the wind. Fifteen thousand men were prepared to die on his command. They had followed him across D’Alshon, pressing the enemy back over seas of bodies and through fields of blood. When the sun rose, they would roar into the final battle, not to attack but to defend, to keep the enemy at bay. His dreams had not told him if they would win.
“Rather a view, say?” Tharis came up the rise to join him, wizard’s robes billowing beneath his fur-fringed cloak.
“I close my eyes,” Darion said, “and I can almost remember her as she was.” He pointed to an empty space to the left. “There, there was the scholar’s tower.” His hand, shaking slightly, slid across the horizon. “There was the great arena.” He pointed dead on at the Black Tower. “And there was my father’s palace, grand and white.” His hand clenched to a tight fist.
“When do you intend to tell them, Darion?”
He opened his eyes, but his gaze did not waver from the Tower. “When we win. If we lose, it will not matter. And if I tell them before, it may dampen their spirits. They want this battle, Tharis. One way or another, they need to see it done.”
“But, my friend, you tell me–”
“Hallo!” Essan’s voice was as massive as his great Far Northerner’s frame. He galloped up the rise, oversized war club clapping against his back. He and his people stood nearly half again as tall as most of the Southern troops. Their fighting spirit was larger still. “Will you both be taking of some of this pasty gruel the cooks are inflicting on us? Spirits! My men want boar or venison cooked wet to get some blood on their tongues before battle and instead they get this meal for babes and old men!”
He scowled when they did not laugh. “We are not worried about the battle, are we? Phah! They are no better fighters this morning than they were two days ago when we routed them from Kallon Dale! And now they shall have the wall to their backs and we the skies to ours! We already own the day!”
Tharis cocked an eyebrow at Darion, who avoided the gaze.
“No, friend,” Darion said, “we are not worried. We just want it done with.”
“Lasch!” Essan bellowed in laughter, and slapped Darion on the back. “I knew it! Look, Silversword—the skies have gone from black to blue with no red between. Spirits, what a sign! A magnificent day to die!”
Essan loped back down the rise, singing a war song in a loud, lusty voice. Tharis watched Darion as he stood staring at Val Diara, then quietly walked away. Darion stayed on the ridge as the sun swelled out of the mountains and edged slowly toward the sky. A magnificent day, indeed.
Spread across the ridge, the D’Alshonian troops were an impressive wall standing between the rabid hordes of Val Diara and the land they had tried to conquer. Silversword stood with his five thousand horsemen and foot soldiers at the center of the line. His hand was tight on the hilt of his sword, eager green fire licking at his fingers from inside the scabbard. At his side, his swordthane Michai commanded a force of five hundred, to a man the best infighters in the land. Their armor was light. It was their job to get inside the Val Diaran troops and wreak havoc among them. They welcomed the risk. Tharis lingered behind at the artillery, three score of catapults, their payloads turned from dirt to wildly flaming thunderclaps by half a school’s worth of young wizards. Essan and his five thousand, half their number comprised of Far Northerners who had infected their comrades with a manic whooping, stomped and clashed their weapons on the right wing. The Mendicant, the zealot warrior, stood passively before a thousand archers and two thousand more soldiers to the left.
For two hours, they watched the walls.
How the Val Diaran forces came forth, none could say. The walls churned and swelled around the base and vomited a howling wave driven mad by their Master’s magic. The D’Alshonians thundered down the ridge and tore into them. What waited for them in the mass of Val Diaran troops no longer made them waver. They had seen too much of it, too often in the year past. They knew of the black-eyed madmen who felt no pain, who fought on despite ghastly wounds or dismemberment. They knew of the weird beasts called forth by dark magic, slavering things like hounds with razor teeth. They knew of the faceless Jangun with their long, curved scythes, and of the shapeless, creeping pools of wayward magic sliding through the troops, swallowing and maddening the D’Alshonians, turning them against their own. Unbowed, they fought.
On that shattered field, they were lead by legends. Silversword, atop his war-crazed, foaming destrier, his great argent blade flashing in the morning sun and trailing green fire, sheared a swath through the enemy and his troops poured into it; Michai’s men slid through the hordes like unexpected death; wild Northerners formed the outside of a great curve spread across the field with Essan at their head and stormed into an oncoming wedge of Jangun with peals of unnerving laughter; the Mendicant, unarmed, spun through the ranks of the enemy, covered in gore, his hands becoming blades that never dulled; Tharis, at the rear, walked casually forward whenever the Val Diarans broke the D’Alshonian line, an easy sweep of his hand releasing fire and weird energies that cut the enemy down in numbers.
The Val Diarans came in wave after wave through the day and the D’Alshonians met and held them each time. As the sun began its descent, the day had been won.
Essan trudged up the ridge to where the others stood. “The troops want to know why they cannot plunder the city, Darion. They are uneasy.”
“No one goes in,” Silversword said curtly.
“Surely we are going in after Yrvax.”
Darion caught Tharis’ eye. The wizard cocked a brow and nodded.
“No,” Darion said. “I am.”
The others, save Tharis, stammered protests. He silenced them with a raised hand.
“For what I am about to tell you, I am truly sorry. I have deceived you all. This is hard for me. We have not won today.”
“Ha!” Essan shouted. “Look around, man! Val Diarans everywhere, dead! We’ve knocked holes in that accursed wall! Nothing keeps the day from us. We need but take that miserable bastard’s head.” He hefted his club, black with dried blood. “I’ll knock it off myself if needs!”
“Essan, please,” Tharis said. “Listen for once.”
“We cannot win, and I have known this for weeks. In dreams—”
“Dreams?” Essan spat. “Your blood thins at dreams?”
“Dreams are whispers from beyond,” the Mendicant said. “They are the womb of truth.”
Essan started to protest, but Darion cut him short. “Believe what you must, Essan, but you will listen to me and you will obey me. My dreams have told me that we do not understand Yrvax. We have no idea what he is. We imagine him a wizard, like Tharis. He is not. We imagine him mortal. He is not. And if we allow ourselves to imagine he is beaten, he will show us he is not. We cannot defeat him on this day.”
“Then what have we fought for, lord?” Michai’s voice was unsteady.
The wind rolled quietly over the rise, warm with death and scented with blood.
“In time, he will return. The dreams tell me this. I dreamed we all fought him. Essan died first—”
“Praka!”
“—Michai fell next, then Tharis, and you, Mendicant, and then I was alone with him and he and I slew one another.”
“If that be the case,” Essan said, “then let it come! I have fought well! My tales will be told by my children’s children! Let me die at your side, Silversword, if that is meant to be!”
“Your children’s children. Yes. You see, Essan, you already know my mind. Today, perhaps I die. But you four shall not. Yet you must understand that today we have only won a skirmish. Our foe will retreat, regroup, and return. In dreams I have seen the passage of countless seasons before his grim shadow rises again. We shall be long dead.
“Vow to me, upon your souls, that you will do this for me: train your heirs in your ways. Let your firstborn follow you, and their firstborn follow them, taking up your weapons, learning your secrets. Guide them so that when he returns, they may stand here as did we, and pray their dreams come not like mine, to give them despair, but to show them that victory shall be theirs. Vow to me now.”
The Mendicant bowed. Michai fell to his knees, lips to the hilt of his sword. Tharis clasped his hands and nodded gently. The giant stood shaking.
“Essan?” Silversword said.
“Damn you! Damn you! Have I followed you all this way to watch you die? Have I fought beside you better than a year to turn my back on you now, when we should be singing victories? What am I, that would let you walk to your death and just watch you go? If you must die, Silversword, do so after I fall at your side!”
“Sing my songs to your people when you return to your homeland. Vow to me now.”
Essan slammed his club to the ground and stormed away.
“He will,” Tharis said. “He would never go against your wishes.”
“I know. Do you think you can find the answer?”
“What I could not discern in the field may come clear in the libraries.”
“You knew?” Michai said.
“Do you imagine it a light burden, Michai?” The wizard’s eyes flared. “Is my pain something you would have shared?”
“My thane,” Silversword said with a hand on Michai’s shoulder, “blame lies nowhere but with me. I turned to Tharis because only he might plumb the depths of the arcane and find what my dreams could not tell me. Were he no wizard, he would never have been told.”
Michai nodded solemnly. Silversword pulled him closer, embraced him and said, “Never was there a better blade at my side.” Michai turned away, tears welling in his eyes.
The Mendicant bowed to Silversword and laid his hands to either side of the warrior’s blade. “Let Uru guide it true,” he said. “Beautiful life beyond to you, Darion Silversword.”
The warrior returned the bow. He looked to Tharis.
“My unwashed friend there has usurped the mystical on me, Silversword, so I shall say you straight: kill him for us.”
Silversword whistled for his horse and swung up into the saddle. He set his fiery blade into its scabbard and rode off across the shale meadow, through the gaping holes the catapults had punched through the walls of Val Diara.
Tharis stood quietly. Michai prayed on his knees through tears. Essan returned without a word and stood anxiously flexing his massive fists by the Mendicant, who whispered songs of devotion. After a time, flashes of dark power flared in the sole tower window, clashing against bolts of vivid green. Then nothing. Silence fell over Val Diara. They waited.
As night came on, Tharis turned his back on the Black City and walked away down the ridge. They were all a long way from home.
I had to make a rule for myself that I am not allowed to complain about what I do for a living. It’s just not right. I get paid quite nicely to do something that I ostensibly love and which, if we are all to be honest here, is about the only thing I can do at a professional level. On top of that, the heaviest thing I have to lift all day is a pen and they like me when I get all clever. Well, usually. Sometimes they don’t get it. But they like me.
I grew up in, if you’ll pardon the expression, an exceedingly white town. About the darkest we got was the Barros family, who were actually Cape Verdean. That was it until high school. My school combined two towns, which brought in the Mitchells and the Fontes (Fonteses?) from the next town over. And, again, that was about it for the non-pasty side of things. My town was also very white musically. This was the early 70s into the 8os, so you mostly listened to Zeppelin, ZZ Top, Bob Seger and, perhaps regrettably, Foghat.* When the 80s rolled around I listened to a lot of New Wave, which was still considered kind of out there and thus needed to be made fun of as much as possible. Disco was a sin, of course, and with that off-limits, we definitely didn’t listen to much funk.
