“She’s a bloody mess!” she says pounding the table with her fist. “She came to visit me and she saw a dog across the road. “It’s going to get run over,” she said, all panicked. I told her, “Lorraine, get away from the window. The dog will be fine.” She sat on the couch and hyperventilated for 15 minutes. I couldn’t get her to move. The dog was fine, of course. It just wandered off.”

“She just worries all the time.” (I hear someone grunt with approval and make that tsk tsk noise.)

“She’s not an unattractive woman. She dresses nicely enough. She puts the effort in, y’know? But he’s ruined her. He’s turned her into a psychotic mess. You know she went to see that psychologist, right? Apparently he told her to get over herself. Can you believe that? I’ve been telling her the same thing for seven years – and I didn’t charge her $150 for a half hour session.”

“She’s lost her confidence. She’s just a shell of herself. Remember how she was in high school? All cheery and full of life? Now…? He’s in her head all the time. Attacking her and picking her apart. I just want to….ugh!” She pounds the table again. This time she knocks a spoon off and it falls to the floor with a clink clink. Her chair groans as she reaches over to pick it up.

My coffee goes cold as I continue listening to their conversation. It’s enthralling hearing all about Lorraine and how utterly fucked up she is. For a few minutes I feel better about myself and my abundant shortcomings. Bless you fucked up Lorraine. You did something good today – despite what your friends may tell you.

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I have been writing up a storm lately. The majority of the words I’ve written have been paying client work that – get this – clients are actually paying for. It’s a little bit of a foreign concept because for so long I’d been identifying myself  as a writer, yet the majority of work that I did was in some way related to web development. But now, I’m getting paid to write words and it’s wonderful.

It’s a difficult job though. Some days the last thing I want to do is write. Some days I have no writing mojo and it feels like the proverbial well is dry. Unfortunately if you’re working to a deadline you really don’t have much choice than to keep plugging away… So I write sentences that are barely formed and I take a sip of my coffee and I keep going. Word by word. Until eventually, I’ve written thousands of words. Then I go back and refine. Refine and repeat.

I’m proud of myself. I’m proud of my ability to excite, persuade, inform, captivate, anger and inspire just by the words that I choose to put down on a piece of paper. There is something magical in being able to do that. Each day as I sit down at my little brown desk, its surface defaced by all the years I’ve struggled, I’m honoured to call myself a writer – and finally believe it.

I pretty much always wanted to be a writer. As a kid, I loved to read. The library was my favourite place in the school (apart from the Canteen) and I used to savour the experience of lugging home my book bag chock full of books about horses or princesses or running dogs named Spot. One of my earliest memories of school was reading Mr Men books in the library by myself. I always felt comfortable being alone and I guess by reading a book I could never be lonely.

I used to write the best stories. Totally naive and without any logical premise but these stories had imagination and wonder and people thought they were good. “You’re a great writer!” they’d say, which filled me with confidence. This confidence and their belief in me is probably the reason that I decided that I could actually be a writer. “I’m a great writer.” I believed it. Some days I still believe it but most days, I don’t.

Writing can be a real tooth and nail struggle. I love it but I fight it all the time. I fight sentences that aren’t quite right or a plot that doesn’t feel genuine, and I often get discouraged by the word counts of other writers. Perfection and writing the perfect piece of anything often leads to my biggest mental blocks.  Perfection is the most paralysing, demoralising, unattainable quality. You sit and pray, despite knowing that you’ll probably never write a perfect sentence but you stare at that blank screen and make deals with all the deities that one of them will at least grant you the power to be more than mediocre.

“There’s no such thing as perfect writing, just like there’s no such thing as perfect despair.” Haruki Murakami.

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I’m sure I’ve written about my struggle with writer’s block on the blog before. It is a constant struggle for me – even though I love writing. I often berate myself for not being motivated enough to write but truth be told I think that might be making matters worse.

As it’s an ongoing struggle I’m always trying different things to induce some writerly juices. Here’s my list of 10 things to try if you have writer’s block.

1. Change your scenery – get away from the desk (or wherever you are) and put yourself in another situation. Go to a cafe, go sit at the park, go for a drive. Inspiration is born through experience and you’re not experiencing much if you’re just sitting at your desk.
2. Daydream - I put my headphones on and go and lay down for half an hour. Sometimes the music will help me to daydream solutions to plot problems or ideas for stories etc.
3. Always have a notebook close by – I have several notebooks scattered around in case an idea comes to me while driving or watching tv or sleeping.
4. Work in a clean, orderly environment – mess on the desk equates to mess in the mind – how can you work if you’re feeling all disheveled?
5. Create a writing routine – figure out what time of the day you work the best, block of some time and get into the habit of consistently writing at this time. Writing is not only about creativity – it’s also about discipline.
6. Turn off all distractions – including online distractions like Twitter, Facebook etc. I get so ambushed by social networking sites that I’m tempted to create some kind of blocking system that will only allow me to access such pages during certain time periods – i.e. when I’m not supposed to be working/writing. Limit or do away with time and attention sucks
7. Get inspired - keep things around you that inspire you – music, pictures, trinkets, photos, books – whatever. For me, inspiration usually comes from photos and illustrations that I find, in fact I’ve had whole stories spawn from a drawing.
8. Good or bad, it doesn’t matter - a lot of the time I’m so consumed by the desire to write well that I’m too scared to write anything at all. The trick is to not worry about perfection – this can come later. One of my favourite quotes is about this exact thing – “If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word.” – Margaret Atwood – so very, very true.
9. Broaden your horizons – the more you know or experience, the easier it is to write about. This not only applies to specific experience on a subject but also general knowledge and understanding of the world around you. Travel, take courses, read books, speak to people – learn as much as you can. The more worldly you are the greater the well of experience you can draw from.
10. Just write. It’s always the beginning that’s the hardest part so just write a word or a sentence. Write whatever comes to mind, use prompts, write about what kind of day you’re having or describe your perfect day, whatever it takes to get the words flowing. For me, once the words start flowing a massive weight is lifted, the brain fog clears and I find that ideas (and more words) come a whole lot easier.

Good luck!

Twilight author Stephenie Meyers mentioned that the idea for Twilight came to her in a dream. I love all four of the Twilight books and, as I’m writing a novel of my own, I decided to keep track of my dreams in case I too manage to dream something that is not completely banal. Last night I dreamt that Tony and I were living in Malaysia and some local people broke into our house and beat Tony up because he was stealing their jobs… Somehow I don’t think this dream will eventuate into a best seller.

I wrote an article for the AWIA Web Mixed Grill and it was posted yesterday (the 10th). It was really good to sit down, write and finish a piece. Lord knows I’ve got about 100 started stories and articles sitting on my HD that are probably too irrelevant/out of date after I’ve left them for so long. Anyway – you can check out the full article on the Web Mixed Grill Site.

In my limited career as a freelance writer I’ve spent more time staring at the ceiling, or a blank Word doc than actually putting words down. It seems that I suffer from a perpetual bout of writers block which is both suffocating and frustrating, especially when you have a tendency to compare yourself to other more productive writers. During these wordless times my internal monologue sounds something like “So-and-so has written a 100 page e-book in the last week and what have you done, besides playing Scrabble Worldwide? Nothing, that’s what I thought. You suck!” There’s no monumental failure like failing to do what it is you’re supposed to love doing – the one thing you identify yourself as, the one thing you thought you could always fall back on. I’m failing as a writer and I think I know why.

Before I put “writer” on my business cards I filled notebooks with odd little poems about boys and thunderstorms and I didn’t really care if any of it was any good. It was cathartic to get things out of my head and onto paper. These days however, my ability to make money is very much reliant on my ability to write. No writing = no work. No work = no money. No money = no self-worth. No self-worth = no writing which just brings me back to the start. I don’t really write for the “fun” of it anymore. If I write (or attempt to) it is with a definite purpose like finishing the children’s book I’ve been working on for months, or adding bits and pieces to my portfolio. This purpose has stripped away my romantical notions of being a writer and leading an austere and contemplative life. Instead, this constant failure is forcing me to live more inside my head than ever. When I get this way, so many things suffer – not just my writing. My general state, my outlook and optimism, all the self-confidence that I managed to squirrel away for leaner times – all of this disappears until I’m left trying to work with a bare-bones me. Stripped of all intent and purpose I am quite pathetic though I’m sure nothing unique.

I lived in Vancouver, well, more accurately Burnaby, from 1996 – 1998. I’ve written about my experiences at various times, usually when I get ‘home sick’ for my home away from home. At the time I lived there Canada’s worst accused serial killer Robert Picton had started abducting and murdering women, the X-Files (and many other shows) was being filmed at locations throughout the lower mainland, and heroin and crack cocaine use was destroying the city. The shocking contrast between where I’d come from and what I was now living amongst was staggering. I’d never seen a homeless person until I landed in Vancouver let alone a hooker or drug addict. I could see multiples of each just driving along Kingsway of an evening.

I look back now, the images of the past tinted that familiar rose colour that comes with time passing, and sometimes I think “It wasn’t so bad” – but really deep down I know it was. It was worse than bad. I’ve never spoken at length and with full disclosure about the things that happened while I was there, the things I saw and was a party to. It seems so very unreal now. All the setbacks, the disappointments, the fear, the destitution, the hopelessness and horror. Bad things happened there and all of it seemed to occur around me.

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I was sitting out in the garden catching some rays when something hovering a meter or so above the clothes line caught my eye. Its movements were erratic, dipping and squiggling small u’s in the air but despite all its efforts it wasn’t traveling very far. Then, a gust of wind caught it and it sailed effortlessly across the yard to land upon my left foot.

P.S. That is a picture of the actual feather. Pretty isn’t it?

To: Summer_is_the_best@mothernature.org
Subject: ???

Message

Hey Summer, haven’t seen you for a while – how’ve you been? A few of us were wondering what you’ve been up to, how your travels are going. I thought I better check in to find out what your plans are and stuff.

Look, about your no show in December, it’s not that we’re angry with you – just disappointed. We had a brand new ducted air conditioning system installed specifically for your visit and, I mean, you could’ve popped in or called or something. That way we would’ve known that you had other plans and we could’ve changed ours but as it is, we’ve been waiting for your visit for two months now and, to be honest, we’ve gotten to the point of thinking, screw it, lets just catch up with Autumn instead. Every morning when I wake up I look out the window and think, today could be the day that Summer visits. But so far, nothing. It’s like everyone is continuing on in your absence – we have bright blue skies, a calm ocean, daylight til 7pm but without you it’s just Spring…with extra daylight. Where’s the heat Summer?

I know you like hanging out with all the ‘cool’ people in Sydney and Melbourne but just remember, we’ve known you longer and we’ve got way better beaches here. No question.

We all miss you Summer. Come home soon.