Perhaps that sounds simple. It was not, I assure you. The first day went well enough. By the second, however, I had exhausted my ready stock of banalities. I found myself creating something like this:
“Ah, yes, here we are at last, getting near the bottom of the page. One more sentence, just a few more words…that’s it, go baby, go, do those words…Ah, page done. That’s page 19, and now we are at the top of page 20—the last page of the day—or night, since it is now 3:30 in the bloody morning and I have been at this for what feels like a hundred years. But only one page to go, the last, and then I can put aside this insane nonsense and do something else, anything else, anything in the whole world except this. This, this, this. Damn, still three-quarters of a page to go. Oh words, wherefore art thou, words, now that I need you? Come quickly to my fingers and release me from this horror, horror, horror…Oh, God I am losing my mind, mind, mind…but wait, is it possible? Yes, here it is, the end of the page coming up. Oh, welcome, kindly end of page, and now I am finished, finished, finished!”
After a few days of this, I realized I was working very hard and not getting paid for it. Since I was turning out five thousand words a day anyway, and since I was getting tired of typing long meandering streams of meaningless verbiage, I asked myself why I shouldn’t write a story.
And I did just that. I sat down and wrote a story. And it was easy!
Could it be that I had the master key to writing at last? I wrote another story. This was not so easy, but it was not unduly difficult, either. So there I was with two complete stories on paper, and each had taken only a day to wrap up. I thought proudly of these stories for a year afterward. I’ve never employed this technique to get anything else written, but I know it works. Someday, when I’m feeling desperate enough, I’ll probably rely on it again. Meanwhile, however, I’m still seeking a less agonizing method.
Wordage, after all, is not the sole consideration. Writing a story can be a strange and fearsome business. You want so badly to get it just right. You try so hard and judge yourself so severely that you may succeed only in confusing yourself. Perhaps you’ve written many thousands of words and you’re sorely dissatisfied with them. It’s all chaos and you can’t seem to get on an orderly course. That was my next problem. Wordage, yes, but also an unwillingness, a fear of submitting myself to the tortures of actually turning out a story.
My solution, typically enough was to try to sidestep the problem. Since there seemed to be no way of writing a story without plunging myself into utter despair, I decided I would not write a story. Instead, I would write a simulation of a story.
My simulations are the same length as a story, and they are made up of narration, dialogue, exposition , and all the other elements of a proper story. The difference is that in a proper story the words you choose are vitally important; in a simulation they are of no importance whatever. When I write a simulation, it doesn’t matter if my images are trite and my dialogue leaden. It isn’t a story, remember, but only something like a story. It’s a formal exercise rather than a piece of careful creation. I never consciously attempt to work into a simulation the beauty, precision, humor, and pathos that a proper story must contain.
Using this method has taught me that I have a certain gift for self-deception. Curious to relate, I’ve discovered that—except for a few rough spots here and there—my simulated stories are very much like the real ones I’ve written.
What this obviously means is that I can only write as I write, no matter how hard I try. Trying too hard, in fact, has an adverse effect on my performance. The whole purpose of simulation is to work rapidly with a certain lightness of touch, as one would do a watercolor rather than an oil painting. This method does work. But there are a couple of obstructive thoughts I have to watch out for. The first is, “Hell, this is going badly; I’d better start again.” The other is, “Hey, this is going well; I’d better tighten up and make it really good.” Both of these judgments are counterproductive.
Thinking, not writing, is sometimes the problem. Various ideas must be regarded from different angles before I can begin writing. Critical decisions must be formulated. Alternatives must be weighed. Bits of data need to be juggled, fitted into place, discarded, or altered. Such problems are elusive. They refuse to solidify. I make some notes, or go for a long walk, or discuss it with my wife, but nothing seems to help much. It’s all so nebulous and unclear. There are too many things to consider at once, and no means of arranging my data. At times like this, it can be helpful to make a diagram. Here’s the sort of diagram I find useful. You pencil a key word in the corner of a sheet of paper and draw a circle around it. Then you draw radiating lines from it and write, as succinctly as possible, the various considerations associated with the idea. The resulting diagram sums up your knowledge on the subject. The entire question and all of its ramifications can be taken in at a glance, enabling you to see what you have and, equally important, what you don’t have. Hookups between parts of the diagram will suggest themselves. Pertinent areas can be enclosed or connected. Different colors can be used for emphasis. New data can easily be added. Areas of special significance can be removed as the bases of new diagrams or sub-daigrams.
Working with diagrams is fun. At first I made mine with an ordinary fountain pen. Then I switched to colored Pentels. For greater efficiency, I worked out a set of color-coded symbols, which was well worth the time it took. I also experimented with different modes of lettering to improve clarity.
My diagrams grew larger and more complex, whereupon I switched to larger sheets of paper. After that, I got into colored inks. The commercial brands weren’t quite right, so I began to mix my own. But the system still lacked something. It was becoming too mechanical and lackluster. So I began to illustrate my diagrams, first with little sketches, then with line and wash drawings, and finally with watercolors. My skill as an illustrator left something to be desired, so I began looking for a good art course. Unfortunately, I had to drop the whole thing and get some salable writing done. Still, it was not a total waste. When a market opens up for fancy diagrams, I’ll be all set.
My trials and tribulations have brought me to one firm conclusion—namely, that confusion and anxiety will never be eliminated altogether from the process of creative writing. Ideas frequently have to incubate in an author’s subconscious until something clicks into place. Often, at least in my case, this gestation period is allowed to persist too long, which serves as a detriment to the later stages of the work. You can reach a stage where the idea should be hatched, but something is still amiss and you don’t know what it is. It sits there, a soggy dark mass in your mind, a subtle, unpleasantness that will not permit you to continue. What to do then?
There is an extraordinarily direct method that I’ve devised to answer this very problem. A psychologist would probably describe it as a catharsis. A typical session finds me talking to myself aloud, asking and answering questions.
“Well, Bob, what exactly is wrong?”
“The story stinks, that’s what’s wrong.”
“But how, precisely, does it stink?”
“It moves too slowly, for one thing.”
“So how could you speed it up?”
“I don’t know.”
“Of course you know, Bob. Name a way in which you could speed it up.”
“Well, I suppose I could delete the two-thousand word description of a sunset on Mars.”
“Would that solve the problem?”
“No. My characters stink, too.”
“In what way?”
“They just sit around wishing they were somewhere else.”