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“Emotion can come before writing, and after writing, but it must not be present during writing.” Madeleine L’Engle in her book Walking on Water

“If the writer feels it when writing, the reader feels it when reading” - Common Knowledge

As in any pursuit, an incredible variety of emotions may be experienced while in the process of creating a work of fiction. In this little essay-thing, I'll be focusing on my two biggest ones: too strong of an emotional connection with the story itself, and too strong of an emotional connection with the characters. I will try to be as clear as possible about where I see these emotions as streaming from, and in what ways these emotions can get in the way of the process itself. 

It's probably best to begin with the most damning emotion of all: few things are as murderous to the creative process as that intoxicating epiphany that one is in the midst of creating something beautiful. This thought is often accompanied by a thrill (which is itself often accompanied by the sense that this thrill is the only requisite to continue creating that "Grand Work" which one has begun), and an intense self-scrutiny which seeks to discover the place from which this beautiful creation has, thus far, been streaming, in order to prolong the inspiration and avoid a loss of control of the process. 


Writing solely from the intoxication of an adrenalin-addled imagination however, is a sure way to burnout. As soon as the thrill begins to fade, and fatigue sets in, the infatuation with the text vanishes without a trace, and the writer is left wondering what it was that he or she got so worked up about in the first place. But most troublesome of all is this: having experienced that thrill, it's tempting to think that when one does not feel that way, one is doing something entirely wrong.

Seeking to discover the sources of one's inspiration, to lay them out in the simplest way possible to prevent them from vanishing betrays a lack of confidence in one's ability to truly remain inspired. The trouble is that inspiration is a far more holistic concept than we would like to admit to ourselves, and it seems likely that few have the necessary insight to know exactly why it is that they are writing, until after they have written.

It's understandable to wish to create something beautiful. At the same time, it's likely that if we ever do create something beautiful, we'll be unable to see for ourselves that it is beautiful. Though this thought can be terrifying, and though we can feel tempted to try to figure it all out in spite of our lack of insight, it's far worse to cut off the creative process simply because one wishes to step back and figure out why one has suddenly gotten the sense that one has created something beautiful.

Even if our intuition is correct, and we have finally written the most beautiful page or paragraph or sentence we have ever written, we will likely never discover what it was that made it so beautiful, and so we will be unable to move onward. Though every bit of writing can be improved upon, we cannot rewrite it, for fear that we will end up writing out, and losing forever that fiction's as-yet-undiscovered essence. And, depending on our degree of neuroticism, we cannot write further pages or paragraphs or sentences, for fear that they won't give us that sense of having created a beautiful thing. 


It seems more practical to tell one's self that even if creating beautiful things is one's stated goal, the creation of beautiful things is largely out of one's conscious control, dependent on a holistic and intuitive understanding of language, emotions, storytelling etc, and that the thrilling realization that one is attaining one's goals is both irrelevant, and ironically, counterproductive.

The second problematic emotion is too-keen of an empathetic connection with one's characters. Obviously, since we are writing them, if they are to be well-rounded, we will have to utilize many different aspects of our own personalities, and in doing so we will understand where they are coming from. But the goal of writing fiction (that one wishes to share with others, of course) is not to have an inner experience, but to give one. Since the individual reader's response to the text will vary dramatically between readers, and different parts will stand out to different readers, it seems rather narrow-minded to think that more readers will feel that sense of connection if we feel it first.

Personally, I find absolute identification with my own characters to be both emotionally draining and self-indulgent. As before, once one has written something that one feels encapsulates an aspect of one's soul, it's hard to go back and rewrite it, for fear of destroying the essence of the writer's own sensation of connection. 


I see the goal of fiction as illusion. The more the writer writes from a place of pure emotionality, the less his or her own emotions and desires are sublimated into something more complex, and the more his or her hand shows through, and the more the illusion is broken. Storytelling is not about self-expression, but about telling a good story.

However, I like to hope that a good story told well will inescapably capture the uniqueness of the writer's own personality and voice. In a way, self-expression is inescapable. We need not worry about fully embedding ourselves in the personalities of our creations.


James Daniels

Something

“We’re right on time.”

Josie looked at her husband in the passenger seat with a reassuring nod. “Right on time,” she repeated.

“For once.”

“What was that, dear?”

“Oh nothing.” His nose scooted across the window. He was quiet for a few moments, then, “Are we sure about this? All this, kid business? I mean, how are we going to tell it’s them?’

“There aren’t going to be many children in groups of three at the train station, dear,” Josie said.

Her husband rubbed his eyes. “We don’t have children.”

“I thought that was pretty obvious.”

Her smirk was lost on him. “Then why take on three children for the summer? We aren’t qualified for this sort of thing.”

“You’re winding yourself up again, Simon.”

“You never seem to get wound up about anything!”

The wife laughed while the husband sank lower into his seat.

He folded his hands grimly. “Besides, what are we to do with them?”

Smiling fading, Josie gripped the wheel. “Well, of course we’ll… Um… There’s always…”

“You see, it’s hopeless.”

The car rolled to a stop, and she jammed the shifter into place. “Hopeless or not, they will arrive in a few minutes.” Opening the car door, she grabbed her purse and then her husbands chin. “Do try not to wear that face; it’ll scare the children off.”

Simon produced an even bleaker expression.

“Oh dear.”

Simon’s face, Josie had learned throughout their years together, was a better almanac than anything printed in some journal. It was like an arthritic hip when it rained, a frantic dog at the approach of a stranger. Simon knew trouble when it was coming, and although she had managed her best to ignore it that morning, she was realizing the dark circles around his eyes were not disappearing on their own.

She decided to remain cheery. “There’s no helping it now!”

The couple made their way on the misty platform as they train heaved itself to a stop. Inside, passengers gathered their belongings and stooped or stood on the balls of their feet to retrieve their bags. Josie and Simon scanned the dark windows for the children they were to retrieve.

“What do you suppose they’ll look like…”

The husband remained silent almost as if protesting their presence there.

Women bustled by them, and men with papers clipped past as well. They must have been off to another platform, for not many people stopped to stay at their little town. Or at least not for long. Little towns like theirs had a way of rejecting you or swallowing you up whole like a goldfish.

“Wait, that must be them.”

Josie grabbed a hold of her husband’s sleeve and pulled him down the platform. There was a gangly boy with a heavy bag next to a little girl. Their sister appeared with two more bags.

“You must be Rachel, Sarah, and Roger.”

As promised

So, my dad told me about this writing contest for Halloween.  This actually just came to my attention last night, so maybe it was meant to be that I would start writing, eh?

It has to be 450 words or less.  Below is what I have so far.  Not sure how I feel about it, but it was the first idea, so I went with it.

Working title:  Rule Number Five.  This is all unedited, or "raw," so save your harshest criticisms.

They had seen me.  I was told never to let them see me.  It was rule number one, and I had blown it.  I leaned against the door, shivering with nerves as I felt the three of them walking on the other side of the door. 

What had he told me?  Rule number one, don’t let them see you.  I had to scratch that one off the list.  Rule two?  My mind wound in on itself, trying to remember while my body shuddered.  Oh, yes, don’t underestimate them. 

Rule three, rule three… I wish I could have delayed my arrival by one night, or all of this wouldn’t have happened.  But I was never one for timing.

Right disappear or misdirect them—that was rule three.  I had tried that one already.  They hadn’t followed me to this room.

I closed my eyes and listened for them in the hallway.  They were talking, laughing roughly and knocking on the old walls.  I felt one give way, and I jumped. 

Suddenly, I remember.  The lock!  Oh my god, I forgot about the lock on the door.  My thumb traced the knob behind my back.  No no, it was too late for that.  They would hear the rusty mechanism and know where I was. 

I gasped like a fish for water, my head blurring with panic.  The rules, the rules.  Rule four?  Rule four, rule four… Don’t lead them back to where you live.

But they had found me where I live—those three wearing their outfits fit for hell.  I was told if I had kept the lights off, none would come.  And now three were in my house.  They spotted me in the window and pointed and gawked.  They forced the feeble front door open and were searching for me, jeering and laughing.

Now they knew where I lived.  I had heard stories of this happening to others, and it was never good.  More of them tended to show up, stomping and yelling, sneaking and lurking around the corner.  They violated you, chased you, like some disturbed game of cat-and-mouse.  Fighting back almost always made it worse—more would show up.  An infestation of them, trying to catch you.

The floor whimpered close to the door, and one of their voices traveled through.  “Hey!  I wonder what’s in this room!”

I was left with no time to react; the door opened and the three came inside.

“Dude, it’s freezing in here!”

“What’d I tell you, this place is haunted!”

I stood, eyes frozen wide. 

Rule number five, if you’re home is declared haunted by the humans, no other spirits may help you.  And you may never leave.

To be continued.

Yes, another one of those "I"m too tired to post" posts.

Unfortunately for me, the last few days have been preoccupied with getting my car up and running, work, and job applications.  Nothing I want to do, but that's life.

But--a blog isn't about making excuses on why I'm not blogging.

Anyway, tomorrow I'm going to post something that has to do with the story I'm apparently writing.  Because if I don't say that "publicly" on this blog, I won't ever actually write anything

See you tomorrow.

M&y

Writing

Yesterday, I posted something about writers' companions.  Today, I had a talk with someone I could refer to as my mentor.  He told me that now that I have a lot of time on my hands, I need to write my novel.

Of course, I laughed nervously.  I do love to write--I just don't like to sit down to write.  I do what most writers must do; I invent things in my mind, places, plot points, characters, whimsical happenstances.  But when it comes time to commit or delve deeper than psychological sock puppets, I freeze.  My stomach ties up in knots, and I avoid impulses to just sit down, stop watching stupid Youtube videos, and get down to some serious creative work.  I have a few guesses why this might be, but something tells me it's most likely because I'm afraid that my writing will be horrible.

Rebekah asked an important question in her last post.  What would you do if you weren't afraid?

If I wasn't so afraid, I'd get serious about my writing.  For most of my life, I've written different things, some things I would consider pretty good, others that I wish I could destroy (but nostalgia or my mother prevents me from doing so).  I guess I've never been convinced that I was actually good at writing.  My parents encouraged me, my classmates and friends have been supportive.  But where they being protective?  Nice?  Fulfilling their roles as loved-ones?

I'm taking my wonderful co-pilots challenge.  I pledge that by this time two weeks from now (give or take a day) I will have a short story in some form.  It may not be perfect or in its final stages, but I will have something to show.  I may post excerpts or have it be a serial every Saturday, I'm not sure.

Regardless, I won't become a better writer by being afraid that I'm not.  If I don't write now, I won't ever.

M&y