I’ve been really blocked on fiction writing for a few years now — I’ve managed to write a few stories, but they’ve been a little tortured / forced and I haven’t been happy with the results (and haven’t sent them out). It’s been super-stressful and anxiety-provoking.
I’ve been a professional writer for more than thirty years, in theory. But writers need to actually write things.
After much conversation with writer friends, with Kevin, with other friends, even with my actual therapist, I think a possibly productive way to attack this is to try to go back to beginner mind. Less pressure to write something great, or even something good. More little timed exercises, more playfulness, try to get back to when I found writing fiction fun, instead of stressful.
We had co-writing at the studio this morning (10-1 every Sunday, feel free to come for an hour or three…). The first two hours, I was working on e-mail and other computer things, but I finally made myself put all that aside and pull out one of the writing prompts from the Goldberg Writing Down the Bones deck. (One side has a little mini essay, often just a paragraph; the other side has a writing prompt.) I have a tentative plan to try to do one prompt a day for 30 days.
Today’s random prompt was #20 — “Tell me about a place you need to return to.” I’m reasonably happy with the ten minute result.
*****
Sunlight shafts down to the sunken pool, limestone walls surrounding, laced with a tapestry of green vines. Shadows swallow the edge, but in the center, water scintillates, light dancing amidst the still surroundings. Climb the rock to a high point – though not so high as the opening to the jungle above. High enough that it is a little frightening, walking to the edge, though the guide has assured you that the water is deep enough for diving.
More than three hundred feet deep, in fact; you could drown a dozen times, swimming to the bottom, racing up for necessary air. You pause at the edge, take a quick breath, and before there’s time to rethink, step off, embraced by air as none have embraced you in far too long. And then the cold shock of the water, and you almost, almost let the air out of your lungs. It would be so easy.
Surfacing again, and you see it – the passage through to the next cenote. A stone tunnel, the ceiling sinking, and you have been warned – for a dozen feet, you will have to swim underwater to reach air again. Hold your breath for a count of five – a child could do it. So you strike out, close your mouth and open your eyes. The light fades, and for a long moment, you are surrounded by water and darkness.
And then you emerge – is this how it felt, when you were born? The light and air, the vibrant green vines and rustling of wind passing through leaves – almost an assault. You open your mouth, and the water is salty now – you’ve reached a halocline, sweet water and salt mixing. Salty as tears, as sweat, as blood. The world offers your life to you again, and you chose to come here, after all, chose to seek answers and assistance. You could turn back, live a smaller, safer life. But the dragons are waiting.
*****
It might fit into the novel I’m trying to start. It might not. But regardless, I wrote some fiction, and I enjoyed writing it.
Good enough for now.
