Reading & Reviewing: We Are Okay

It’s been a little while since I’ve done one of these – I know I was meant to produce a lengthy series of reviews for books I had been reading en masse for the past however long, but then things happened, including my own writing taking me over. That’s still going on, and I hope to keep you updated on whether I’m nearing the stage of getting my work out there, or, on the other end of the spectrum, am nearing the stage of denouncing it from the rooftops.

Either way, I feel it’s worth writing a particular review for my most recent read. Firstly, because of just how exceptional it is, and secondly, because I was recommending it on Twitter, and after corresponding with the author herself, feel I owe her to actually do this thing properly. So…hi, Nina, if you’re reading…hope you like this review. The pressure’s on a little bit more than with previous reviews, what with the author watching, but hey, it’s still my blog – and it’s not as if I’ve got much negative to comment on.

So – We Are Okay by Nina LaCour. Not my first exposure to her work. I had previously read You Know Me Well, a collaborative novel between her and David Levithan, and Hold Still, her debut novel. Both I enjoyed, but my appreciation for her writing and recognition of it’s consistent good points reached their zenith in this particular work, and has probably now earned its place as one of my favourite books outright, although given how long my reading list still is, who knows how many favourites I’ll end up having…

So, what’s the story? Well, to be honest, it’s kind of difficult to summarize, and I felt that the blurb, when I first read it, didn’t reveal too much either. The story is narrated by Marin, a young woman who has recently started attending college (or uni, as we Brits might facetiously say) in New York, about as far away from her home in California as you can get. And this is quite deliberate – she feels the need to distance herself from what went on in the days leading up to her departure, to the point that she’s not contacted anyone from her old life for ages. Eventually, her best friend Mabel (who has recently been a bit more than a friend to her), comes to visit, admittedly upon invitation, to spend a few days with her during the Christmas holidays, whilst Mabel is otherwise completely alone at the college dormitories, and upon arriving, is, as you’ll imagine, quite curious to know what exactly happened, which slowly gets revealed to the reader via backstory.

One of the most immediately noticeable strengths about this book (and in fact, a consistent factor in all of LaCour’s books) is how well realized the characters are. I have rambled at length about how much I love characters before, and tend to get annoyed when they seem more like stereotypes, archetypes or tools rather than actual human beings. The author manages to avoid this trap however – even though a good chunk of the consists of just Marin and Mabel interacting with each other, every second of it speaks volumes about them, feels so organic, genuinely makes me think that these are two existing people with a convoluted and not fully worked out relationship to each other. One scene that really makes this stand out is near the beginning, where the two of them are having a conversation in an elevator (or, lift, as we boring Brits say), where the topic of discussion is naturally drawn to Marin’s disappearing act. Both characters manage to convey several emotions at once during this discussion – Marin manages to be both defensive of her decision, whilst simultaneously being guilty and trying to avoid upsetting Mabel even more. Mable, which for her part is even more impressive by not being a POV character, manages to display a subtle anger and hurt and Marin’s decision and radio silence, whilst also feeling joyous at their reunion, and I’m possibly detecting a bit of guilt there too, due to recent events in her life which makes the brewing romance she and Marin had previously now not possible. All of this just a few pages – that is some top quality character-crafting there. This kind of attention to detail can also be seen in LaCour’s minor characters. This is probably shown more in her other books, with a lot more characters to work with, but even here, it can detected. You don’t just know the names of background characters, you know their dog’s name too, their family life, their hobbies. No character is neglected, whether you like them or not, and in this book, I’m sure I do.

The degree by which the major characters’ focus is developed is immensely impressive too –  the reminiscing done by Marin and Mabel is just delightful, for lack of a better word. You simply don’t need to be told how close they are, because it’s evident, not just in Mabel flying 3,000 odd miles to reunite with Marin, but simply by how their conversations flowed in spite of the awkwardness that grew between them. Dissections of literary techniques, existential musings, all of these come naturally to the two of them, and it’s just perfect. These are definitely conversations I can see myself wanting to read frequently.

The connection gets even more personal for me, when I reflect on that I decided, halfway through reading, that Marin probably has Generalized Anxiety Disorder, having recognised a lot of her habits and thought processes in myself, particularly in how her concerns and worries tend to develop and worsen until death is considered a likely outcome, and also how later the worries become darker, and more closely related to her doubting the commitment the people important to her actually have, particularly her grandfather. Oh yeah, probably should have mentioned him…well, keep an eye on him, because he’s pivotal. Perhaps what hit closest to home though was how Marin manages to keep her anxieties under control by having the familiar and mundane recited or presented to her – when her roommate Hannah was there, it was the discussion of her biology course that gave her some comfort. With Mabel, it’s talking about her life, no doubt playing into the nostalgia factor, something that I know I find comforting. Rewatching episodes of TV shows or films that I’ve watched plenty of times before is a key way I relieve my anxiety, to the point that’s it become part of the process.

If I’m allowed to interpret, I’d argue that the main themes of this book are loneliness and the fear of simply not belonging, which becomes more apparent in Marin the more you read on, and seems quite cemented as its central theme by the end. And again, it’s something I know all too well, everything from avoiding the unknown and emotionally painful, to undue guilty, to unrequited love, and something that can be eased with just some of the simplest actions from people you care about which you nevertheless realize was quite an undertaking on their part, done simply for you. Many of us will feel lonely, anxious about our place in the world, and sometimes betrayed very often, and recovery is not always straightforward. But if you have a Mabel in your life, definitely hold onto them.

Do I have any criticisms? Honestly, very little stood out to me as worth criticizing. Even though a good half of the book is told in flashback, explaining how Marin got to where she did, a narrative technique I can easily get tired of, it’s perfectly easy to follow and serves the story well. It helps, I guess, that neither story, either the flashback one, or the one of Marin and Mabel in New York, is boring. In a less talented author’s hands, they could easily have been.

If I were to pick one thing, I’d say the ending seems a little off compared to the rest of the book. Endings are difficult, I know, and for spoiler-related reasons, I don’t want to say too much about it, but I’ll summarize in saying certain things about it seem a little abrupt, and somewhat different in tone to everything else, and perhaps I’m just saying that because I would have been happy for the book to be many times longer, but who knows.

Point is, this is a brilliant book – I’d highly recommend it to anyone, and it has encouraged me to read LaCour’s other books that I haven’t yet. Nina, I’m quite jealous of your talents, but you do deserve this praise.

Advertisements

The Unveiling

Oh gawd, it’s been a while…

So, I’ve been going through several drafts of Private Tuition over the last several weeks/months/years, and when I got to the point that I felt that it was vaguely presentable, or at least, there was nothing more I could edit without outside opinions, I decide to send these drafts to some beta readers.

However, it occurred to me quite quickly that I wasn’t entirely sure who would count. Bear in mind this is completely new territory for me. When it used to come to posting stories such as fanfiction and their conspiratorial ilk online, I never checked the damn things, just went with what I had. This is perhaps not an admission that fills many with confidence about my abilities when they hear it, so, be assured in that it’s not a habit I partake in any more.

Point is, I wanted to get a diverse range of opinions in for my novel to get a better picture of how different people would react, but I was also reluctant to include strangers in that list. Suddenly, the problem became apparent. How many people did I actually know who would be willing to read this garbage proto-novel? Furthermore, as with many things in the process of making your writing an actual book, a lot of those who assist you may want paying for their work. Understandable, of course – they need to eat. But with my impoverished financial concerns, you can imagine this’ll make me reluctant too.

As it happens, I have now actually received feedback from a few people, and it’s mostly been very positive, with some question marks, nuanced suggestions for improvement and a whole host of other things that have been welcome. But my gut instinct tells me that I need more, and whilst I’m at it, as has been suggested, I really need to work out who my audience is meant to be.

This is not something I thought with give me that much strife, but it seems to be the most debilitating thorn in my side at this stage in the writing process. Well, that and the omnipresent doubts about whether the story is actually decent or just a terrible work of art that should be regarded with scorn in the centuries to come.

The traditional genres of fiction have never really been solidly defined. They are fluid, and sometimes fitting midway categories that would be better deserving of their own, new category. An example of such uncertainty is the line between science fiction and fantasy. What defines the difference? Well, science fiction tends to focus on the potential of future technologies or future developments on the impact of society, whereas fantasy is more steeped in mythology and supernatural elements, right? Well, maybe. So, where does Star Wars fit in? I mean, it’s not about the future. The famous tagline even describes it as taking place a long time ago. The technologies in it are not the most realistic even for future projections and it is steeped in mysticism, complete with warrior knights and magic swords.

Can’t wait people to tell me I just don’t get Star Wars

And whereas science fiction can contain fictional or (probably) impossible technologies, such as easy to use time travel devices, teleportation that doesn’t kill you and faster-than-light travel, the magic elements in certain fantasy works can sometimes feel a lot more down-to-earth and mundane than the fantastical technologies in certain science fiction, with what’s known as functional magic, or, for the innuendo-happy, HARD magic, and indeed, applying actual zoology to fictional fantasy creatures.

It was a bit of a tangent, but I feel that the same can be said for the genres of adult, new adult, and young adult. Whilst the audience they’re aimed at naturally determines what genre they belong too, what in the substance of the novel determines who they’re aimed at?

Given how young adult, especially in recent years, has fitted itself into genres as diverse as contemporary, urban fantasy, post-apocalyptic dystopian, semi-autobiographical and so on, what features and tropes do we have to look for to classify and story as young adult, as opposed to new adult or adult?

Perhaps the most fitting definition of YA fiction I’ve heard is that a consistent theme of it is that it relates to what it’s like to be an adolescent. But even that isn’t particularly clear cut – Robin Wasserman’s Girls on Fire features three teenage as the main characters, with two as POV characters, and yet the book is aimed at adults. And if even if this seemingly clear-cut example isn’t so clear-cut, I don’t know what help my book’s got.

The protagonist is 28 years old. Adult, surely? And hey, a fairly important supporting character, a work colleague of hers, is also an adult! But wait, most of the other major characters are in their late teens, still at school, and the a good chunk of the plot moves forward based on their character arcs. So, is it actually young adult? But what about things detailed within the pages that the moral guardians might get antsy about? There’s no shortage of swearing, and it practically thrives on talking about sex. Someone gets fellatio in a cupboard – is that going to be a problem? And what about the fact that it constantly goes on about contemporary philosophy and ethical debates? If John Green has proved anything, then there’s no issue with YA being full of philosophical musings. But is there a line to draw?

For now, I’ve settled on the idea that it might fit best as New Adult. This genre’s supposed to be aimed at the 18-30 age bracket, which not only are most of the main characters in, but also me too. According to Wikipedia, that ever so reliable guide, this genre generally deals with issues related to leaving home (not really, but the characters tend to thrive on independence and many in standing apart from their parents’ expectations), developing sexuality (yeah, apparently…) and negotiating education and career choices (also seems to fit). So, have I found the appropriate thing to label it as? Well, again, the doubts come back. The publishing industry is not hugely fond of this genre, and it does seem to exist as a sort of nowhere-land label. It’s not a category you find in most bookshops, and apparently the readership isn’t there, although I know plenty of 18-30-year-olds who read books, so…

If anyone on this site, or Twitter or Facebook is willing to beta read this, feel free to contact me to talk about the possibility, because I definitely want to expand the potential room for opinions, but I want to know who I’m sending it to first.

There are still a few other people lined up, but the specific opinions are looking for explicitly include those of:

LGBTQ people – The novel contains quite a few characters who are LGBTQ, but as I’m not, I think it’s important and I know what you think, because representation is important, but good representation is probably even more so.

People around the sixth form age or slightly older – Might be worth it. As there are many characters who fall into this age bracket, I might want to see if it has the appeal to people of that age bracket. If not, that might give me a clearer idea of which age demographic to market to.

People interested in philosophy and ethics – Pretty much a given.

So, there it is – a slightly reluctant call for more beta readers. Maybe my anxiety will strike again, and I’ll decide not to be so open about opening up the market for betas, and just keep it among people I know. But hey, maybe something will come of it.

If anyone who reads this is interested, contact me and we’ll take it from there. And if anyone just generally wants to talk about the novel, contact me also, I’ll be happy to talk about it.

The Undying

Just a short one, but here’s something to think about – isn’t it amazing how your perceptions of things can change?

If my last post was anything to go by, I was experiencing too many doubts at once about my writing, and wondering whether it was even worth producing a single novel if I couldn’t do it in a professional, grown-up way. Now, those thoughts are definitely still there, but yesterday, I felt a random stroke of inspiration about a nice addition that could be made. Sure, it bumps up the word count quite a bit, but, pfft, thinking how it looked before, it was practically naked without that!

I guess it’s something that just happens the more you go through your prose – you discover more about your characters, connect the dots that you probably laid out but didn’t notice, until eventually you’ve got a clearer picture. Here you have a character that’s somehow transcended their creator, and as evolved quite considerably from where they originally were. The character you originally conceived way back then isn’t quite the same as before, but somehow it feels absolutely right.

Or maybe you’re actually being subject to a hostile takeover of fictional characters, I don’t know. However, if the world does come to a premature end, a fictional character apocalypse would definitely be the best way to go. It’s a question of who’d be the most likely to bring down the final blow…

Thus, a general update about my writing has turned into me speculating in the world as we know it coming to an end thanks to fictional characters, which is always nice…

Speculations (though perhaps not those ones…) are great though, because they are providing plenty more inspiration for me, not just with this novel, but ones hopefully to come.

So, that’s about it for now. Any insights into drafting, editing, publishing and marketing that anyone else would be greatly appreciated at this stage.

The Unravelling

You know, this editing process is not all it’s cracked up to be.

I mean, sure, it’s pretty vital when you’re working on a novel, but if the mindset is right (or wrong, as the case may be) it does suck a good chunk of joy out of the crafting process.

So, updating from my last post, I have indeed being giving my first draft a read-through and making notes of what I think needs changing about it. Depending on the chapter, those lists have been quite short and vague, or long and self-deprecating. Any writer will be familiar with the process. When you’re actually doing the writing, the sparks are flying, the scenes are playing through your head in delicious detail and you’re convinced that the masterpiece is on its way. Then you read through it and you decide you were lying to yourself and you’re just the worst. THE WORST, I TELL YA.

For me, as noted, it does sort of depend on the chapter itself, and the mind-frame I’m in at the time. Right now, I’m very curious to see what it is about some chapters that I wrote in a way that I consider more bearable, and what it is about others than I’m convinced are the biggest problems ever encountered by anyone EVER. There doesn’t seem to be any consistent pattern.

One thing I have noticed is the nature of the issues I find myself agonizing over – the story itself and its main themes I still have a lot of faith in. It’s the way I tell it that’s the problem. Every writer has the bring their own tools and experience to a story, and when there’s just one person’s direct experience telling the experiences of a diverse range of people, and, indeed, the universe in general, you definitely get some translation errors. Here are just some of the thoughts that have been harrowing me as I’ve gone through this process.

“The way you portray your protagonist is racist, sexist and biphobic and you know it.”
“Nobody talks like that! Well, except you, of course. You have to use these words to make up for the fact that you can’t write.”
“Now it looks like you’re subtly pushing an agenda. Maybe you are.”
“You can’t rectify this! Now everyone’s going to think your heroes are total shits, and you are too, by extension.”
“Get out more. You don’t know what it’s like to be a normal person with an actual life.”
“Raisins are nice.”

Yeah, they’re not bad, actually. But back to the point.

I’m well aware that these concerns are normal, and, to a degree, they’re healthy. If I’m aware of the problems that might arise, I’m in a better position to avoid them as best I can, and I’m also willing to take points where I feel they’re relevant. Maybe all of this is just paranoia, maybe it isn’t. Either way, I’m confident that any mistakes I’ve made, I can rectify. So far, I’ve already dealt with a glaring continuity error, so hopefully that’s a sign of things to come. I’m still enormously looking forward to hearing other people give their thoughts on this work, regardless of what they are. It’ll to be great to hear an outsider’s take on what I can produce. As someone who feels I can rarely express myself in real life, this’ll be an unveiling. I hope I have an audience for it.

I guess my final point is – even if you have a firm and important story to tell, don’t be afraid to make a few changes. They may even tell your story better than you thought possible. There’s a fine line being making a few improvements, and compromising your story. The difference will become clearer the more you go on.

Anyway, should probably get back to it.

The Awakening

I might have chosen to pick a less ominous title, but to be honest, I think any more words than necessary in it would cause a lot of problems. Overly wordy titles can often seem quite corny and irritating the more they’re said, which can be an even bigger problem if the substance is anything but corny and irritating. As an example, my favourite anime series of all time, that is honestly so damn beautiful and well-crafted, with animation, storylines, music and characters that might possibly be greater than any other work of fiction I’ve ever seen, has an incredibly stupid title, which I probably don’t even pronounce properly.

But I digress. The point is, I’m here to announce something big, impressive and slightly important that will probably dominate the rest of the blog posts I make for a little while. The vast majority of the things I’ve posted on here relate to me as a writer, and so I feel it was necessary to make a post to announce…

…that after many months of blood, sweat, toil, tears and eating too much chocolate, I have finally completed the first draft of the novel I’ve been working on.

WHOO, YAY, AWESOME ETC.

Yeah, it took, it’s time, but now it’s done, I honestly feel like the most enjoyable stage has passed. Clocking in at around 110,000 words, I now need to go through that and decide if any changes should be made. And looking back over what you’ve written isn’t usually fun, as any writer will know. Even if you’ve polished off the first draft that, in your head at least, gleams like the all the great works of art that will go down in history, and there can’t possibly be that many changes to make. Then you look back through it a little later and discover that actually, you could have done a hell of a lot better there. And there. And actually, when it comes down to it, why did you even write this in the first place?

Then there comes the doubt, the attempt to fend off plotholes and problems, only to create more of them, then the overwhelming feeling of despair of disappointment, you go and cry in the corner of your room playing an unnecessarily aggressive rendition of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata before thinking you may as well give up and go and live in an orange tent in Bulgaria selling fidget spinners and second-hand novelty condoms.

OK, well, maybe don’t go that far. Nobody buys fidget spinners anymore.

Have gone through the process of re-reading, I definitely know how it feels, but I’m determined that the general crux of my story this time round is worth maintaining, even if some details need to be changed.

Of course, once you’ve developed a final draft you’re happy with, however long that might take, then there comes to process of getting it published and sold. Yes, I’m going there. And I’m kind of bricking it.

I mean, what do I know about marketing? I have the charisma of a road accident, and a sex appeal to match. Obviously, I’ll have to rely on making sure the story can be explained in a succinct and an interesting way, which is proving difficult every time I try, but maybe I can improve on it later, I don’t know. Of course, publishing is even more difficult. How do you ensure a manuscript gets accepted? Pfft, I don’t know, it just seems to be one of those mysteries that only publishers know.

Of course, I could always go the self-publishing route, although that would require I have some editing and graphic designing skills I currently lack. Well, I guess this decision can wait for now, probably…

OK, so even though I feel the author within me has been properly awakened, there’s still a lot of work to do. Fortunately, I’ve managed to surround myself with people who know about these things and can help. And maybe that will include you, dear reader, giving advice on how to make this dream a reality. And, in case this is the sort of novel you’d be interested in, I’m going to try and summarize it as best as I can now.

The working title is ‘Private Tuition,’ but may be subject to change later, depending how I feel. We follow Sasha Knight, a Religious Studies/Philosophy and Ethics teacher in her late twenties, starting a new job at a seemingly inoffensive school whilst trying to put some trickier areas of her past behind her, where she was, largely by choice, under the thumbs of other people. Many students in her A level tutor group, however, pique her interest in elements of their intrigue and cryptic behaviours, shielding a great deal of personal problems they have. Determined to help them anyway she can, she finds that the easiest way she can get them to open up to her is if she opens up to them first – sexually. Eventually, she finds herself have intimate encounters with many of her students as part of her duty of care.

OK, so for those among you are teachers or know teachers, clearly this is a massive professional faux pas, and I’m not trying to glorify adults in positions of trust having inappropriate encounters with children. But the situation being painted here is more nuanced than that. Everyone’s of age, these encounters are all mutual, and they’re something that I, as the author, am not trying to make too many heavy judgement calls either way, because certain meta-ethical matters are worth discussing, and that’s what I want this novel to do.

Sasha’s academic subject is chosen very deliberately. The meta-ethical considerations of deontology, consequentialism, virtue, cognitive vs non-cognitive and so on tend to be left to the navel-gazing philosophers, even though we draw from their ideas when it comes to important matters everyday. Studying philosophy and ethics at A level is one of the things from my time at school that I’m probably going to remember most vividly, and I guess I wanted to recreate that experience in perhaps a less conventional setting. Very good teachers, which are mostly woefully underpaid, can make a difference in such a pivotal period in one’s life, and I think a school-based setting when considered in that regard isn’t always appreciated.

In merely presenting the reader with a situation of someone who chooses to bend the rules in order to do what she thinks help, I’m leaving them to immerse themselves in the characters and plot and make decisions about who and what they really are.

Oh, and I promise it’s not all entirely navel-gazing – I’m rather pleased with the characters I’ve crafted and I know other people are too. I’ve tried to include a diverse cast, plenty of scenes of just people being people and I hope those parts of the plot are enjoyable too.

So, if you’re interested, feel free to follow my process of crafting this story, which I should hopefully be posting about regularly, and I’ll be sure to let everyone know if and when it’s finally found its way to book form.

I sincerely hope that day will come.

 

Undue Fear

Imagine you’ve found yourself in a Dark Room. Whilst you recognise it as a somewhere you’ve been before, the sheer size of it and the lack of light means you only have a passing acquaintance with its dimensions. You don’t know just how big it is, or whether a single step beyond what you’re used to will send you plummeting to your death, or whether something in the corner is lying in wait for you. You have every reason to suspect that there might be. After all, there are other people in this Dark Room, people whose faces are obscured, people who make unfriendly noises and whisper threats every single time you make a step. It’s not often they carry out their threats, but sometimes if you take a step too far, they’ll push you, shove you, hit you, just enough to give you an impression of their strength, not something you want to push to the limits judging by how it feels.

And each time they’ll sneer and mutter derisively about how you brought this upon yourself.

They could well be right – after all, you never planned to be here. But every so often you find yourself back here, through no planning and no foresight, with no expectation to arrive. You don’t even know you got back here, but back here you are, and it’s your fault. Surely, you have to find a way out?

Well, you are aware of a way out, and it’s the way you’ve used when you’ve been here before. A panelled door, with the slightest of lights from the outside world finding its way in. The door is not often in the same place, and often you’ll have to take drastic steps to find it, but it’s there. And you can see much friendlier faces on the other side, assuring you that stepping through the door is all you need to do.

It should be so inviting, so pleasant. But you fear the door almost as much as you fear the Dark Room.

Because the door is unpredictable, not only in its location, but also in its mechanism. Sometimes it will be harder to open than others, sometimes the process of allowing you through it will be marked with booby traps and hidden dangers that only allow you to leave once you are bleeding and shell-shocked. Sometimes it will be easy to open and you leave feeling rather foolish by how much it concerned you. But one day, you’re sure, based on what you’ve heard, that the door will just refuse to open, and the message will be clear: you have to stay in this Dark Room forever. Never again will you be on the other side in the light and with those you care about. In that situation, why not take many drastic steps you’re not used to, and allow the Dark Room to take you to your death?

For whatever reason, the people on the other side of the door don’t understand why you can’t just open it and join them, and still others scoff at the way you fear the Dark Room, thinking you’re just a coward. Generally speaking, this is from those who’ve never been in the Dark Room themselves. So far, you have left the Dark Room consistently, and among the pleasant warmth of the light and the friendlier faces, you have often begun to feel ashamed with the way you felt before. But of course, you’re fully aware you’ll be back in the Dark Room one day, possibly when you least expect it, and then you have to go through it all over again.

*

That passage above is my current best attempt at illustrating what it’s like to live with Generalized Anxiety Disorder, or GAD. I’m fully aware that my experience might not be exactly the same as everyone else’s, and yes, there were a few mixed metaphors in the description above, what with actual worry being used to illustrate worry, but you know, I’m still hoping that one day my writing will actually be better.

In light of Mental Health Awareness Week 2018, I think it’s important that I share my experiences, just in case there are other people who need this kind of thing to help them through whatever they are currently experiencing. Whilst this is a fairly recent diagnosis, it doesn’t seem to be a recent incursion. These symptoms have been familiar to me for years.

So, what is GAD? Perhaps unsurprisingly, it’s characterised primarily by worry – and I know that everyone worries to some degree, but what makes GAD distinct is the nature of excessive worry, worry that comes to you virtually all the time, so much that you often can’t think of a single action taken even in the ordinariness of everyday life without worrying about something, even something tiny. Furthermore, there’s the nature of uncontrollable worry, that you often can’t dismiss the concerns outright without extensive research, or even just taking the plunge and doing the damn thing. Even worse is when you find yourself worrying about that which you have no control over, like the possibility of catching something contagious, or the ramifications of hawkish geopolitics on the other side of the world (thanks Trump, you fucking half-witted tool). And you’ll always get those people who’ll say, ‘Well, you can’t do anything about it, so you don’t need to worry.’

Ha.

Ha ha!

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

OK, come on, guys. I know you mean well, but this as about as helpful as saying to someone who has injured themselves rather badly, ‘you don’t need to bleed.’ Not needing to worry doesn’t stop us from doing it. Telling us to stop worrying is also about as helpful as telling an injured person to stop bleeding. If we had any control over it, we would have stopped by now.

Another notable point about GAD is the notion of irrational worry. We are fully aware that many of the things we worry about are so unlikely to happen that it would be reasonable to call them impossible, but we have those uncertain voices in our ears, the proverbial unfriendly people in the Dark Room whispering to us, ‘but what if…?’ ‘But you never know…’ ‘There’s always a first time…’ And this is often enough to stop me, at least, in my tracks.

So, if GAD causes, essentially, worrying all the time, then what’s the deal with this Dark Room? Surely a fitting analogy would be someone stuck in that room all the time? Well, not quite. Again, just talking about my own experiences here, but whilst I do worry all the time, there are often cases where I can sedate it with a ‘well, I’ll be able to sort it by doing this,’ in that the worry seems so distant, or hypothetical enough at the given time, that I can put it to the back of my mind in some situations, so it’s not directly affecting everything I do. However, this is equivalent, I would say, to constantly being in trepidation of being back in the Dark Room, because I always know it’s there, waiting, often catching me unawares, usually as the result of something unexpected happening to complicate my concerns. And that’s when everything begins, because when I lose all sense of rational thought. This unexpected something is insurmountable. It’s the my worst fears confirmed all in one event, because it can or will lead to this, and then this, and then this, and I can’t do anything about it, because this, and this, and no, I do need to worry about it, because this, and this, and no there’s no point in carrying because this, and this, and oh my fucking god, it’s over, what the fuck am I going to do?

This is when I become insufferable. My nearest and dearest are probably very familiar with that particular mindset, when I act as though the world is ending because of something that you’d probably dismiss as trivial, or problematic, but not hugely. Or at least, you wonder why I don’t just do the thing you suggest about it. Well, I’d love to. But then this might happen, and then this. Or my fears will go from hypothetical to absolutely certain, and I’ll be well and truly fucked. In the bizarre, masochistic tango I have with GAD, sometimes the uncertainty is helpful, because if I haven’t examined that glimmer of hope to discover it’s just an illusion, and maybe, just for a moment, I can entertain the possibility that everything still might be OK.

For those who have to deal with me in those cases, I want to apologise and thank those who are patient with me and recognise that these are things beyond my control.

So, what do I worry about? Well, as I said before, everything. But I’d say the two biggest things to steer me to the edge are the worries about my academic work (concerns I’m sure everyone gets), and probably the most severe, worries that the friends I care about and depend on are going to leave me.

Ridiculous, you might say. And yeah – I’m sure you’re right. My very closest friends would never do that, surely? They care about me too much. But still the doubts whisper, still any signs of no-contact for a certain number of days make me speculate on what could have happened, and I end up disgusted with myself for even daring to think like this. How can I doubt people who have been nothing but kind and loving to me? What have they done to deserve this treacherous mindset? Of course, it might not be their fault. Maybe they’ve died. Or maybe my messages to them haven’t got through. But if that’s the case, how will I stop them from thinking I’ve abandoned them? How else will I contact them? And what if my computer crashes and contact becomes impossible, even when I need them for next time I have a little breakdown?

And so it goes on. Sometimes, it’s even smaller things than that. The amount of times I’ve lost sleep over a noise in the house which means there’s an intruder, or that strange smell I came across before I went to bed means that there’s a noxious gas leak, or that the unfamiliar aches I’m feeling means my heart has failed. Or what about the time I was convinced that an incorrectly ordered reference in a bibliography essay meant I was going to fail my course? Or the many, many times when a strange blip happened on my PC meant that I could never do XYZ with it again? If I haven’t showed up to something I was invited to, chances are it’s not a reflection on you, it’s because I’ve been too worried about what might happen if I do. (Or I generally am just busy…)

If anyone’s reading this who hasn’t been diagnosed with GAD but recognises the major symptoms within themselves, I’d advise going making a doctor’s appointment, or potentially an appointment with a therapist who specialises in mental health. Knowing what it is that’s causing you so many problems is the first step on the road to making things better.

How has it worked with me? To be honest – not all that well. First, I went to a private therapist who most of the time ended up making me feel worse, not least because of the hefty prices I had to dish out following each session. Secondly, I went to an NHS service dealing in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, which managed to provide me with my diagnosis, and give me a few pointers on how to dissect the kind of worries I had, but otherwise didn’t seem to alleviate my particular concerns completely. With them of course I still had lingering worries, such as the concern that if I were late to a session for whatever reason, often by no fault of my own, they’d discontinue the sessions, and because I couldn’t contact them properly to let them know if I’d be late, I do remember one occasion being gripped by an anxiety attack, thanks to those who were supposed to be helping me relieve my anxiety.

Following that, my doctor prescribed me SSRIs, which, due to, yet again, worries I had (this time about the potential for long-lasting side-effects of the medication) prevented me from taking them for a while. Once I did, I didn’t experience any side-effects, but didn’t really experience much of anything. They certainly didn’t suppress my worries, just maybe occasionally dulled my reactions to them, which, whilst definitely helpful, didn’t leave me feeling much achieved.

The current situation is this – my doctor prescribed me some different SSRIs, which I’m currently too worried about the consequences of side effects to take, and I’ve been suggested looking for a slightly different CBT session to help me, but I’m too concerned about not finding that and not being able to do the dates they suggest to even take that step. And so, as is often the case, I’m avoiding the door to the Dark Room for fear of being let down by it, whilst simultaneously cursing myself for my cowardice.

You may be detecting a lot of resentment here, and it’s true. I hate the fact that I have to worry all the time, that there’s not a day that I can just take off from my worries. I hate the fact that all my attempts to keep them at bay have not worked, and in some cases have led to more worries. I hate the fact that I often can’t express why I feel so worried to people that might otherwise be able to help. I hate the fact that my family don’t always seem to recognise it as an illness and just dismiss it as something stupid I occasionally do. I hate the fact that I can’t always have the people who care about me and understand me the most by my side whenever I break down and need them the most. And, as pathetic as it sounds, I hate the fact that I don’t have a partner, i.e., someone whom I won’t feel guilty or invasive about sharing my innermost and deepest concerns with constantly, someone who can ensure me that even with my anxiety I’m still worth loving. And I seem to be incapable of getting one. What does that tell you?

Just so we’re clear, this isn’t to downplay the role my friends have played in making me feel important and consoling me when I need it, because you are so important in that and I love you more than can be accurately said. This is, I guess, one of the reasons I feel so guilty about off-loading everything onto you.
Virtually everyone, from my therapist, to my doctor, to many friends I’ve shared this with have told me that they’re sure I’ll defeat this some day. As grateful as I am for the optimism, I’m not sure I agree. Maybe it’s just that I can’t remember a time where I haven’t been a worrier, and so I can’t conceive of a time where that won’t be the case. So far, nothing seems to have helped, and my worries have just continued getting stronger. It may very well being the case that I’ll be like this for the rest of my life, going through a constant cycle or worry, panic, relief, then back to worry again. It’s a pretty bleak image, and yet the fact that it isn’t exclusively so does make me wonder. If amidst all this pain there are still times that I can feel calm, cared for, happy, even, then I don’t think it’s worth giving up. Not yet, anyway.

For all those who are struggling with mental health issues, please know that you’re not alone. I don’t want to make any promises I can’t keep about it necessarily getting better in the way you want, but I can tell you, without hesitation, that you’re not alone, and there are people out there who care for you, and will try and help you in every way you can.

That thought alone should be enough to make the Dark Room seem a little bit brighter.

Conclusions and Associated Writing Woes

OK, so the last time I made a post here was like…Christmas, or something. I guess things really have gotten in the way. But hey, according to recent emails I’ve got, more people have started following this blog, and even fellow writers have started following me on Twitter. What are the odds? So, now I’ve got to appease them give those nice enough to take an interest in my poorly constructed blog a bit of context and a bit of news.

I’m in the final throes of the first draft of my novel, which, even though it means a lot of work in working out what I want to keep and what I want to change, is still a bit a milestone, and one I’m no doubt going to feel accomplished about when it comes. As for actually publishing the damn thing, that’s a whole different ball game, but one I’ll get to when it comes.

It’s convenient too that over the last few days I’ve been putting the finishing touches on my major script project for my university course. A feature-length (or slightly less) screenplay, the writing journey of which I do actually have to write an essay for as well. Do the examiners really want to know how near the end I actively started resenting the whole bloody story I’d been crafting for so long? Perhaps it would give me a higher mark, in which case, I’m all for it, because my script probably isn’t going to do very well…but how did it happen? How did such an idealized story of star-crossed love, existentialism and utilitarian ethics become a plotline that I just groan at and want to see out of my direct line of concern? I get the feeling it might have to do with how you get a conclusion to a story. And, given that I’m approaching the end to my novel, I think it’s an appropriate time to talk about how to conclude a story.

As if I know! Anyone who’s read or heard me read one of my short stories can attest that I actually need to mention when the conclusion has taken place because the sentences I choose that best rounds the story out aren’t always that obvious, and others think I could have ended it earlier. In all honesty, I doubt I’m the only person who has this problem, and actually, choosing a conclusion for a story is much easier than deciding exactly what you’re going to end on, which scene, which line, maybe even which characters. A weak or uncertain ending can leave an audience, who were otherwise very much invested in the characters and story arcs, feeling unfulfilled, and may retroactively put them off the entire thing. I may have spoken on this blog before about particularly endings that have felt weak in comparison to the rest of the product, but I can’t remember exactly. Feel free to search through for them yourselves – I’m not your slave, I’m not getting paid for this!

Which, given the sporadic nature of my posts, is hardly surprising.

And actually, if I were your slave, I wouldn’t be getting paid for it, so…

I find that the endings that satisfy me the most are the ones that draw reference to whatever theme the story was trying to get across, either through narration, or something the characters are doing or saying. This can often be done helpfully through an epilogue, like the one from H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine, which talks about how, even though humanity’s future of being divided between the hopelessly naive Eloi and the cannibalistic but ultimately more intelligent Morlocks seems pretty grim, the essence of humanity, and the appreciation for things we hold dear are still there. Now, a lot of people might find such ending choices a little cheesy, and whilst I can definitely see that argument, it’s a far cry better, in my opinion, than ending a story that you’ve long been invested in abruptly stopping on a sentence that could easily be in the middle of a scene.

She let’s her head down and kisses the sand.

Those are the last words of Kim Stanley Robinson’s Aurora. For context, I’ll hopefully review that at some point in the future, but I remember feeling disappointed in the time, especially given what took place before this line. There are plenty of earlier places this book could have stopped, but instead we get this rather sporadic end-point, which in no way feels particularly narratologically significant. Apparently, ‘narratologically’ isn’t a word, but it should be, so there.

H.G. Wells? Kim Stanley Robinson? Am I becoming a science fiction buff? Well, I’ll have you know I’ve always been a science fiction buff, but for a while I was never able to find science fiction that accurately reflected my tastes. Science fiction, being as it is a genre of the future, or challenging established norms, should be postmodern by design. Instead, particularly in the field of space opera and military science fiction, we just get very modern settings and attitudes that happen to be in a setting that looks kind of different. The fact that Robinson in particular is very eager to show the social and personal affects of technological progress is what makes his science fiction a particular eye-opener for me. Again, more on that another time. I seem to be going off on a tangent here…

One way of avoiding the difficultly of ending a story is to leave a hook, a cliffhanger for a future installment, therefore avoiding the need to conclude everything in this one. Cliffhangers can be terribly effective, and, given the appropriate amount of build-up and investment, can drag you into the next installment like the gravity well of a neutron star, which works terribly well for TV writing if nothing else. Unfortunately, on the other end of the cliffhanger, you do have to resolve it in a fulfilling way, otherwise the unpleasable masses will get annoyed again. Apparently unpleasable isn’t a word either. This is getting quite upsetting.

As is perhaps appropriate for a post about the difficulty of conclusions, I’m going to conclude this post in a unsatisfying way. Basically, there’s no easy answer to endings, so just write what you want.

Oh, and I’m hoping to post more regularly from now on, but I absolutely cannot guarantee that will be the case, so…yeah.

Yuletide Musings

Oh, look. I’m still alive.

So, it’s very nearly Christmas, and as most people will assert, it means that you’ve got to talk about it, because evidently you haven’t had enough. But it’s OK, because nobody actually reads this blog…

Of course, I am actually very fond of Christmas. It gives my rather hectic life some structure, and that’s always nice, and also gives you the opportunity to shop excessively, eat, drink and be merry but this time with an excuse. How exciting!

However, this isn’t to say you don’t run into a few problems when Christmas rolls around. Anyone who owns a cat knows what I’m talking about. Whether your tree is a genuine botanical feature or a purely synthetic imitation of coniferous perennial plants, cats will see fit to have a climb, because they see everything around them as belonging to them. And you know, strange branches, whether natural or artificial are so much fun to sit in and gaze bemusedly and the irritated humans trying to remove you and failing dismally. And then when they’re not wrecking Christmas trees, they’ll curl around your legs and you’ll forgive them anything because you’re a massive pushover when it comes to cats purring at you. And by the way, by you, I mean me. I am definitely a huge pushover. My cat has come into my room unannounced, ran away from me when I’ve tried to pet her and once ran over my laptop keyboard, sending a weird message to someone. And yet I can’t stay angry at her. Those eyes. 😮

Anyway, another issue is presents. Last year I think I covered all the problems one might experience when buying presents, and yes, they certainly haven’t gone away. I do remember one distinctive occasion going to shop for presents this year, and only coming back with stuff for myself, because evidently I don’t trust anyone to buy for me, or else don’t think I have enough books on my overstacked shelf. Had I the time, I imagine I’d move into Waterstones. I could always get a job there, but I doubt I’d actually work. I’d just read all the books.

But the real problem I discovered came after all my presents had been bought. I had to wrap them. I’m dyspraxic, and that means that any task that requires a basic level of dexterous motor skills, I have to approach with the mindset of a military raid, knowing that it needs my full attention, and that I’m likely to die in the attempt. Normally my sister wraps my presents for me (barring those for her, obviously…) because she knows I’m completely useless that I struggle with such things, but this year it occurred to me that I actually need to be proactive, and so, after learning the craft from my sister, I prepared to wrap!

Some went OK, others…not so much…

Honestly, I think for any decent wrapping job, you need at least four hands. Because you’ve got to fold and hold onto corners and tear off tape and stick it somewhere where it actually sticks, not on a loose bit of paper, or, more commonly, yourself. It was going bad enough in some cases, but then my brother tried to help me and neither of us helped each other very much. I’ll see if I get any better at that next year…

But all that aside, I should probably take a little while to talk about how this year has gone. Has it been as bad as last year? Absolutely not, although there have a still been moments where I’ve been wondering whether or not it’s all going to go smoothly, and very often, we have the orange president person to thank for that. But hey, I’m going through my final year of uni education (unless I cheat and do a master’s or something…) and I need to be prepared for the horrifying thought of REAL LIFE. Am I ready? Well, no. But I’ve still got time. I don’t really have any resolutions for the New Year, but I think about that…maybe my productivity will finally reach it’s decent point. Already it’s pretty good (although apparently not enough to use a new picture…), which I’m quite pleased about. Maybe next year I’ll blog more. Maybe I won’t. It’s all up in the air. But already, I’m writing more and reading more. With any luck, that’ll pay off…somehow.

For whoever’s reading this, I hope you enjoy your holidays and have a Happy New Year. Know that you can make something of yourself, and…umm…brush your teeth twice a day. Seriously. Especially at Christmas that’s important, because of all the chocolate…

Reading & Reviewing: Looking for Alaska

I’ve always found one of the most prominent challenges when it comes to finding entertainment for a young man like myself who’s so in touch with his feminine side that it’s practically the only one there, is that romance doesn’t seem to often be marketed with a male demographic in mind. When it comes to interactions with the opposite sex from the male perspective, sex seems to be the most heavy theme, with emotions coming second, and I think this is a shame. People often underestimate how emotional and sentimental guys can be too, and this goes without mentioning the under-representation of same-sex romances.

As it was, I had to contend myself with your standard female-oriented romances, which I find has less of an effect when I can’t find the object of affection remotely attractive. Perhaps this was why I didn’t take to Levi when I read Fangirl. Or maybe he was just a poorly-written archetype. Perhaps both. The point is, you can probably imagine my intrigue when I happened to stumble across John Green’s debut novel on TV Tropes when looking him up. Avoiding as many spoilers as I could, the summary sounded like something I’d be waiting for for a long time – a YA romantic storyline from the perspective of a guy pursuing a girl…? I suppose it’s a sign of not much else going on that I became pretty hyped before I even got my hands on this book.

Of course it turned out that this was an oversimplification. I knew there would be more to this book, but this was the primary motivator, because I felt that I could connect with the protagonist far more than I was used to. Ironically, the main motivator and storyline wasn’t even there, at least not in it’s expected format, but that isn’t to say I didn’t end up impressed by it or that there wasn’t anything I found both relevant and relatable. A good, important chunk of the plot is kind of crossing into spoiler territory given an event that takes place about halfway through. People who’ve read the book will know what I’m talking about. Otherwise, I’ll try and explain the impact this had without actually giving it away, but I can’t be sure I won’t be too obvious, so proceed at your own risk.

The story concerns a young man named Miles (I say young man, he’s 16, and sometimes I still feel that age) who has the habit of memorizing famous figures’ last words. Inspired by the last words of Francois Rabelais, he decides to attend a boarding school called Culver Creek to seek his own Great Perhaps – essentially opening up himself to potential life experiences. He’s given the nickname Pudge (because he’s really skinny, get it?) by his roommate who goes by the name of The Colonel, and he meets a whole host of interesting characters including the eponymous Alaska. Alaska is a stunning, erratic and extroverted girl whom Pudge falls for pretty much instantly. The many activities the students get up to at Culver Creek include a potentially dangerous prank war, occasionally skipping class, a lot of smoking, and much of this is spearheaded by Alaska, who drinks hard, plays hard and certainly gives reason for Pudge to consider her the key to his Great Perhaps. Does this description of her seem uncomfortably familiar? Well, it should, because this time it’s deliberate.

John Green has gone on record to say that virtually all of his books attempt to deconstruct the Manic Pixie Dream Girl archetype to some degree, including a gender-flipped example in The Fault in Our Stars. He’s the first to admit he’s not always successful, and in fact one of the reasons he wrote Paper Towns is because he didn’t feel he did a good enough job in this one of taking the archetype down. Given that this is his debut novel, I think it’s quite interesting to see the beginning of his own take on it. Because one of the things I think Green does best is capture the joys, crossroads and particularly in this case, the sheer naivety of youth.

Pudge himself is not the strongest protagonist I’ve seen, but I feel that part of that may well be just how much of an avatar for the reader I find him. He’s not physically adept or overly confident, and he rightly feels awkward due to the socially awkward habits he has. Now, I never used to memorize people’s last words, but believe me I memorized some other weird things. And just like Pudge, the geeky side I had which led some people to believing I was wise beyond my years didn’t stop me from being a slave to my emotions and naively hold people in the highest regard, and this is exactly what Pudge does to Alaska. And this is where the deconstruction comes into play. Pudge begins to view her almost as this angel sent from heaven who’s only role is to guide him to his Great Perhaps, and whilst Alaska is a perfectly friendly and playful individual, being a real person, she of course has her own agenda too, her own history and priorities that don’t seem to register with Pudge straight away. This is so similar to the kind of crushes I’ve had in my past that it’s almost laughable. I too have idealized those who have seemed to have the perfect combination of personality and physical traits, practically creating my own Manic Pixie Dream Girls as I did so. I don’t know whether my inability to see things from their perspectives contributed to how this didn’t always end well for me, but I can see how it would be a factor.

Because despite her being a drinking, smoking, loud-mouthed party girl who decides to steal porn just because and waltz around the campus and play matchmaker and tell a teacher they’re full of shit to their face, Alaska shows plenty of signs that she’s not quite as clear-cut as this. And for the most part, Pudge and the others pretty much ignore these things.

For one thing, she has a boyfriend. Obviously false romantic leads are a huge trope in this kind of genre, but I feel it shows already that there are different priorities to be had here. She’s also quite open about the sex she has, which for female supporting characters, particularly stock ones, is usually considered taboo by people who have this weird idea that women should be prudes or something. In fact, this book was quite often challenged due to the level of sexual references, swearing and drinking that came from it’s teenage characters. This is quite funny to me, because firstly, apparently these moral guardians don’t know anything about teenagers, and secondly, the book I read after this one made Looking for Alaska seem about as profane and sexually explicit as the Mr Men.

But more than this, Alaska’s moods swing quite dramatically. Sometimes she’s her usual MPDG self, other times she’s crying her eyes out over something far beyond Pudge’s control. These are further advanced by rather morbid comments she makes or references to certain things about herself that I won’t go into too much detail about here, which again, is mostly just brushed off by the main cast. They have no reason to concern themselves with the mental well-being of her too much, they seem to decide, because she’s the life and soul of the party. As it happens, Takumi, a friend of Pudge, Alaska and the Colonel’s, is revealed at the end to have a similar kind of crush to the one Pudge nurtures throughout this story, so it’s understandable that he’d have a similar reaction. Now I’m sure those who haven’t read the book among you have probably worked out by now that this neglect is going to come back to bite them later. And…yeah…

Perhaps more curious than that though is that (slight spoiler incoming) Pudge and Alaska don’t actually get together. They closest they get is constant flirting and a make-out session when they were drunk. And, given that Alaska is still with her boyfriend at this point, this raises a few questions…but more on that later. The point is, this again showcases another reality of teen life. If you got together with the very first person you were attracted to and are still happy with them now then…you’re one of a very rare minority and I’m trying my best not to resent you.

Alaska does in fact hook Pudge up with a girl named Lara and there’s a scene where they try oral sex…and haven’t got a clue what to do, which Alaska finds absolutely hilarious, of course. I don’t know, it’s little touches like that which I really appreciate.

I guess I should talk about the other characters too. The Colonel, Pudge’s roommate is good, because it again showcases an understanding of inter-personal relationships. Him and Pudge naturally become very close friends. There’s not really much to elaborate on there, it just feels very real. He’s given a background and a family, and perhaps most importantly serves as something of a voice of reason later on, given that he shares a close, entirely platonic relationship with Alaska and is therefore is the character that sees her as most like a human being. He even has a go at Pudge later for not treating her like a human being. It’s played a little obviously, but I’d argue it’s cause is just.

There are plenty of other more minor characters in the students and staff and Culver Creek, and they’re all pretty distinctive so I don’t really have any complaints there.

Were there issues? Well, yes…perhaps.

See, after finishing this, I found myself thinking that this felt a bit like half a story. But then again, I’m not sure whether or not that was the point. By the end, a great deal doesn’t feel resolved. Whatever Pudge and Alaska had going on certainly wasn’t, and nor was a great deal of Alaska’s character arc. But these all had very good reasons, and like I say, it’s arguable that was all very deliberate. Real life, again, isn’t all about resolution or answers, or even getting to know people you don’t know all that well, because it’s complicated and uncertain and sometimes you’ve just got to work it out as best you can. Maybe what threw me off-guard the most is how a little essay by Pudge at the end tries to resolve certain themes that the novel had, and honestly, sometimes it does feel a little half-arsed. Looking back, I do get what it was going for, talking about people being greater than the sum of their parts, but I dunno, maybe it just didn’t fit the tone as well as it could have done, because it doesn’t resolve as much as maybe you’d want it to. It’s not a very long essay, and I don’t he said as much as he could have. Again, the line between intentional and not is a little blurry. Perhaps it could have benefited from one more rewrite? It’s all a little unclear, because if Green’s intention was to tell half a story based on the limited perspective our inward-focused protagonist had, or if it was to tell a complete story, I’m not sure he did either one perfectly.

All the same, the ideas behind it is all still there, and they are good ideas. But perhaps we should look at this as Green finding his writing style, in terms of structure, character and theme. Given what he has written since, I think he has certainly honed his style, or at least exploited it’s many uses. As debut novels go, it certainly could have been a lot worse. I personally enjoyed it, and may well reread it at some point if I’ve got nothing better to do. At some points it feels like half a story, but given all that he could have written, maybe we could look at that and everything he planned on writing afterwards as another Great Perhaps…?

GOD, I’m so witty. Look at me lazily trying to make a connection to the topic. Yeah, I’ll shut up now…feel free to like and comment and I’ll post…something at some point. Yes, it’s vague, but that’s how my schedule operates…

Stunted Creativity

What is it about the intense need to do things that makes you not want to do them…?

Procrastination is a topic that, fittingly enough, I don’t think I’ve gotten round to talking about yet. On the one hand it should be easy to talk about – most people do it after all, but let’s face it – I could be doing a whole host of exciting and useful things. Preparing myself for university, filling out what I’m supposed to be filling out for university, writing a profoundly good short story or contributing to that novel thing. I could even be writing a better blog post, a review of a book or show, or something. But no, mindless ramblings are better.

And the worst thing is is that you know there are no benefits to procrastination, and yet you do it anyway. What’s the purpose behind all this? The only answer I can come up with is simply that my creativity has been stunted.

The more I try and engage my brain with the dealings of demographic-approved film narratives and the workings of a novel about a teacher engaging in intercourse and intercourse-inspired fun with her students to get to the roots of their personal issues, the more my brain sneers down it’s nose at me (because my brain has a nose, apparently), and laughs in my face about how I can’t possibly do anything right, not least come up with something people want to read!

“You stop it!” I sob pathetically, as my brain laughs again. Then I stop, because this analogy is getting really silly.

The point is, I do find myself thinking about these things a lot. It’s advisable for script-writing students to absorb as much visual media as they can, so of course that’s what I’ve been doing, like the faithful dog I am. The things I have seen have retrained me to think about plot, narrative, character, representation and all the rest of it, but instead of writing out my own, getting to the hearts of my own characters, and wondering how decent my representation is, I’d rather listen to repetitive music while prancing around in my room, occasionally doing a pseudo-pirouette when I feel the soundtrack calls for it.

Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.

So, if you came here because you wanted advise on how to reduce procrastination increase productivity, my answer to you is, ‘hell if I know.’ I’m even struggling to write this…

Perhaps I just need to calm down. Bursts of creativity do seize me randomly from behind, a bit like someone at school once who, to this day, I still haven’t identified…

But, I digress. Really, I’m sure if I set tasks for myself, at very the least, things to focus on at specific times, I can work through whatever issues I’m currently having with writing anything. So, what should I write first? God knows, but I think I’m going to stop writing this, because there’s nothing left to say…

OK, except this – perhaps I should make myself write something every day. Doesn’t necessarily have to be something big, just something. Will that work? I don’t know…I may decide to forgo this idea. Right now, the idea of writing, my primary form of escapism, is looking like a leering bastardly monster of some kind. This isn’t a good place to be in, but maybe monstrous looks can be deceiving.

Ugh, I’m out.