Do not cry for us

writers-block

It is another late night. I have taken myself off to bed once, but to no avail; sleep evades me, scurrying away into the darkness the moment my eyelids become heavy.

So I return to the keyboard and start tapping away, to see what devils play within my mind tonight. Only it is no longer night, it is two thirty in the morning.

Sometimes this is when all the indiscriminate arbitrary concepts and vague notions I have considered during the days previous, formulate themselves into a cohesive interrelated and reasonably logical order, thus forming a coherent chain of words, which when read back, actually convey my original inspiration and intention to the reader.

This period, at least for myself, generally occurs at arbitrary times. It is haphazard, irregular and unselective. Although these late nights, these solitary, unsocial and introverted hours are those that commonly prove the most creatively productive.

In the morning, (read later today), after and eventually I have achieved some sleep, I shall present myself to the world in a fashion that shall cause the observer to regard me as introverted and unsociable.

Although this would not be my elected preference, I cannot chastise those who would consider me as such, because I know I shall be ruminating and deliberating over the words that I have written tonight, and as such my demeanour shall convey such meditation as distant and antisocial.

This is a burden that is carried upon the shoulders of many, if not all, creative writers.

The creativity ingenuity required to conjure fictional lives from the rawness of neural pathways, to weave nether worlds from mere suggestion, or pen flowing poetry that stirs passions and excites emotion, thrives best when it is born from the isolated world of the solitary writer.

Distraction is a temporary remedy, a partial relief of this symptomatic characteristic trait. However there is no cure. This is the writers curse.

   Do not cry for us.

This is our choice, our drug of life which brings its own highs, begets its rewards in other forms of alternate kinds.

Satisfaction and stimulation of your mind, your heart, and your soul is our reward. To tease and toy with your emotions until you lose for those moments your sense of the world around you and escape into ours, into our fictitious realm, our domain of narrative legend.

That is our reward, our incentive and our recompense.

   Thank you for reading, Paul White.

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Clearing out the closet

But first a note,

    When I first started to write my Ramblings the idea was just to jot down my thoughts, feelings and viewpoints of whatever was foremost in my mind at the time, which is in essence still what I am doing.

However my Ramblings have seemed to have naturally divided themselves into two distinct, or should that be indistinct, areas.

Firstly those Ramblings which focus on writing; where I hope to offer encouragement, insight and tips of this black art to other writers and would be penmen, (if I can say that without being politically incorrect?), and tell of my struggles, fears and incidents along the way. (Writing can be isolating and lonely at times). In hindsight I should have known that many of my Ramblings would take this path, after all I am a writer. It is what I do.

The second avenue of my Ramblings are more in tune with my original intention to waffle-on about a varied assortment of unconnected and random topics, like this one!

So I have, in a rather arbitrary manner, separated the two prime themes; from now on my writing centred Ramblings will published on this Blog ramblingsfromawritersmind.wordpress.com.

Leaving me free to post my arbitrary scribbling about everything and nothing on a separate blog which is simply entitled furtherramblings.wordpress.com

For those of you who enjoy reading fiction, then please take a peek at alittlemorefiction.wordpress.com where you will find a collection of my Flash Fiction, enjoy.

I am glad to have cleared that up! ………………..and cleaning up is the topic of today’s Rambling.

In fact what I have done is an actually clean up what was becoming a bit of a mess. Having a clean out, tidying up the mess and confusion which seems to inexorably grow about us on a daily basis, is a liberating and satisfying experience.

This is also about getting rid of annoying and irritating entities which we can quite easily and happily live without.

Let me explain, if I may.

I have renewed / re-modelled my webpage recently. The original design was looking amateurish and had had so many alterations over time it was also looking scraggy. So I scrapped everything and started again from scratch.

On completion of this task I was overcome by a host of silver angels descending from the clouds and blowing upon golden trumpets tunes of joy and salvation.

OK, it was not quite an epiphany, but you get my drift!

So I went to work on my computer itself, deleting a number of old and ancient photos on my files, on Picasso, on Keepthatshityou’llneverwant dot com, and some other Cloud crap that I never use. I then started re-arranging my files, because if my storage systems were an actual office it would look much like that Japanese one in the You-Tube video during the earthquake, or rather like the office did in the aftermath.

Now I am rather good at keeping my hard drive optimised, I have high quality programmes to check, clean, defragment, compress and goodness knows what. Other software ensures that no silicone version of ‘Ebola’ is infecting any file or the path it is strolling along. I have vaults and antidotes, and little ninja killers jumping and climbing through every download and external device to ensure that nothing has snuck passed the x-ray machines and strip searches in my computers airport security lounge, or was that suite?

None of the above however lends itself to getting out the vacuum cleaner or polishing cloth, not one killer ninja will, on its day off, pick up the debris and waste of underused, misnamed or forgotten files. Nothing will automatically organise your documents in the clear and precise way you have just decided you want them.

No. These are things you have to get of your backside and do yourself, or possibly sit down, on your backside and do……well, you understand. So that was my second task of the day. A task that actually took a week!

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Yep a week! I was amazed at how many duplicated, or just so very slightly similar, documents and images I had.

I know why.

I do a lot of things a lot of the time, saving constantly so I do not lose all the work I have just completed. You know…like you did when you clicked on….ahh yes, you remember that don’t you! The problem is once the task is completed, the final work saved, sent, stored, printed or whatever,  I do not always remember, or cannot usually be arsed to double check the copied and saved files that I created along the long and bumpy yellow rubble path of getting the job done.

So those files languish in luxury at the poolside of the internet highway hotel, retired forever, relaxing in the heat under the multiple core silicone sun.

But now I have kicked these lazy residents out and closed the hotel. The space I have newly created will become the foundations on which I shall now erect structures of new creativity and technical beauty…..or not. But once again a good old clean out is really quite a healthy thing to do, not only for you PC or laptop, but for you too. I now have a feel good factor, and that feels good.

By this time tomorrow evening I should have a few black plastic bags full of old Sh*t to chuck in the  interweb dumpster, a fresh and clean living space to work within.

I do not know if this will enable me to write any better, or shall unleash some unknown, some latent talent which has been hiding beneath the keys, but I know that it feels as if I have performed a catharsis, something which has not only cleared the capacity of memory storage within this infernal machine, but has also strangely lifted my own mental spirits somewhat.

Maybe you should have your own clean out, it actually feels really good, even liberating, like a cool lemon scented shower….or a soak in a hot bath full of bubbles and little yellow squeaky ducks….if you prefer that!

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As all this scrubbing and cleaning has worn me out I have decided to take myself off to bed, for a comforting and relaxing sleep.

I wish you the same when night arrives in your part of the world, and hope that the thought of living with an overloaded storage space, full of unwanted, unneeded and useless files which is slowing down your operating system, will not keep you lying awake all night with undue concern.

In fact I shall not even mention it, should I by doing so, place any doubt whatsoever within your mind!

Thank you for reading, Paul.

The Secret Entity

Books, novels, novellas, whatever term you use it does not really matter. Neither does it matter, in this instance, if you are reading a hardcover book, a paperback or even an e-reader. Because this post is about the story that lays within, not the format, the genre or classification of the book.

A story is a most wondrous gift which can be bestowed on anyone. It affords an avenue of escapism from life, from reality. A tale can whisk you away to worlds which do not exist but feel real, feel true as you read and absorb each word on each and every page.

A great story will draw you in, make you part of its netherworld, a place where you can battle the bad guys, or be the bad guy, or girl, or dog or horse… or simply watch, from your lofty viewpoint, all that transpires below.

No matter if you love a twisted plot of dirty deeds, or raunchy romance, fast action with death and destruction, a private detective prying into everyone’s business, or a love and betrayal saga of family and ever-changing fortunes;  as a reader you must consider how the author weaves such magic, how they are able to draw you into their fiction, into their deep mindbending imagination.

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Whether you are laying on a recliner by the pool, soaking up the sun at the beach, or simply curled up in your armchair at home, a book is a magical portal, a gateway to another life, through which you can escape the humdrum of everyday tasks, at least for a while.

When you immerse yourself into a story the mundane evaporates, it disappears into the shadows of forgotten responsibilities, while you become absorbed into your own private world, a world that no other person can ever become part of.

Now, you may find my last statement somewhat beguiling.

Why would I say no other person could possibly enter the same world as you? After all you are reading just one copy, a single edition of a book. Many other people are, or must have, read the same story? They too must have visited this fantastical world you now find yourself in?

WRONG.

Unlike watching the television, a downloaded video, or visiting the cinema where you sit with family and friends watching precisely the same action, hearing the same sounds, the same voices, a book is a far more personal experience.

It is a unique individual encounter.

When you read a story your eyes will be scanning the chains of words which are sequenced by the author. Yet it is not the author who is telling you the story. It is not these chains of words, mere ink blobs on the pages which paint those pictures in your mind. It is not they which lead you from one scene to another.

You see, in between the words there lies an invisible entity.

It is this entity which connects your mind to the authors, no matter how far away they may be in distance or time. Alive or long dead… you will become connected.

It is this which is the true magic of a book.

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Wonderful plays and fantastic films work from the basis of good creative script writing, however, assisting the scriptwriters to deliver the words to an audience, in a manner the will capture their attention are the actors and actresses. Their ability to deliver a speech or to convey dialogue convincingly is a wonderful skill.

Cameramen, directors, special effects, best boy’s and grips… and so on produce the scenes and effects. But that vision, the moving images on the screen and the actor’s voices are not your story; they are the director’s interpretation of the screen-writers construal of the original play, which is based on the television series of the original book written by… whoever it may be.

I prefer a direct connection to the author, one without the intervention of another person’s personal translation being foisted upon me.

Without becoming too technical, I am writing this post in a style far removed from the one I am using to write my novel. The way you are reading this is the way I have deliberately formatted my narration. In this instance as if I am speaking, talking directly to you personally.

In my stories the voice you hear is inside your own head, it may be omnipotent, or it may seem as if one of the characters is speaking, telling you the tale; it depends on how I intend you to hear my story.

I hope I have explained that clearly?

 

The second reason reading a book is such a personal experience is, as you read your mind creates a world so real and so detailed and in such a subjective form, it is only possible for it to exist in your own imagination.

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Take a simple statement:

The long black sedan drew up to the pavement outside the hotel.

Simple?

Yes?

No.

If it were a film I would agree because we would have both seen the same car, drive up to the same hotel, from the same direction, in the same weather conditions, at the same time of day….same….same…same.

However, when you are absorbed into the story of a book, you have to create the car yourself, imagine which direction it is driving, how the daylight reflects from its bodywork, or the lights glint on its polished paintwork as it drives under the portico of the main entrance… oh wait, your hotel did not have a portico? And it was not in a city centre… well, that’s ok, because this is your story and yours alone.

In mine it was night, the car was a dark blue stretched Bentley continental, what make was it in yours?  Was it a stretch, was it blue or black… or white? What time of day, or night did you create for your story? Was it Chauffeur driven?

This is the reason you cannot read the same story as your friends, your mother, sister, brother, uncle, aunt or Little Lord Fauntleroy. You can read the same book, but you can never experience the same story.

Ahh, now you are beginning to understand the true magic of a book, the amazing mystical power of narration.

It is something unique, something no other medium can offer.

Which is why I love the written word, why I love books above and beyond any other form of media for regaling a great story.

It is why I love to write.

Talking about writing… have you read any of my Electric Eclectic novelettes yet?

If not, you are missing a treat; Electric Eclectic novelettes contain an amazing and captivating short story.

Each novelette is written as introductory book so you can experience my writing style, which I hope you will like so much you will then grab more of my books!

With each Electric Eclectic novelette cosing a mere 1.00, you could try two or three, or more, Electric Eclectic authors novelettes, you may even find your ‘next favourite author’ among them. 

I hope so.

Visit the Electric Eclectic website HERE

future

 

Your Story

 

                             

Once again I sit here with a vague idea running through my mind, yet I have an uncertainty of how I am going to transfer my thoughts onto the page.

I do not view this predicament as a problem because this is one of my Ramblings and, the whole point of writing a Rambling, is I take a loose concept and start writing without any structured plan.

On good days the whole thing sort of stitches itself into a passable tapestry of cohesive substance.

I hope today is a good day.

Although, I have often heard people say ‘I could write a book about.. this or that’, or ‘that would make a fantastic story’, I rarely, if ever, find any of the people expressing such actually write a darned thing, about anything, ever.

It is all too easy to say such and such would make an interesting story, but far, far harder to write it and, I am not speaking of the technical aspects of creative prose, simply the act of putting pen to paper and jotting out more than a few paragraphs.

In fact, one of the most difficult things to do is to start writing a story, your story. I have known people who have journals, diaries and vast libraries of notes, all ready to start writing their story. Ten years later those notes have vanished, the diaries are collecting dust in the loft and the journals long forgotten.

But none of that matters because… ‘it’s all here in my head’, ‘it’s my life story, so I know it anyway’, or ‘I plan on starting it after………….’

I have heard it all.

In fact once upon a time, I used the same lame excuses to procrastinate about writing the stuff I had bobbling around in my own head. Now, if I go a day without writing at least a few paragraphs, a short story, a poem or one of these Ramblings, I get tetchy and irritable.

I honestly suffer withdrawal symptoms.

It is my love of writing and by writing, I mean actually transcribing words onto paper, (or in this modern world, onto a computer screen); the more I write, the more I need to write. The more I write, the more I learn about writing, about words, syntax and grammar.

But most of all, I learn about the pliability of words, how they can be moulded and shaped, crafted as a glassblower would fashion his works from a semi-molten liquid into goblets and vases. It is akin to a cabinet maker taking great lumps of raw wood and, carefully whittling and chiselling away until an intricately polished dresser stands proudly displayed.

Words can be shaped and formed in a million and more ways, they are the basic raw materials of a writer’s art, the fundamental building blocks for wordsmiths, the elemental ingredient of the author’s labour.

What is more, these words are free. They cost nothing and are readily available to everyone, including you.

So why not take advantage of this?

Now is the time to clamber into the loft and bring those diaries into the daylight, time to dust off your old journals and to recall your history. Now is the time to sharpen your quill, your pencil, or charge up that laptop and start to write the story you have within yourself.

I shall leave you with this wonderful quotation from ‘I know why the caged bird sings’ by Maya Angelou,

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”

Thank you for reading this Rambling, Paul.

Like to learn more about me? Then why not check out my webpage

http://paulznewpostbox.wixsite.com/paul-white 

Paul White

Looking for tips on writing and publishing? Then you have come to the right place.

Grab yourself a copy of ‘The Frugal Author‘ today.

TFAcover