Woes of the Wordless by Pamela Bennett
A wintry wind rattles the window beside my desk and sleet taps at the glass.
The draft whistles through the room like a wraith with icy fingers, so I get up again—for the third time in an hour—to make a hot cup of tea.
Could sipping hot tea boost my creative process?
Couldn’t hurt.
Back at my desk, warming my hands on a cup that says, “Reinvent,” I glare out the window.
Stupid Ohio.
How is it even possible it was 72 yesterday? In late November? I worked on the back porch all day, basking in the afternoon sun, sincerely believing the world was a beautiful, happy place.
It was deadline day and I rushed to get newspaper stories finished so I could walk in the woods. Blissfully in “La La land,” I was all smiles, listening to tinkling, windchime melodies as my fingers flew on the keyboard.
Today the wind chill dips to 25 degrees and my mood dips even lower. Long hours stretch before me, weekend hours I’d slated to work on a novel, yet the blank page is sneering at me and the blinking cursor waits…and waits…and waits.
Yesterday…all my troubles seemed so far away….
Wait. Do I have to get permission from Paul McCartney to write that?
So I get on the World Wide Web and waste time looking up copyright laws, specifically on use of quotations from famous songs.
I sincerely miss the Beatles, too, so I get up to find my i-Phone and let Pandora cheer me up with the Fab Four. The tiny speaker on the phone is not enough, though, so I turn on Bluetooth and hook it up to the stereo.
Soon, Paul is singing, While my guitar gently weeps…and Nothin’s gonna change my world…and I am smiling again.
Music never fails me. It lifts my mood, touches my heart and brings me back in time. I’m a teenager again, putting the Beatles, Jim Croce and Gordon Lightfoot records on the turntable in the basement rec room. I’m smiling at a well-loved boy, sitting near me in that basement, as he lifts a strand of my hair and holds tight to my hand.
Nostalgic, I forget that I was a mess at the time, hoping my hand wouldn’t sweat, sifting through records as if my very life depended on what to play next. Holding my breath as he played with my long hair. Wanting him to kiss me. Afraid he would kiss me. Shivering at his warm breath, so close to my cheek.
Ah…to be 17 again….Maybe I should write a young adult story?
And still, the cursor blinks and the page before me stays blank.
I blame Gene Fowler.
A writer and journalist who died in 1960, Fowler supposedly said, “Writing is easy; all you do is sit staring at the blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.”
Oh. Okay.
No pressure there.
But if you search the Internet for that quote’s true origin, you get lots of people who said a version of that—before he did.
I strike the quit link on the Chrome search…again.
So how did a professional journalist get writer’s block? Maybe because writing fiction is not the same as writing newspaper stories.
There is no blank page when I write a news story.
When I interview a source, I type the interview into a Word file and that is what I work from when I write the story. The article is there; all I have to do is create the lead sentence (we call it the lede) that lets the reader know what the main point of the story is. Then I come up with lively narrative and smooth transitions between quotations.
Could be it’s easy because I’ve been doing it regularly for 16 years.
I’ve been writing fiction longer, but a novel is also a much bigger animal than a short story—think of a thundering elephant, compared to a skittering squirrel.
Mary Oliver calls the creative process, “wrestling with angels.”
She is not ashamed of neglecting other things in her life, to write poetry.
The tire goes flat, the tooth falls out; there will be a hundred meals without mustard. The poem gets written. I have wrestled with the angel and I am stained with light and I have no shame. (From Oliver’s new book, Upstream.)
My own angel is getting way too close to pinning me, right next to that blinking cursor.
So I try something different.
I silence the Beatles and put Bob Dylan on…yes, better. Somehow, Tangled Up in Blue is calming my tangled thoughts.
Other times, only silence will do, as if the only way to create a scene with color, sounds and action, is to start with a soft hush in the room.
She walked through the colorful woods…
Nope. I can do better than that. That sentence “tells” the reader what my character is doing, but doesn’t “show” her experience as she walks on the path.
How about:
Swirls of dust-dry leaves lifted and whispered at her feet and the sharp scent of black walnuts drifted up. As the path narrowed and the canopy of orange and gold above her thickened and tangled, the wind creaked and knocked through the highest branches.
That’s better. I’m not only showing what the character is doing, but also what she sees, smells and hears. It’s a much better way to start a scene.
What about you? Ever want to write fiction, or nonfiction articles and essays?
A new feature on this website will begin at the first of the year, called “Trade Secrets.”
It’s where my sister and I present a free mini-writing course that includes tips and examples aspiring writers and beginners could use to improve their work.
Such as, “How to write a better beginning” and “What is the difference between showing and telling?”
If it works out, we may eventually begin offering inexpensive email-based writing courses, where writers complete lessons and send in work to get suggestions for revision, with the goal to finish a completed short article or story.
So what do you think? Ready to start that writing career?
Mary Oliver said something else I love, in Upstream:
The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither the power nor time.
It’s never too late—start now!
Wow Pam great story. I agree about this cold weather. I think we better take that trip to Florida.
Mom
Yes, Mother, I’m ready to go to Florida, too!