Writer's 'Anti-Gel' and some Supernatural Assistance

A writer often is often asked: “What do you do when you are struck with Writer's Block?”

You know, that dreaded experience of trying to get the next project off the ground, but find yourself staring at the screen or notepad for hours because the words, story ideas or subject matter are nowhere in sight. Finding any inspiring idea just seems like trying to hunt and trap an extinct mythical creature that can no longer be caught and tamed. Frustrating!

That's your hard core definition of Writer's Block, not having something to write about.  However, believe it or not, in my experinece that's somewhat rare.  A 'block' also has its common variety of niggling frustrations that are more common.

How about the kind where you have your story or academic subject matter ready to put to page, depending on where your creativity is leading you, everything is all laid out in your notes or plot sketches, you have all the information you could ever want, but you still can't seem to start the thing? The first paragraph, not to mention the first page or three, is crucial because you know that's your opportunity to catch your reader's attention. You hope you nail it … but.....you could botch the whole thing and turn your reader off forever.

This expectation of making a good first impression can weigh a writer down, literately block them from starting because nothing sounds and feels right when you type or write it out, and then the anxiety sets in that convinces you're a hopeless mess-up, which makes it worse. Nothing seems to 'gel' together, so I will metaphorically call his icky place the dark paralysing world of “Writer's Anti-Gel”.

When starting the first chapter, of “Faust: My Soul Be Damned for the World, Vol.1”, guess who literally sat for two days a good half of the third staring at a blank screen coaxing the creative muse to appear with loads of coffee and chocolate until FINALLY the first introductory paragraphs 'gelled' into place. (And no, I wasn't goofing on the Internet, I wasn't connected at the time. I was off it several years in fact!)

Writers will tell you just hammer something out and then edit the crud out of it later: you won't get anywhere unless you force yourself to write and get a first draft together, because if you wait for inspiration, it'll take half a lifetime before you get a book together.

Yes, there is truth to that, I do hammer things out be it good or bad once I get into the actual draft and there's something to build on and then edit, but the first paragraphs, (and okay, I'll admit, a good portion of my texts), I like to make sure it sounds perfect in my head and I'll keep editing it as I write instead of just writing away without polishing as I go, so of course, I get stuck in the parallel non-creative gloopy gloopity glop slow-paced dimension that is “Writer's Anti-Gel” until it finally gels in the right direction.

The thing is, the last paragraphs and closing segments are just as tricky in their own way as the first. “Faust” is a historical academic epic so to speak, so naturally the end of the chapter has its own unique requirements. I needed a satisfying conclusion that gels in a way so it's not rambling but not abrupt either, something that makes a lasting impression regarding the vast amount of information just presented and that rounds the whole thing off just nicely in a page, preferably less, maybe with a memorable kick.

Well, when I was nearing the end of that first chapter I got stuck in the non-gelling “anti-gel” universe again. When you're writing about how a real historical individual may have sold his soul to the devil for knowledge, power and worldly glory, and you want to round off this gruesome history 'quite nicely' with a 'memorable kick', that's a tall order!

Of course, I knew I was going to be staring at the screen for days on end with this doozie, but rather than succumbing to staring and wasting time moaning in the Realm of Anti-Gel, or hammering out just anything until it was squished and prodded into place and still feeling like a product that was way below par even for a draft, I did what any desperate writer does ….

I prayed. 

Yes, seriously.

No, I'm not kidding.

I thought of my Guardian Angel, who often gets ignored even though I know he's there.

We never think of our invisible guardians enough or ask their assistance, even with our daily tasks. They don't just guard us from temptation and danger, they like us to involve them in our lives. They take a keen interest in everything we do and they like helping us in our work, (as long as it's not sinful of course!)

  So, I reached out to my neglected princely friend and told him what was needed to finish my first chapter and asked if he could enlighten me with an idea, maybe let me know how to polish it off ....

Then...'It' happened.

No sooner was the request made when the words started to interiorly flow so quickly like a bubbling

cascade it was like I was taking speed dictation. I was literally yelling in my head 'Not so fast! Not so fast!', my fingers tapping away trying to capture that miraculous flow as the text rolled out right to the very end...then, stopped.

This was so different from the 'running flash' of inspiration to where you don't want to stop writing because you're on a roll. I've had that too quite a few times, but when those 'running flashes' happen, it still feel like it's you and your ideas. This wasn't exactly like that. It was really was as if “someone else” was interiorly dropping the words and I was doing my best to keep up with their pace. Prayer answered!

So a word to the struggling writer: try giving prayer a chance, and while you're at it, don't forget you have an angel at your side.

Here it is, the final paragraph to the first chapter of “Faust: My Soul be Damned for the World Volume I”, which I cannot take credit for. I give it fully to my Guardian Angel:

“Faustus, who embraced evil and shunned righteousness, became the foremost symbol of the misuse of free will, that sublime gift from God with its inherent opportunity to choose virtue and reject iniquity. “What shall a man gain if he has the whole world and lose his soul,” (Matt. 16: v. 26) - but for a notorious name, the ethereal shadow of a career, and a brief life of fleeting pleasure with no true peace? This was the blackest and most captivating tragedy of all, few could have remained indifferent to the growing intrigue of this individual who apparently shook hands with the devil and freely chose to descend to the molten, sulphuric chasm of Hell for all eternity for so little in exchange. It is a drama that continues to fascinate today as powerfully as when Faustus first disseminated his infamous card in the Heidelberg locale to the scandal of his generation. In fine, a life of good or evil, the hope of Heaven or the despair of Hell, Faustus stands as a reminder that the choice between these two absolutes also falls to us.” 


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If you find yourself stuck in a situation, no matter what it is -- don't forget to pray.

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Creativity Inspiring Creativity

(Post originally published April 22, 2015)

Inspiration (1769)

by Jean-Honoré Fragonard (1732-1806)

It is no secret that artists, poets and writers are continually influencing and being influenced by other creative minds and their work. It has happened for millennia, one new movement after another springs forth from the innovative experiments of the previous generations that came before them, consequently receiving recognition as the latest styles of their age.

Just as in real life, characters in novels experience the same ‘aha!’ moments and find themselves inspiring and inspired by others, but then that is hardly surprising: even fictitious stories for the most part burst forth as imaginative flourishes from the soil of real life occurrences and observations, or the narratives wouldn’t have the ‘ring of reality’ about them, (unless the story is really ‘out there’ in the woolly realm of La-La Land!)


Naturally, my characters in Brushstrokes of a Gadfly experience the same pattern of innovation or they wouldn’t be realistic, especially as many of them are supposed to be artists. Of course, the author undergoes the same process with them as the story develops, the characters and what inspires them can also lead to episodes of philosophical soul-searching in return, a cyclical process of creativity ever renewing itself!

One of those ‘philosophical’ moments occurred this morning. First, I was greeted with some very disturbing news on Sky International from Britain. We, the faceless mass of the public, have been told over and over these last few months or so how well Britain is doing and that the UK economy is steadily growing out of the Great Recession, (God forbid we should actually tell the truth and state we are in a global Great Depression!) Yet, the news just reported this morning (April 22, 2015) that the food banks have received an unprecedented number of people searching for aid like never before. So, who is actually ‘doing better’ in the United Kingdom? Certainly not the average British family! Reading between the lines it is easy to see that only the mega-rich are doing better, while the economic climate is still just as dire if not getting worse for the general populace like never before, but the media keeps lying to everyone about that. To cap that off, in the same news segment there was a disturbing report about the rise of cruelty to animals in Britain, and the national Prevention to Cruelty to Animals charity has received a record number of calls and reports; every thing from woeful neglect to outright torture of innocent creatures that can’t defend themselves. One story was appalling, a dog was locked for months on end amidst her own excrement in a car outside her master’s home. Furthermore, she was expecting a litter of puppies and was obviously undernourished. What a demonic, yes demonic, way to treat man’s best friend. Thankfully, she was spotted and rescued and now has a new loving owner. Is there a link between dire poverty and this ghastly display of cruelty? Are people taking their frustration and stress out on the animal kingdom and their once-beloved pets? This is certainly are a disturbing sign of our times.


While hearing this on the TV, or the ‘telly’ as they say in the UK and Ireland, I was multitasking and conducting some practical research for my next novel, a continuation of Brushstrokes of a Gadfly. One artist that barely received a ‘hello, how are you?’ in the first novel is currently receiving some additional development in the second. (UPDATE: the new novel is finished! Vocation of a Gadfly!) The artist in question is inspired by the opening lines of a poem by William Blake (1757-1827) who was also an artist, and since I had only paraphrased Blake’s lines in the draft so far, I thought I had better go over them again to make sure I quoted them correctly. They belong to Auguries of Innocence, however, I couldn’t stop at the opening verses and continued to read the entire poem to refresh my memory. Immediately Blake’s other lines struck me as markedly relevant to the report I was hearing repeated over and over in the background:

“A dog starved at his master’s gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.”

How apropos. Continuing the poem, it was eerie to see just how accurate Blake had pinpointed the omens of decline both morally, financially and politically that now are so evident in our modern nations, and not just in Britain. ‘Auguries’ is another word for ‘omens’ or ‘future signs’ after all. How mankind interacts with other creatures considered less than itself is a tell-tale sign indeed: if you cannot treat defenceless animals with compassion and kindness, how will you treat your fellow human beings? Demonically I say. I shall give an example:


I suppose not many have heard of one frightening story that was recently reported from Greece a few months ago, a country which is beyond doubt like other countries completely mired in a Great Depression rivalling that of the previous century. In the very birthplace of ‘Western Civilisation’ there are families now living for two and three years without electricity as they cannot afford it. One man who was a caregiver for his elderly mother at home could no longer pay the electricity bill, so the company just came and shut the power off, regardless of the fact the elderly woman was on a life support machine. The workers had their orders so they simply turned it off: the man could only stand by and watch as his mother died. Sounds like the Nazis at the extermination camps who claimed innocence when accused of war crimes because they were ‘only following orders’, doesn’t it? The next frightening part of the story was the man couldn’t call the ambulance and have his mother taken to the hospital as the public health system in Greece is only for those who have a job, (which in their crippled economy are non-existent). If this is the current condition of the country that gave us democracy, I fear for the rest of the democratic world. Just look at the crumbling decay of Detroit and the water management debacle: the last time I heard, the poor who could not afford to pay their water bills were cut off from that service, a basic necessity of life. The situation was becoming critical to the point a UN commission went to investigate just like any other third world country experiencing major humanitarian crises. I do not know if the situation there has been resolved or is still in crisis, but what a humiliating downturn for America that prides itself on being one of the most developed nations in the world.

What times we are living in! The poor and the elderly are not the only victims, all those who cannot speak for themselves or are afraid to speak up are also vulnerable. Let us not forget the children. The cases of scandalizing and cruelty to children are woefully on the increase, and have been for the last sixty years. Talk about the loss of innocence. How can we turn our backs and ignore the outright atrocities that are happening in our era? I promise, no more horror stories in this post, but I could not help but jump up on my soapbox ~ a few of my characters are ‘gadflies’ after all, people who cannot help but shake things up and get people to do a little soul-searching too, so I suppose I’m still on topic. Moving on...

Of course, after reviewing Blake’s poem a few more times, I find it has now provided me with several other ideas to develop in the new novel, you shall have to read Vocation of a Gadfly to see what, where, how, and with which characters. However, for now I shall share with you Blake’s famous poem below underneath one of his artworks, which you might be familiar with thanks to the ‘Hannibal Lecter’ movie, Red Dragon (2002) starring Anthony Hopkins.  What philosophical, soul-searching ideas will Blake’s following verses inspire you with?


 

The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in the Sun (c. 1803)

Auguries of Innocence (1803)
by William Blake

(First published in 1863.)


To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.
A dove-house fill’d with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell thro’ all its regions.
A dog starv’d at his master’s gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.
A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.
A skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipt and arm’d for fight
Does the rising sun affright.

Every wolf’s and lion’s howl
Raise from hell a human soul.
The wild deer, wand’ring here and there,
Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misus’d breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher’s knife.
The bat that flits at close of eve
Has left the brain that won’t believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever’s fright.
He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be belov’d by men.
He who the ox to wrath has mov’d
Shall never by be woman lov’d.
The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider’s enmity.
He who torments the chafer’s sprite
Weaves a bower of endless night.
The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to the thy mother’s grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the last judgment draweth nigh.
He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar’s dog and widow’s cat,
Feed them and thou will grow fat.
The gnat that sings his summer’s song
Poison gets from slander’s tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of envy’s foot.
The poison of the honey bee
Is the artist’s jealousy.

The prince’s robes and beggar’s rags
Are toadstools on the miser’s bags.
A truth that’s told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so;
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Thro’ the world we safely go.
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
The babe is more than swaddling bands;
Throughout all these human lands
Tools were made, and born were hands,
Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;
This is caught by females bright,
And return’d to it’s own delight.
The bleat, the bark, the below, and roar,
Are waves that beat on heaven’s shore.
The babe that weeps the rod beneath
Write revenge in realms of death.
The beggar’s rags, fluttering in air,
Does to rags the heaven’s tear.
The soldier, arm’d with sword and gun,
Palsied strikes the summer’s sun.
The poor man’s farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Afric’s shore.
One mite wrung from the lab’rer’s hands
Shall buy and sell the miser’s lands;
Or, it protected from on high,
Does that whole nation sell and buy.
He who mock’s the infant’s faith
Shall be mock’d in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne’er get out.
He who respects the infant’s faith
Triumphs over hell and death.
The child’s toys and the old man’s reason
Are the fruits of the two seasons.
The questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out.
The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar’s laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race
Like to armour’s iron brace.
When gold and gems adorn the plow,
To peaceful arts shall envy bow.
A riddle, or the cricket’s cry,
Is to doubt a fit reply.
The emmet’s inch and eagle’s mile
Make lame philosophy to smile
He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne’re believe, do what you please.
If the sun and moon should doubt,
They’d immediately go out.
To be in a passion you good may do,
But no good if a passion is in you.
The whore and gambler, by the state
Licensed, build that nation’s fate.
The harlot’s cry from street to street
Shall weave old England’s winding-sheet.
The winner’s shout, the loser’s curse,
Dance before dead England’s hearse.
Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born,
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.
We are led to believe a lie
When we see not through the eye,
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.
God appears, and God is light,
To those poor souls who dwell in night;
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.

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