John Lacey » writer’s block

Bound By The Shame You Won’t Admit To

John Lacey — Fri, 22 Jul 2011 11:53:36 +0000

So this book of poetry I’m featured in is an actual book somewhere. It exists as a tangible object. It went from an idea to a thing… I guess that is what creation is. I get a bit of a buzz out of it to be honest.

I was approached about submitting stuff for an earlier book. And I stumbled. I hadn’t written anything in ages and it just all seemed too hard. Plus even though I was contacted there was no guarantee that I would be accepted. It felt like I was setting myself up to be rejected and my skin was much too thin.

But there was another opportunity and I wrote a few things and I raided my archives for the rest. I was surprised then too because writing was an alchemy I thought I had long lost the secret to.

The muse stopped showing up, and I stopped showing up and over time it just seemed easier. Easier to not show up. Easier to not write. Easier to watch TV. Easier to fill my days with minutiae and pretend writing was never something I was interested in.

There are few things as truly soul destroying as pretending to be “fine” when you’re not, as pretending that something (or someone) important to you actually isn’t. It is a betrayal of the self and you probably won’t even realise why you feel so crummy because you haven’t admitted there’s a problem (you’re a blocked writer). And as the old adage goes admitting you have a problem is the first step in solving it. Perhaps writing about it is the second.

Perils Of The Project

John Lacey — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 05:56:31 +0000

I should be writing. Yes, there’s no way around it. But then I should be doing a lot of things and not doing them doesn’t cause me nearly as much grief as not-writing does. I guess somewhere, at some point, I decided I was a writer and that was the beginning of the end. It is interesting though; all those Leuning cartoons about the agony and shame of having a book inside you suddenly make sense. I would roll my eyes at them in my younger years. Surely having a book inside you was a perfectly wonderful thing; you would write it and have it published and fame and fortune would be yours. Perhaps I’m doing it wrong. (I haven’t done it before and have no frame of reference.) But it really feels more like being posessed than being inspired. I want it out of me by any means possible – though, ideally a means that leaves little emotional scar tissue – and at the moment something akin to an exorcism seems most appropriate. And, for better or worse (and any number of a myriad of other cliches, I suppose), I realise I am going to be haunted by this thing until it gets written. Even giving up isn’t really a long term option now. Think of the shame and agony and disgrace that would come out of that, especially after I’ve told you bunch [translation: my lovely, supportive readers] that I’ve been working on it.

The truth is I’ve come to resent my discipline, and even moreso, my genre. I don’t know why I thought doing something autobiographical would be easier than doing something completely fictional. No, that is silly, of course I know. I figured it would require less imagination. I wouldn’t be ‘making stuff up’ I’d simply be remembering things and committing them to the page in some witty, insightful and emotional-engaging way. (But no pressure!) Lately I’ve been suffering from discipline-envy. I watch artisans creating odd characters out of recycled plastic and think, that seems so much easier. Or I’ll think about doing a documentary. Of course, that would be easy. I just point the camera at other people and arrive at a discernable narrative in the editing stage. Let other people’s vulnerability be centre stage. That would be easier, surely?

The problem is two-fold. I have never attempted anything this big before. I don’t know if I can do it. I remember a past failed NaNoWriMo attempt and think ‘maybe you can’t do this. Maybe this isn’t for you.’ Though lately I’ve taken a lot of comfort in hearing other authors talk about the anxieties experienced with their books. I’m also trying to take myself a lot less seriously. I can assemble sentences and paragraphs even at the worst of times as long as I don’t make myself so neurotic that I’m fearful to bring pen to paper or fingers to keys. Sure some days things flow more eloquently than others, but I can do it no matter what. (Perhaps if I broke both arms that would be another thing entirely, but I could always dictate.) So yes the primary goal in the short term is basically to not go crazy. Or to go crazy but in a way that doesn’t immediately lend itself to self-loathing and self-doubt. (Or anything that would get me arrested or make the news.) Whimsy is a great tool in the ‘take yourself less seriously’ arsenal. A few days ago I found myself sitting in a cafe, tweeting something to the effect of, “Shut up! Coffee and cake-of-the-day is an important part of my creative process.”

The second part of the problem is the subject matter. It is painful. I’m starting to think I may have forgotten a lot of it out of personal emotional necessity. It hurts like a motherfucker. (And no, there is no more poetic way of expressing that sentiment.) Even after a year – a period of time that feels like an eternity – it still hurts. In earlier attempts to arrive at some sort of cartharis I wrote a song about it. I sent a demo of the song to a friend. A line into the song she goes, “Still this? You should be over it by now.” I didn’t think much of it at the time. But I came to realise that it was about much more than unrequited love, though unrequited love featured prominently in the foreground. The whole experience was pretty straight forward if taken out of context. But in context it meant so much more. It was a story about self-worth and love and identity and a whole slew of bizarre internalised beliefs about the world, the universe and existence itself. It was and is – dare I use an expression I absolutely loathed as a high school student – a ‘coming of age’ tale. (Yes, I’ve become one of those people.) And that is why it makes such compelling subject matter. That is why I want to explore it. I want to be able to send it to friends like that one and say, “This is what was happening – all of it, maybe it will make more sense to you now.”

Even the fact that this is a memoir, that this is about me, is problematic. I realise before I unleash this work upon the world I’m going to have to have some long overdue conversations with people in my life. Although I was hoping I could finish the book, have it printed and then post it to a couple of people as a substitute to having those conversations. Perhaps fleeing the country in the process with no forwarding address. (In case it wasn’t apparent I suck at confrontation.) But, no… In a lot of ways I haven’t been as present in my own life as I would’ve liked. I hope this project, this process, these conversations, are the start of something better, bigger and more honest. I have some genuine doubts about the truth’s ability to ‘set me free’ but I figure there may be fewer pretenses to hold up and that might free up some energy I can then pour into other, more creative, things.

So I guess my conclusion is that I have no option but to work through the static and write this book. I don’t really know how I’m going to do this but I have decided that I will do it. So that at least is an exciting development.

The Blank Page

John Lacey — Mon, 18 May 2009 06:45:46 +0000

John A. Keel, best known for penning The Mothman Prophecies, is undoubtedly my favourite author. In his first book Jadoo he spent time in the Middle East and the Orient, in search of people with odd talents. He covered all manner of tricks and oddities, from snake charmers to devil worshippers and – perhaps most disturbingly – individuals who were mummifying bodies to sell to collectors for trophies and medicine. Most of his books revolve around paranormal themes and ideas, and up until I read The Mothman Prophecies I kind of thought the whole genre was the domain of wild eyed crackpots. I was impressed by the way he presented information. I was impressed by the genuine sympathy he expressed for people. But, more than anything, I was impressed by his voice. It just made a lot of sense to me.

In Jadoo he writes:

There were no jobs to be had in Baghdad; no way to make a dinar (£1). My typewriter collected dust in my hotel room. A few times I shoved a piece of paper into it, but a blank sheet of paper is a frightening, disheartening thing to a would-be writer. I always slapped the cover shut with the paper still blank.

While the technology has changed, the ‘frightening, disheartening’ prospect has not.

I’ve barely brought pen to paper or fingers to keys in relation to my current project Heartbroken and Grieving. Admittedly I was ill for a while, and then I had this sudden need to rearrange everything in the house, but the progress (or lack thereof) is still disappointing. But the thing that really bothers me is the sense of unadulterated terror that enters my mind when I even think about sitting at the new desk in the corner of the room with a couple of blank pages and a pen.

I guess I’m a control freak, and I have really only the vaguest sense of what I am attempting to build here. I think I understand the catalyst for this project, I understand my motivations for doing it but I don’t really understand what form it will take. I just want to delve into the subject matter and explore it and see where I end up. I find myself writing paragraphs and a little voice in the back of my head goes, “I want to write poetry. Let’s write some poetry.” And I guess the takeaway is that it’s better to write something than nothing. The fear is paralysing and the only way around it is to go through it.

But while the blank page is currently my trial, I am also hoping it will be my saviour.

Because if I pause to consider my own burgeoning creativity in high school it had its genesis on blank pages. The library was my retreat and I was filled with all this emotional ‘stuff’. I used to scribble on pages in exercise books really just as a way of channeling the tension of my teenage years. But after a while those scribbles became words, first lyrics to songs I liked and ultimately my own words. I found myself expressing opinions and understandings I didn’t even know I possessed.

I want magic to happen once again. I guess, as Elizabeth Gilbert noted, for us as creative people our responsibility is to show up at the page or canvas or computer.

John Lacey » writer’s block

Bound By The Shame You Won’t Admit To

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