Plotting (in the Shakespeare sense, not the Macbeth)

It is fair to say that my plots often consist of one conceit and not much else, a flaw which often makes putative novels come out at about 1,000 words instead of ten times the amount.

But of course there is a simple solution to this: plot your plots! Instead of seat-of-the-pants running from one word to the next in glorious chaotic creativity, sit down, and decide what is going to happen, to whom, why, and what pointless filler sideplots can be made to serve your original wafer-thin idea.

There is one problem to this approach: that of the dread procrastination. Now, instead of merely delaying writing his future masterpiece ~~(its perpetual incompleteness making it’s sure-fire success unfalsifiable), the author can delay plotting the work he will be spending hours, days, and weeks of prime procrastination time on. Now he can delay the roadmap even before delaying the road; in short he can mirror government transport planning departments everywhere, on only a fraction of the wasted budget, as ink or electricity is cheaper than tarmac. Which wasn’t in my initial plot for this post, as there was none.

Sighing into the wind

What of evocative writing? Is it in itself a thing of beauty, as to make it’s actual contents of secondary import to its own brilliance? Can a writer craft words into an edifice so dazzling, so pleasing on eye and ear and mind that the reader is enthralled even as very little is imparted?

One may ask this question, and never find an answer. Shakespeare – for all his presenting elevates the plots that others used themselves, still uses plots of worth. Dickens, a master wordsmith, was master of the plot as well; and as master of characterisation he excels his skills in those other fields. Perhaps one can argue that the lack of brilliant prose with little content but fame is proof in itself; however can one really expect that there are in fact such cases? Perhaps one skilled in the deployment of language is likewise a man who can lay out plot and character with style and grace. There is only one way to confirm: to write a work deliberately empty of all but wordcraft; but who that is capable of both would wish to do but one? These are my thoughts, and these are where I end, my own opinion set but unsaid.

What do you dear reader think?

Ideas

There is only one cast-iron guaranteed way not to run out of ideas, and that is not to have any in the first place. However, short of being born pre-lobotomised this is not really a feasible approach, and so those parts of humanity which like to worry about such things has not had any need to worry about lacking a need to worry. And those people who enjoy worrying about a lack of ideas the most are those in the so-called creative industries, and those facing immediate death.

Now you may say that writer’s block is not as serious as having come to a blank as the water level exceeds the height of your nostrils, but on careful reflection you will note that only the former is going to be a genuine long-term problem. A painter without a muse is pretty much bereft (although the scent of money is sufficient muse for all but the most pure of purists) of all purpose in life. A man who has failed to distract the firing squad is just bereft of life.

This of course leads us to that most thorny of problems: if a writer with writer’s block can just write about writer’s block, is writer’s block really a block? And why isn’t writer’s block the most written upon subject? Is it because the sufferers lack even the most basic of ideas, or is it because procrastination is the real diagnosis?

In truth, I have no idea.

Sleepy

There’s a place where the mind sometimes wanders when it wishes to switch off and it’s owner has different ideas. This place, which for want of a better word we shall call ‘Sleepy’, is one of wonder and surprise; a place where ones openness to the surreal and absurd is enhanced and where driving is a huge no-no. In short, it is the perfect place to be writing from.

It is hard to procrastinate when you are not really aware that you are writing, and it is harder still to be critical of what you are only vaguely aware of. This means that Sleepy is the ideal place for an author to be, and one to which we wish we can travel at will.

But alas! life is rarely that simple. All too often the ruthlessness of coffee, sheer exhaustion or plain bad luck comes in between our consciousness entering this magical state. And then, with a sigh or a snore, we go onwards without committing anything to paper, and can but hope for another…

Thinking for two

It’s hard to do the thinking for someone else, and even harder when they consistently refuse to aid or abet their assister in any way, shape or form. Thus people tend not to think, since people tend not to think.

This general fact leads to massive levels of default doing, as humans – bumbling like vegetarian zombies – move along through life not really thinking things through, but generally refraining from eating brains. Perhaps that’s because deep down they are scared of them.

However every now again someone comes along who not only thinks, but thinks for two. These people are rare gems, men or women who – out of the kindness of their heart – think, and think on another’s behalf. sometimes the lucky near-zombie is even grateful that his or her thoughts are being handled by another, but most of the time their is low-level resentment or bland obliviousness. Their is a moral in this somewhere, but as my designated thinker is away it will have to wait for another time.

Authors, recognition and desperate free givaways.

Author’s love recognition from their, almost as much as they love making money from it. Cynics may say that is because they see recognition as a way of getting more money from their work, but well, cynics do have this annoying habit of being right, or almost right. For Pride (capitalised, as pride has to be Proud) is something almost as good as money – perhaps due to that swelling feeling that it engenders, making one full, like eating.

Regardless, of this, desperation desire to garner positive reviews is a good enough reason to make – for a few days, when I can – many of my ebooks free – and, as now is such a time, for five days you too can enjoy my wonderful writings (they must be good if I’m resorting to giving them away for nothing) at no damage to your wallet.

So, why not download, read, and if you enjoy the scribbled musings (or what to see how far my ego can inflate before it explodes like a whale stuffed with dynamite and FOOF) give it a positive review. I’m sure I’ll read it obsessively.

The UK Link, for those interested: : https://www.amazon.co.uk/Severely-Odd/e/B00OB4006U/

Writers Block

It’s a bit like this,

Welcome to the world

“Welcome to the world. we hope you will enjoy your stay, but if you don’t we will happily give you a refund. To the left you will see the bottomless pits of despair, which can also been seen on the right. Beyond that there is little else worth seeing; a little smidgen of joy which has escaped the joy-snuffers perhaps; however you wouldn’t want to see that.

The main inhabitants are grossly deformed four-appendaged beings of uncertain temperament. They certainly have been killing a lot lately, as you will have noticed when the last three of our party disappeared in a rather unfetching red mist. This is somewhat of a recent advance over their former make-holes-in-it-until you’ve-broken-enough approach. Refunds can also be claimed by next of kin, incidentally.

I hate it when they get the whole group. “

Editing

Sometimes, a thing you write needs a really good edit, cutting away all the extraneous stuff that’s just in there to bulk it up.

Dribbing and Drabbing

The great oddness with trying to write is the subjects will just not come all too often. With this sad fact, it is to be acknowledged that it often comes in dribs and drabs, and at that often rather drab dribs.

Take the inspiring idea of a megalomaniac eggplant. Why this wonderful basis for a novel has not previously occurred to me is a mystery; one that perhaps only the scanty plot details and potential word-count can answer. But surely Tolstoy would not have been stumped by such a prospect? Look at the length of War and Peace – if half of that great tome is about peace he’s literally written thousand of words about nothing. The other half – no doubt full of mutilations, atom-bombs and other such enjoyable subjects – being something even the most pedestrian of authors can write about, albeit with more exclamation marks. But I digress, and this drib is over.