(Edited Reprint) Writer's Block: Is It As Big a Deal As Media Makes It Out to Be?

Working through a copywriting course and it suggested I edit one of my old blog posts in an effort to make it better quality copy. So I ran it through a couple of internet things, specifically Hemingway and a headline analyzer, and this is the result.

Saw a discussion about writer's block on a page and someone made an interesting point. They said things like: "there's no such thing as writer's block; you're expecting what you write to be perfect". And I started thinking. 

 First off, I don't agree that writer's block isn't a thing, or is an excuse to not write. Well, for some it can be an excuse to not write, but I digress. I had a case of writer’s block for about 20 years, from roughly 1991/92 til 2012. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to write; believe me, I wanted to.

It was because I didn’t have anything to write about. Hell, in ’91, I was six. What the hell does a six year old have to write about? So yeah, I dealt with a block until twenty years of reading and life experience coalesced into a story. Then another. And another, ad nauseum.

Wow, I told that story and got no closer to my point. Writer’s block can take the form of worry; worrying that you’re not a good enough writer to get through that book or story. Or that you shouldn’t put anything more complicated on paper than “Milk, eggs, bread, pick up dry cleaning”. Every writer has these thoughts; any one of my friends can attest to the fact that I’ve had them.

But here’s the thing: you have to let go of these worries and get the words on the page. It’s ok to write complete garbage. Editing can fix problems with garbage writing, and sometimes, it sells as is. There’s no accounting for taste, after all.

The real question is this: Why do writers seem to think that we have to write perfect right off the bat? No practitioner of any other art form thinks this way. No painter thinks he’ll be able to replicate Rembrandt the first time he picks up a brush. No musician thinks that he’ll be a virtuoso as soon as he picks up the instrument. Why are writers so dead set on perfection the first time out of the gate?

It’s because writing is such an important part of our society, of how it functions, that it should be easy. We learn how to write at an early age: first the shapes of letters, then of words, marching ever onward to literacy. Because we learn so early, it's natural to think “hey, writing’s not that hard. I could write a book without much trouble.” And we’re wrong. It’s a difficult thing, telling stories and putting them on paper.

Don’t get me wrong, there are people for whom these things are easy. But for most of us, it is difficult, especially if you want to make money from your writing. So give yourself permission to write shitty scenes, wooden dialogue, asinine plots. Some things editing can fix, some it can’t. Think of that garbage as practice. And remember what your first grade teacher said: Practice makes perfect.

For those who want to compare this and the original, it was posted on June 22, 2016.

A Helping Hand (UPDATED VERSION)

Sending this one off to Writer's Digest for their Short Short Competition.

A Helping Hand

“So how long have you been able to see spirits?” Liz asked. She was Max’s type: redheaded, long-legged and, well, female. Max wasn’t too picky.

He looked down into his beer, appearing to think it over. “For as long as I can remember.” He paused long enough to take a swallow out of the glass. “D’you know what all those medium shows never tell you?”

Liz shook her head.

“They never tell you what a pain in the ass ghosts can be.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you have kids?”

She shook her head again.

“Let me paint you a picture: Mom’s in the bathroom, doing her makeup or whatever. And her kid’s looking under the door and calling, ‘Are you in there?’”

She laughed. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one.”

“Okay, now imagine that, except the tosser walks right through the door. There’s no peace once they know you can see them.”

“Stop noticing them then?”

Max drained his beer. “Do you know how hard that is? Everybody around is ignoring them, so I'm all but guaranteed to look. Once that’s happened, they’re stuck on me like glue.”

“Is it so bad? You help them out and they go away, right?”

“It’s not always that easy,” he said. “For instance,” he reached across the table and laid his hand on her arm. It passed straight through, leaving his hand flat on the table and feeling as if he’d dunked it in ice water. “Some spirits don’t know they’re dead.”

***

“She was a regular when she was alive,” the bartender told Max, passing a picture over the bar.

Max looked at the woman. “Nice-looking,” he said. “This is amazing spirit photography, too.”

“She’s still alive in this photo. I snapped it an hour before she died.”

“She died here? What happened?”

“I don’t know the details. From what I gathered, she learned that her boyfriend was cheating on her. One of the first responders came back a couple of days after it happened and I asked him about it. I guess she had a heart condition that she didn’t know about, and the stress of her personal issue, plus all the alcohol…”

“It gave out,” Max finished.

The bartender nodded.

“So did she come back right away?”

“No,” the bartender said. “Last Halloween, a couple of regulars set up a Ouija board at her regular table.” He nodded at the roped-off corner table.

That was all Max needed, and he said so before quoting the bartender the price of his services. The bartender agreed, and Max took a table. He spent the rest of the day waiting, until Liz’s ghost appeared outside of the ladies’ restroom. She walked across the bar and sat down at the roped off table, where Max joined her.

***

Liz stared at Max’s hand, still in the middle of her arm.

“I didn’t know,” she whispered before wailing in despair. Her emotion was strong enough that everyone in the pub shivered.

“So what do you want?” Max asked.

“I didn’t even know I was dead.”

“Common enough,” Max said. “Most of you don’t know you’ve died until a medium tells them.”

“Aren’t you supposed to help me now, like, with my unfinished business?”

“You want help, you need to help yourself. I asked you what you want, and you didn’t know. You must want something since you haven’t gone to the light yet.” He removed his hand from her arm and rubbed it to warm it back up. “What were you thinking about before I caught on that you’re dead?”

She hung her head. “I was thinking about taking you home and screwing your socks off,” she said.

“Sorry love, I prefer my ladies breathing,” Max replied. “Wait, your place or mine?”

“Mine,” she said, sighing.

“So you know where that is?”

She looked away, eyes confused. After a moment, she answered. “No.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Was it nearby? Did you come here when you were alive?”

“I worked down the street and I was in here every night for a couple of beers before heading home.”

“I see,” Max said, nodding. “And did you make a habit of taking someone home with you?”

Liz looked down at her hands, and he knew that if she were alive, she would be blushing.

“Sometimes.”

“Likely you walked home,” Max mused, “so it must not be very far. Come on,” he said, getting to his feet.

“Why?”

“I’m taking you home.”

He pushed through the pub’s door and let it swing shut behind him, passing right through Liz.

“HEY! You could’ve held the door for me!”

“Sorry, you lost that privilege when you died,” he said.

She huffed, but fell into step behind him.

“Any of this look familiar?” Max asked as they walked.

Liz looked around, then her eyes lit up. “YES! I used to get coffee at that shop!”

Max started to say something, but she took off, a lady-shaped streak of fog bulleting past him. He stopped, hands in his jeans pockets, and thought about going back to the bar.

He found her standing in front of a small brick cottage with white trim and a picket fence.

“Piece of the American dream right here,” Max muttered under his breath.

“It was my dream home,” she said. “Jesse was my ideal guy, too.”

She put her head in her hands and wept. “He’s still here. I saw him through the window.”

“Why don’t you go in? Seeing him might give you the closure you need to move on.”

Liz nodded and went inside, passing through the door.

Max leaned against a nearby tree, took out his pocket knife and began cleaning his nails with the tip. He waited, patient as grim old Death. When the shriek resounded through the neighborhood, Max pocketed the knife. He pushed off the tree and walked back towards the house as Liz passed through the door again.

“He’s screwing Bethany!” Liz shrieked.

“Who?” Max asked, trying to look innocent.

“My best friend! She’s up there riding him like a bull!”

“Well, you were up to shagging me,” Max pointed out. “How can you be mad at him for getting his jollies with your girlfriend, especially now you’re dead?” Max asked. “Besides, it could have started as them comforting each other after your passing.”

She shook her head. “I touched them both, trying to pull her off him, and saw their memories. They were doing it for months before I died.” She stopped as memories came back to her. “And I found out about it. That’s when I died. I was going to confront them both about it, but drank myself into a stupor instead. It was alcohol poisoning.” As she spoke, Max could almost see the memories click into place. She also started looking less like a woman, and more like a shadow with glowing red eyes.

Max knew she hadn’t died of alcohol poisoning, but didn’t correct her. “Well, you know everything now,” he said. “Do you see the light?”

“No! I’m not going anywhere until that asshole is as miserable as I am!” Her voice had taken on a demonic tone and Max backed away a step or two.

The entity that had been Liz turned on her heel and stormed back to the house. Max went back to the tree, and a few seconds later the noise began. Crashes, bangs and screams resounded from the house as she tore it to pieces. A dark-haired young man ran out of the house, followed by a young blonde wrapped in a sheet. A tea kettle flew through the door behind them, thrown by the now demonic Liz.

“Sounds like you have a problem in there, Jesse,” Max said, still leaning against the tree. “Sounds like an ex takes issue with your new girl.”

“Who are you? How do you know my name?” Jesse asked.

“I know lots of things, mate.”

“Then you know Lizzie’s dead. There’s no way she’s causing this.”

“As a matter of fact, I do know she’s dead,” Max said.

“Who are you? How do you know about Lizzie?”

“I was taking a stroll nearby, trying to clear my head and saw her looking in your window. Thought she was a standard peeper, but then she went through the door. Then the banging and screaming started.” Max shoved off of the tree and withdrew a business card from his wallet. He handed it to the young man. “You don’t need the cop, you need me.”

“What’s this?” The kid looked at the card. “Max Prince, professional exorcist?”

Max smiled, reflecting that two paydays were as good as one. “That’s me.”

New short story

So this is a new thing I bashed out today. It's a riff on an idea my and I were talking about, based on how gods seem to work in Neil Gaiman's American Gods.

The god sits alone, unseen, his head in his hands. He believes his time is finally over; perhaps he’ll be able to join his beloved wife in oblivion soon. She’s the reason anyone remembered him after his mortal death. She is how he came to be a god in the first place. His powers have dwindled to almost nothing over the centuries; nobody remembers him except historians. To the common people, the people he worked so tirelessly for, he is just another face in a portrait. Even now, powers unknown to him work to remove the commonly known portrait of him from its place. It would revoke the last bit of worship he gets from the people.

He looks up. He’s haggard, starved. It doesn’t matter. He starved as a child, starved as a man. He can starve as a god. He hates that he will go out like this, his voice silenced, his restless pen stilled. He sits, waiting, not knowing what he’s waiting for.

A man passes him, and the god feels a sudden burst of energy, like he hasn’t felt since his wife’s passing. He jumps to his feet and follows the man, still unseen, through the streets. The man is a writer, not unlike the god in his mortal life, but this man specializes in song. The burst of energy the god felt is still continuing, flowing from the man like water from a spring, and the god realizes the songwriter is thinking about him. The god follows his new wellspring of energy home, and waits patiently for the man to fall asleep.

When the songwriter, whom the god thinks of as “the Poet”, falls asleep, the god sits by his bed and tells his story. He tells of his childhood: rough and unforgiving. He tells of the war in his early manhood. He tells the Poet everything, good and bad. The memories have the quality of dreams upon waking. He isn’t sure they’re his memories or not, but he talks nevertheless.

The telling takes several nights, but the god gets stronger with the telling and feels better afterward. He stays in the Poet’s home, using his meager powers to aid him whenever possible.

This is a tolerable existence for me, the god thinks. Perhaps I can stay like this, aiding the Poet and his offspring as I can.

Years pass. The god feels himself growing stronger, but is uncertain as to why. Then something new happens. The god feels the power of hundreds praising him, remembering and knowing his name. The power grows; hundreds, thousands, millions of people praising him. One day, the god looks at himself and sees the young man he was on his wedding day. Suddenly, the god finds himself anxious for the holiday he shares with his former friends.

The holiday sacred to the god and his kin, July 4, dawns. They gather together amidst the fireworks, so like the cannons the god “acquired” from the enemy during the war. He smiles at the memory. None of the others recognize him until the General arrives. The General approaches his old friend.

“About time, Tomcat.”

A pair of thrones appear, and the god assumes his old place at the General’s right hand.

Another god appears, a rival in life and in the afterlife. He stares at the General and his companion in disbelief. He’s been working for years to destroy the man before him.

The General smiles. “Mr. Jefferson? Is something wrong?”

Jefferson glares at his rival, sitting in the seat he’s been occupying every year for the past two centuries.

“I thought they forgot your name,” Jefferson says.

“They remembered,” the god says. “I remembered.”

And in the voice of the millions who’d praised him, the millions who’d sung along to the Poet’s songs, the millions who now knew his name, the god sang five words.

“My name is Alexander Hamilton.”