Eric Staggs: Writer

My crack pipe is digital and fibrous and reflects light, a trillion tiny messages packed up neat as you like and shot-thought out, across space and time. My crackpipe comes in flavors, blue and white lasers, reticulated star-gazers and the cost is steep. The High Animal, ribald in his hopes for godlessness, sweats and shits in a mirrored landscape, scurries for shelter, without God we’ve just Mommies Little Helper.

She pulled a hit from the swirled-glass creation, the acrid chemical smoke drifting lazily from her upper lip, curling around, obscuring a tiny mole before sneaking into her nostril to run through her pulmonary system again. Each pass the smoke grew weaker, thinner, as her body absorbed it instead of precious air.  Eyes half open, once pale-blue now blazed a noxious red. Her ears rang.

It was a painful need, that nagging desire always in the back of her mind, always chewing away at her dreams and goals, a dull blade knocking chips, spark and all, from so fragile self-respect.

As the pain receded and she slunk back into the warm arms of Forget, she was betrayed by her eyes and a tear fell.

My crackpipe has grown, transformed over the years, from simple knowledge to data to rampant seething, patterns. The crack pipe shattered and shivered when knowledge wasn’t enough. The patterns began to go wild, expanding and growing growing like interlaced vines. A fractal that cannot be mastered, cannot be wholly viewed in instant. As she wished for the pattern, I wished for the smoke.

The moon was spying on me, watching me through my little window. The sky was blue and the winter moon was a clear three-quarter full. The only other thing visible from my high window was a massive pine. It was like and angry watcher, its branches fracturing the afternoon blue of the sky.

The moon watched as I devoured a Nutroll, the nuts cracking and shattering as I chomped, crumbs piling around me, landing on the slick surface of my grim obsidian desk.

I hunkered down and she crept up higher in the sky to keep eyes on what I was doing. I devoured the candy.  The salt from the Nutroll was making me lick my lips. The goo in the center of the candy bar was sticking in my teeth and I was moving my mouth and cheeks in an effort to dislodge the tooth decayer. But I couldn’t give up the salt, so both efforts, the salt removal and the sticky candy-goo removal took twice as long.

The moon watched while I feasted like a dog.

I found myself repeating “what a beautiful film” to everyone who asked me what I thought. And it was. It was stunning. We’ve been spoiled by special effects in the last ten years. We’ve seen superheroes come to life, mighty starships free themselves of the confining wires and cameras on dollies, make effects have been completely replaced by 100% digital effects.

Some hardcore film folk will suggest this is the down fall of cinema, the day the actor and director no longer interface is that day we’re all watching cartoons written my mad children.

And I would tend to agree. Jar-Jar Binks is my primary evidence.

But Avatar, all three hours of it, was something special. The plot itself was simple – to quote my uncle “a child could have written it,” and that’s okay. Most of the best stories are those that we all understand on a primal level. This film was nothing more complicated than Dances With Wolves in space. Which is okay too, since Alien was Jaws in Space and Attack of the Clones was just Star Wars in space (that last one was a joke).

The plot, essentially runs like this – Marine agent goes native. Saves people. Aside from the spectacular setting, there was nothing new or interesting about the story itself. Ancient as the plot may have been, it resonates with audiences because of some very simple and all too human elements: loss.

A sub-textual critique of the plight of Native American peoples can easily be read into Cameron’s somewhat heavy-handed action flick, but the secondary plot thread is entirely unnecessary.

I was disappointed to see that Cameron’s treat of space marines has changed little since the days of Aliens – the jarheads are mostly without conscience and still even talk the same. “Get some!” seems to be a common phrase in all centuries of Jim Cameron’s military vision. While I find his view of our own warrior caste somewhat two dimensional, I must applaud is continued use of powered armor.

Plausibility was kept at an all time high for a sci-fi action flick, and lord in heaven, this was a beautiful film. Simply gorgeous to look at.

I won’t comment on the acting. Sigourney Weaver is a professional who simply cannot deliver a poor performance. Our hero did most of his work in voice over mode, as well as the love interest. Michele Rodriguez (of Resident Evil fame) is sassy and sharp, but her character was a combination of Vasquez and Ferro from Aliens (can Jim never leave LV-426 behind?)

As a writer, you hate to bash another writer’s work. You always want to try to find something positive to say about it. In college, when doing peer readings, hyper-critical as I am, I found myself not saying much. One of my favorite professors said “You’ve a great integrity about you when comment…”

I think she meant that I didn’t just spout off for a grade like the other students. The truth was, I seldom had anything good to say.

Tim Waggoner’s Thieves of Blood: Blade of the Flame read’s like an introductory page from a Dungeons and Dragon’s Gaming book. The exposition nearly bowls a person over, and the character archetypes offer nothing new to readers.

That said, if this book is classed as young adult fiction, or used as the marketing piece it was obviously intended to be, it’s a total success. Those not familiar with the Eberron campaign setting will find the book enlightening. Another refreshing aspect of Waggoner’s approach is his general lack of an “origins” story. He simply starts in with two pre-existing characters and allows their histories, though somewhat two-dimensional they may be, to unfold naturally for the reader.

Another thing the writer’s done here, which I appreciate greatly, is create a literary adventure, a time filler for young adults, that needs neither electricity or software.

B+

I get a lot of searching on my website for the “steeple chase.” Admittedly, by the time I was taking advanced fiction or advanced ii, I was so jaded that the very idea of the steeple chase seemed like a cop out- rather than practice follow through with plots and themes, rather than begin training for that trial of endurance that is necessary for all novelists, the steeple-chase was a cheap way to get burgeoning authors to move their dreadful plots forward.

So many times in classes I heard “When does the story end?” or “When should I begin a new chapter?” Signing inwardly, I always listened patiently to the answer – invariably – “when you feel it.”

I think a more accurate answer would have been “when there is nothing more to say.” This, in my opinion is the heart of the steeple-chase technique. As writers we all get stuck, write ourselves into a corner, or just get blocked. The steeple-chase, named for god knows what, allows an author to easily leap forward or backward in time, across geographic boundaries or into the head of a new character.

In essence, a new paragraph or chapter need not follow in sequential, logical time. Using the “what happens next” method and literally, tossing it into the air, to see how it lands – that’s the Steeple-chase.

Personally, I skinked through my junior and senior years and advanced fiction courses without ever turning in a steeple chase – I think the professor was feeling the apathetic burn out from a room full of graduating seniors – and just didn’t give a damn.

Since then, however, I’ve used the technique many times. Not only does it help advance your plot, but it frees the author of the mundane goings on in a characters life and advances the story to the next critical moment. No need to write about how when Molly got home from the hospital she made some tea. No need to point out how she was so exhausted she rummaged through her tea box, a wooden container with intricate designed carved into the wood, a gift from her grandmother when she first moved out on her own, and couldn’t decide between Chamomile and Earl Grey.

Unless, it advances the plot. It might be argued that that little blurb of fluff is “characterization,” but again, that characterization should be linked intrinsically to the story you’re trying to tell.

The tea-box takes on significance if it was Molly’s grandmother in the hospital.

Then, steeple-chase it right to the funeral – since we all know Molly Grandmother is doomed, otherwise why the momentary reflection on the tea-box – move the plot forward.

A poisoned oasis that served only gold water that burned.

Wrecked cars and dust on my boots, me with nowhere to know, knowing everyplace I could go. I just sat there, in the heat, a lizard on a rock. Dust in the distance and divine chemistry, making things to put in my body, feeling hurtful things, animals of silicone and microscopic proportion. They waged the war I waged, against all things from the Outside. These nanite-antibodies reinforced walls and made things strong, things that should fall were kept up high.

My eyes watered in the flying dust, and adjusted the level of silicone lubricant released by my new hitatchi tear ducts. I blinked twice and received the internal report “foreign body removed“. I laughed at the irony of this and moved towards the car I hadn’t seen pull up.

It was grim and that magic red color, covered in a skin of dust and a sheen of diesel sweat. It was crouched like a hunting cat. My eyes traced its contours and I blushed like a boy seeing a nude woman for the first time. My mouth watered at the thought of plugging in and letting my soul caress its controls, the hard leather and a twice coiled fly-by-impulse preaction-pre-response computer. I wondered what it called itself.

Then out of the car stepped its master, mistress, monster. Nine feet tall and the earth cracked as she stepped across it. She burned the ground, stole its water and left glass footprints in the sand.

“That yours?” I asked, thinking it might be right proper for me to vent this monster bitch and take those wheels. That was our way out here, at Gold Water Oasis. She must know it, other wise she wouldn’t be out here, out this far.

“No.” Her voice was low and thick, clear, over the racing wind.

“Looking to trade?”

“No, it’s a gift.”

“For who?”

“You, of course.”

I slowly moved my hand towards my gun. No one gives out at the Oasis.

“I don’t think that’s right. I don’t know you.”

“Course not. But I know you. You’ve been dreaming about a car the color of a dying sun. This is the car. This is the one.”

I studied her. No weapons. Just those eyes, fairly crackling with power. She stepped closer, the earth groaned and I tensed.

“No need for violence, manling. Take this gift and drive, off into your precious desert. Out where you are alone, where your mind means nothing and your only definition is your actions. You do like to act, yes? You’re one of those, those few who do and not say…”

The sky was cloudy, unusual for a hot day. The sun cut a hole in the silky veil and sent a column of light down, just for me.

“But your actions cost you don’t they?” She studied me, her unnatural eyes, locked mine, then glanced down to my new arm, the steel and myomer miracle.

“You’ve already paid your price. Drive.”

She threw the keys, then, shining silver things, fast and hard. My right arm flew up to grasp them, my false arm drew my pistol and in that nanosecond my Hitatchis took to reset the vision frame, the she-demon was gone. I looked at the keys. They were just keys. Three silver things, flat, un-marked.

I walked over to the car. Got in. The inside was cramped and soft and I barely fit. There was no way the giant-demon-woman could have driven this car.

I pulled the neuro-lead from the dash and slid it into third slot on back of my false wrist. Red runes flashed across my eyes, ancient runes, esoteric messages only I could see, only I could understand.

“She’s no demon, child. She is Athena.” The car said, when my mind tried to touch it. The voice was feminine, but clipped, reserved.

“The goddess?” I queried.

“The same.”

“And why is she giving me a car?”

“Not a car. I am The Car. I am motion and grace and love. I am happiness and joy. I am that fleeting moment all men dream of. The control of a wild thing, the tame shrew. I am power un-earned.”

I failed to understand. I said so.        

“I am the car the color of the dying sun. I am your dream.”

“I’m dreaming now.”

“More often than not.”

I pushed the keys into her and turned them gently. The tumblers rolled and soothed and the ignition fired and there was a great release, I felt it in my mind, then the steady rhythm. Perhaps this thing was joy, was bliss. The bliss of motion. My mind rolled backwards to those long dead days, with runners, and horses, and chariots. The race. The run.

“Why me?” I asked.

“Why not?”

“That’s a stupid answer.” I gently rubbed the throttle with my mind.

“It’s an answer.” She started, a roar, then a purr.

“Give me a better one.”

“You are doomed to do. You are damned to believe.” She said, as I put her in reverse and turned the wheel. She thought for a half nanosecond about arguing with me, I felt it in her throat, she thought better of it, I guess.

“So she gave me a car?”

“The Car. But yes, more or less, that’s the big and small of it.”

Forward, we raced, through the desert away from the new night and the golden oasis. The roads were hard and black. Bleak angry things, the yellow was faded, the streaking line almost gone. Time and sun cracked the roads, ruptured them, twisting them upwards and inwards, leaving them… broken.

“What shall I call you?” I asked the car.

“Whatever you like.”

“Am I in her debt? Am I her servant now?”

“You always have been.”

“Is it her way to recruit unwilling servants with bribes?”

“How do you know you are unwilling? She’s not asked anything of you yet, manling.”

“How will I know what she would have of me?”

“How does any believer know what their god wishes of them?”

“Oracles. Priests.”

“Perhaps we should see the Oracle. Or even a priest.”

“I’ve got little use for those types.”

“As does Athena. But they have their role, like you do yours.”

“You’re quite knowledgeable for a car.”

“I am The Car. You may call me Pacifica.”

“Okay, Pacifica, how is it you know so much?”

“I was forged on Olympus, by Hephaestus, crafted piece by piece, by the God-Artificer himself.”

“Huh.”

“Like you.”

“What?”

“You are merely an instrument of the Gods as well. Your arm, your eyes, machines, of course made by man, but who gave them that knowledge? Who cut your meat-flesh from the hard earth? Who programmed your codes? Who made it possible for you to exist? Are you not the ultimate example of divine machinery?”

I thought on that for a hard minute, while I did so, I pushed Pacifica hard, and she smirked at me in my mind, we traveled across the hard baked sands and failing concrete paths at scathing speeds, out, here, alone. Then.

“I see your point, Pacifica. But I am a…ah, far removed from divinity.”

“Yes.”

“And you are not.”

“I am not holy. I am crafted by holy fingers.”

“And you seem to know everything.”

“I know much that is not known, yes, but far from everything.”

“What happens when we find the ocean?”

“We will have to stop.” She said, with out humor.

“I have… a… destiny?”

“All things do. Few recognize them. Few fulfill them.”

“But the world is wrecked, and I think I’m mad.”

“Both of these things are true. But you also believe.”

And then we reached the ocean,  many hours later, Pacifica and I. We stopped and she asked me if I was “Well”

“Of course.” I lied to her.

The ocean was deep and vast and dark, briny and cold. I scanned the horizon with my Hitatchi eyes and saw not one sail, not one ship.

Pacifica then spoke to me. “It is as Athena said. The world is dead or dying and you are mad.”

“Then why take me here with your brutal haste and loving speed? Could I not have remained mad at my Gold Water Oasis?”

“Ah, but that is it, child, remained…”

“Yes, so, what of it? Let me guess… a lecture on confidence and change, and the self evolution event that so few of us are allowed to participate in? More of your god-forged psycho-babble…”

“Do you deny that change forces us to grow?” The car was mocking me.

There were bleak mountains in the distance and I considered driving her from the cliff. Damn her divine artificers! We’d see if she was holy or not…

“You’re thoughts turn dark, but for no good reason. I am yours to do with as you please. To destroy me would be… wasteful, but I will not stop you.”

“Let me suppose then, on your mechanical life, that it is not my destiny to do so, is it?”

“You suppose correctly, manling.”

“What is destiny?”

“It is that thing the gods said you must do, written in heaven when you were named from above, you take the name of….” the car paused in its speech. I turned to the ocean and there saw three ships, sails red and full.

“… you take the name of eternity, thus you shall always be. You, of all shall be plagued and hounded and forced and coerced and ridden and railed. But you shall then rally and redouble and doubt not and stay your hand when all works to force it, you shall force your hand when all works to stay it. You, manling, are paradox, like all your brothers and sisters.”

“You speak in riddles, Car the Color of a Dying Sun.”

“You make riddles from truths. All mankind does this thing. That is why your world is laid waste and the gods taunt you with smart ass machines like myself.”

“I am truly mad.”

“And always have been.”

I turned to the sea again. Ships now, full sails and ominous.

“Those ships…”

“Yes,” Pacificia answered before I asked. “Heralds of change. Things you cannot understand. God-loving priests with great machines and little madness.”

“Then they are those who escaped our destruction?”

“Are there any who could escape you, oh eternal paradox?”

“Some. Many.”

“Fewer than you think. But come. Let us off to the south, to the dryer lands and cleaner roads.”

“To what end? To just drive through time and space?”

“What else would a madman do?”

“I am confused.” I sat in the car and plugged in, touching its mind with mine. We started off, slow, then fast, faster yet and with a bright sun easing its way low, we scorched another lonely highway.

“You are not confused. You never have been. You are simply mad.”

“I don’t understand…” I shook my head, fearful, trying to understand this great machine I’d been given. I looked to the skies for signs from Olympus, I looked to the sea on right for signs from Below. I fell backwards into my neural processor and ran through patterns and systems, control specs and maintenance routines, anything and everything, looking for logic, looking for patterns. I found none. None until I turned my mind to the mind of the Car. It showed me a great a pattern. It was a pattern older than memory, mine, at least. It was carved in the very earth and it crossed every continent, every land, every place, every town, every city. I calmed then and followed the pattern.

I let my mind fly along its designs and I realized, I was on this pattern, a part of it.

“It is a testament to the grandiose designs of man, his ambition to dominate the world. His unwillingness to live with it, his desire to live above it.”

“It’s beautiful…” I breathed.

“It’s dangerous.” said Pacifica.

“It’s finally here! The December 2008 Issue of Tales of the Talisman! The folks atTotT were kind enough to publish one of my short stories, the unexpectedly prolific Space Whales. So click here to visit their website and order a copy today.

Space Whales is the original story of a down-and-out punk rocker who joins forces with an irascible and mysterious nun to stop an invasion of… well, Space Whales. Between the slacker’s lack of motivation and the nun’s penchant for imported beer, who knows how this will end up?

While your ordering, be sure to check out some of the TotT back issues, each one packed to the brim with fantastic fiction, futuristic idea-scapes and of course, brilliant prose.”

 

The world is filled with people who like to snipe and jab at things. Hell, I like to do it too. Makes us feel good, no? But to be taken seriously as a writing resource, to become a trusted confidant of composition and prose, you’ve got to be able to say “this sucks” without saying “this sucks.”

I recently posted an old story on an online writing community, partially for feedback and partially just to make a post. Within five minutes, I had a young whipper-snapper tearing into my story, for everything from choice of words, to scene change. She criticisms were not wholly incorrect, but her method of delivery was inappropriate in the extreme. Had she been in my class, I would have asked her to step outside.

The piece was raw, no doubt. But, and I can’t stress this enough, punctuation and grammar, should be the least of every authors worries. It’s not a mater of caring about your audience. It’s about the story. Your writing is about the words, the actions, the moments, the mythology you weave from your own imagination. Punctuation is a thing for machines and robots, the patterns of linguistics are the author’s playground, not his science test. Grammar is for software and grim-over-the-hill English teachers who still have their first and only rejection slip tucked away in the only manuscript they ever finished, somewhere in their basement, underneath their kid’s forgotten childhood toys.

In college I participated in hundreds (possibly thousands) of writing critiques (not to mention the brutal fine arts critiques). It took me some time, but eventually, I realized it’s more than just saying what you don’t like. That’s called criticism. A critique is an assessment based on intent. Did you intent to make the narrator a jerk? Did you intend to confuse the audience? Did you intend to make your characters likeable? Success of art is based on intent. You know, “Draw me a tree and impress me.”

Unfortunately, I’m also one of those people who don’t believe in the subjectivity of art. We break down the elements of any piece of art and judge them separately. Composition, line quality, balance, color, et cetera. We do the same with film – direction, cinematography, acting, production design and plot. Finally, we (should) do the same with prose. Writing should be judged on plot, characters, pacing, turn of phrase, originality and emotional response. During a critique, pointing out that you don’t like a word choice is almost as pointless as honking your horn at someone who cut you off in traffic: it only makes you feel better. However, pointing out a pacing or plausibility issue is incredibly valid.

When offering critique keep the following in mind:

1. You are probably not the audience.
I worked for as a web designer for years. One boss in particular hated yellow. While I agreed with him on a philosophical level, often yellow was the most appropriate color for any given design (light-hearted, energy, positive, et cetera). But he hated yellow. See where I’m going? Just because I hate reading drama doesn’t mean all drama is bad. Just because I’m not religious doesn’t mean all stories about religion are bad. Just because I couldn’t care less about football doesn’t mean all football movies are bad. To critique properly, you must remove yourself from yourself, and become a neutral audience.

2. When in doubt, go with the basics.
It’s often hard to find something positive or even constructive to say, especially if the piece really stinks. But, you have to, otherwise you shouldn’t be critiquing. So, drop back to the basics. Talk about the character or plot. Ask about their motivations. Ask about the antagonists. Ask about what the intent of the piece was! All authors love to talk about their work. In class, getting a fellow writer to talk about his piece takes the burden from you. Give the ball back and listen. You’ll often find something worth hearing.

3. Be wishy-washy
Seriously, and without a doubt. Use words like “maybe” and “what-if”. Hell, toss in a “how about” and you’re golden. Remember, your purpose isn’t to tell the author what you hated. It’s to get them thinking about their writing in a different way. Consider:

“Your word choice is emotionless and simplistic.”
vs.
“For me, sometimes I felt I was stumbling over the sentences.”
“Sometimes I felt the words weren’t strong enough for the moment.”

Remember, the differences between “I” and “You” are sometimes the only differences between “You suck” and “your story needs work.” In a critique scenario, directness offends. If you find an artist that doesn’t bristle at the brutal judgment of a “common mind,” then you’ve found a true professional.

4. Guide your audience.
I don’t think there’s an author out there who expects 100% positive feedback. But on the other hand, we do tend to think more of our work than perhaps the average joe. So make it easy on your audience. Point out some trouble spots you’ve already identified and ask for guidance there. That allows your critiquing audience a place to focus, it alleviates the shock of newly discovered weaknesses in your story, and it says plainly “I know it’s not perfect, so you don’t need to eviscerate me.”

Remember, the point of a critique isn’t to criticize. Especially in a learning or amateur environment, the point is to explore the story and get everyone thinking about the craft of writing.

I know I’ve mentioned before that How-To books are the most published, easiest to write and most purchased rivaling even the great (if perhaps not eloquent) Dan Brown. Who would have thought The Idiot’s Guide Changing Your Oil would rival a pseudo-sordid tale of idolatry and a Springer-esque Who’s Your Daddy genetic test?

 Any writer amateur, professional, student or hobbyist has at least one, somewhere on their shelf. A book about how to be a writer, write better, or get published. Hell, I’ve got dozens of them. They all tend to inflict a certain discontent in the reader by asking the powerful question again and again: Why aren’t you a published novelist? Anyone can do it. I can. You can.

Ouch. If anyone can write, why did I have to sit through two hours of that stroke-fest film The DaVinci Code? If anyone can do it, why is there no motivational plausibility within the characters of Star Wars Episode III? If anyone can do it, why my friends, aren’t we all writers?

No, I suggest it takes a special defect or mutation in the mind of what would turn out to be a “normal” artist to create a writer. There is something isolationist and obsessive about a writer. It’s something egotistical yet self-debasing, sly yet overt, slippery and mocking in the mind of a writer. Even a How-To writer.

The How-To Write authors are taking the same old facts we all learned in our creative writing, publishing or journalism 101 classes and compiling them in one place. Slap a catchy title on it (Write Right – seriously?) and voila, instant publishable book. Yes, I realize I’m unnecessarily trivializing the efforts of our How-To brethren. I guess I’m saying How-To (insert scheme here) books are low-hanging fruit.

I digress. My point, in my roundabout way is that it’s not as easy as the How-To crowd wants us to believe (that’s called marketing). I’ve since given up on How-To Write Better Books, I’d rather crack my shelves with some esoteric tome about Hannibal or a stack of yellowed pulp-sci-fi novels about a Jack Blastoff and his alien slut as they blast their way across the universe, gunning down in true old-west fashion green and blue men with feelers on their heads.

That said, I still keep my How-To write better books. Though numerous and often misleading, they occasionally hide real nuggets of wisdom within their pages.

Two that I would recommend are How to become a famous writer before you’re dead by Ariel Gore and The Portable MFA in Creative Writing by the New York Writers Workshop.

How to become a famous writer before you’re dead is broken down into digestible chunklets of data. A page or two a day, or some paragraphs while having morning coffee make the day’s writing roll a bit smoother. Ariel (I’ve never read any of her books, but her style comes through clearly in this piece) does a great job of making you feel special. She leaves that “anyone can do it” crap on some other sucker’s Amazon wishlist. She acknowledges that as a writer you’re a bit off, a spinning top without a center of gravity, leaving a trail of sizzling ink, spraying the with words, emptying your pockets of prose, a virtual dust-devil or dervish of diction. If you’ve gotta go the way of a How-To, this is one to pick up.

The Portable MFA in Creative Writing is no substitute for an advanced degree (come, on we all want letters behind our names) but it costs about $29,985 less. And it’s worth every penny. The advice is tight, highly distilled infusions of writerly insight, from page one to page done. It’s like the graduate classes without the lumpy stereo-types, and archetype, template stories (you know, my parents are dead and I never said good bye, how I stopped being a douche, my adolescent and clumsy attempt at erotica, my violent alter ego Axe-man jack). In art school, we used to say “the worst thing about art school is the other artists,” and this book alleviates all that. While it might not be as powerful as a professional writing instructor touring your frailties as an artist (just kidding), it’s got some great advice.

We’ve all been there. That research paper or ten pages of fiction or proposal or whatever, are due in twelve hours. The clock’s ticking away – it’s actually a digital clock that ticks, you make a mental note to throw it out and get a new one as soon as possible. The cat or dog needs to be scratched or petted or walked or fed and you can’t even remember getting a cat – maybe it’s your roommate’s? The light bulb burns out and you replace it quickly, proud of yourself for the efficiency you displayed in dealing with the burnt-out bulb, but then you remember you were going to switch to fluorescent bulbs – you know, save the world and all that. Before you can get your shoes on to hop down to the corner hardware store for new bulbs, you realize you’re hungry. No biggie. A quick stop at the greasy spoon on the other corner, chili dog and maybe a beer (screw it, right?) then back up stairs to write that proposal, short story or article. But shit, you’ve locked yourself out, and that cat is the only one home…

You get the idea. None of that would happen if you hadn’t had writer’s block to begin with, right? Well, maybe, but you, as a writer, have to sit down and unblock the block yourself. There’s no over-the-counter brain enema for us creative types. We don’t have the luxury of mood if we want to get paid for our words. So, what’s the first step?

Breaking the block

Step 1. Wear a helmet
Life’s hard, fellow writer. You know that. You remember all those classes in college with your burnt out professors telling you you’ll never make a dime as a writer. You know that from the looks you get every time you tell someone you’re a writer. Best Buy credit apps don’t register “writer” very well. Freelance novelist gets about the same result. So you’ve got to toughen up. Cast a stoneskin and write. Don’t worry about not writing. Just, write.

Step 2. Wear a helmet (literally)
Sounds a little queer, but a writing ritual helps. If you’ve got a favorite outfit to write in, make sure it’s clean and pressed and comfy for you before you’re deadline. I wear a cowboy hat or a WWII helmet, depending on what I’m writing. Right now, I’m sporting a beard of six-days, my black cowboy hat and silver sunglasses. The writing outfit tells everyone two things: You’re busy writing and that you’re a little un-balanced – both say “Don’t bother me.”

Step 3. Feed the needs
When you’re blocking (that’s the professional term), you’re going to come up with any reason at all to not sit in front of your machine and write. So, eliminate the excuses. Hungry? Order a pizza. While you wait, see if you can’t hack out a page. Thirsty? Compose the next sentence while you run for a coke. Tired? Coffee. Not $tarbucks. Just boil up some coffee and bring the pot in the writing room with you. Tense? Crack a beer and see if you can get in a page per can. That’s the ideal ratio. More of less than that and you have to adjust a little.

Step 4. Play a game with your inner editor
Some of my best stories have come from a manic exercise where you’re not allowed to stop typing or writing for fifteen, thirty or forty-five minutes at a stretch. Don’t hit delete. Don’t stop typing. If you’re stuck, write that you’re stuck. This stream-of-thought style creates a nightmare for your inner editor (but didn’t we all decide that dude was a jerk anyhow?) and forms a rather manic style, but, that leads us to step five.

Step 5. Read and Rewrite
Here’s something we all forget: just because we hack it out, doesn’t mean we can’t change it. If you’re doing step four, you’re going to need to re-write anyway. Or perhaps your stuck and aren’t quite brave enough to write without your self-censor, then pull up an old file. Something your wrote last year, last semester, last night, and check it out. Maybe it’s almost done and you can see an easy finish. Maybe it’ll just stir something or jar something loose and you’ll get that mental enema you’ve been waiting for. Or maybe you’ll see a directory filled with unfinished stories and the sheer guilt of it all will get you writing again.