. Spinning .

Huh? 

For the creative, unemployed writer, motive doesn’t really enter the picture.  Deadlines, money, nothing to spur one on except pure desire and inspiration, or need to speak out.

Well they’re all with me now (although deadlines and income would make it even better and me, more dedicated), so I’m primed and ready for the next semester which starts in about a week.  There’s no question that my own life’s narrative line is heading towards a project of writing story, in whatever form I eventually realize as my megaphone.  Study and learning will never stop; they don’t end in a cul-de-sac of publication.  Word by word improves the process and leaves footprints of progress that indicate depth and experience.  But there’s always a trail up ahead, and where it travels into dense undergrowth, learning becomes a machete.

Love it.  Love it.  Love it.

As I have written here many, many times, I am a strong believer in learning all the various forms of writing narrative as aids in applying each method to all others.  For imagery, there is poetry; for brevity, there is short story; for awareness of the senses, there is film and digital, etc.  And for story line, actual arc, conflict, resolution, the answer may well be in hypertext and interactive fiction.

Story progresses by the essential, "Then what?"  But sometimes, we just don’t know.  And there we sit.  And sit.  And sit.  This is one of my own biggest roadblocks in writing, ongoing and very current. 

By their nature of offering an additional "What if?" to the narrative structure, that is, various avenues to lead to one or many conclusions (as in gaming and the sophisticated IF and hypertext work being done now), it forces a writer to concentrate on the technical aspects of where these paths can lead–the story.  It offers options to the reader/user of course, but it also opens up a new (for me) way of thinking that involves planning and concentration; something that a creative mind often tends to rebel against.

Face it, there’s no one whispering their story in my head; it’s all under my own control.  By pretending to listen to a voice, which admittedly exists, but is indeed my own, I grind to a halt when that voice runs out of something to say.  As "creative director" of my own mind, it then should be obvious that I must take over where the rest of the team has grown slack, and finish the job. 

I’m personally pursuing all these forms of media–playing Silent Hill 2 is in fact a learning process, and while I’m not about to sit down and write a story with a protagonist looking in every corner, walking up and down the same streets, wasting precious time in a dysfunctional sense of direction, I have learned that what the character does next is important because it changes the story.  IF is even more obviously connected to the linear narrative as it involves the typing of text that is more familiar to the writer.  In any of these forms, adventure games, hyperfiction, or IF, it is necessary to look ahead, plan a bit, and retain the knowledge gained up to that point.  It’s also vital to keep the goal, the "quest" and question in the forefront of what leads you from the beginning to the end.

That, I guess, is story.

Well this is never a good sign:  I’m back to old bad habits; starting stories that begin as sentences and flow to paragraphs and…stop.

I’ve gotten lax and lazy, I would think, to put the effort, the work, the actual planning, thinking, doing that are required to fulfill a story beyond the creative spark of mere idea. 

Perhaps it is because of the semester break.  Perhaps it is because I’m off in so many narrative directions–gaming, text, movies, visuals, poetry, long story, short story, the technical and philosophical.

I have in my portfolio one really (I think) decent story that has been with me for six months or maybe longer.  It has been skillfully edited by someone else, and I’ve gone through this almost final rewrite yet I’m stopped at just a page or two of ending. 

Somehow I think the discipline of another semester of creative writing will put me back on track, and too, it focuses on short, short and flash fiction.  But story length is not my problem, although that does enter into the refinement and the final product whether story ends here or there.  But if I stop at just the teaser, just the opening paragraph as I’ve been wont to do, then, well, there is no story at all then, is there.

Much of writing comes from experience, even when entering into the fantasy or sci fi genres that preclude knowledge, but are based upon it and given free license to imagine beyond it.

But the simplest, most basic knowledge is often lost through possibly a "been there, done that" closure of the mind to admit more details in to fill out the form.  This morning, I sat in darkness and listened to the wind more clearly, it said things I’d heard before I’m sure, but took for granted.  Having just workshopped a piece about the wind that humanized (I know, the term is personified) him to have emotions and memories, I waited to hear what else he did and said. 

He rattles doors in an attempt to find some shelter, just as we, perhaps, might do when he is in a dither and blowing things about.  He whistles through the spaces between the walls and shrubs, and into corners…why?  Is it a warning, or a bit of joy in respite or the racing of his pace?  He makes, or so it seems, the rain fall harder, shifts its downward drop to left and right.  A trick of his, I think, to kick up a notch by using tools like rain to make his anger more intense and visible–the one thing he has not, and yet can fool us into thinking that he does by what he stirs up in his path.

I know him better now, and better yet I will know this:  There is always more to learn.

From experience, images called into use by some relationship with what we are trying to put into words.

Words strung together like popcorn wound round a tall Christmas tree, still growing with life.  Each kernal, a truth; ripened and hardened by time and heated with sunrises to burst to perfection in a cluster of shades white to orangey gold, and tastey, yet ornamental as well, on the lush branches of steadfast tree green.

Last night’s Narratives Writers Group meeting included a critique of one of my own poems.  Our group has been together for a year now, and I’ve long ago given up artistic ego in trade for the value of hearing and understanding the various perceptions offered of your own words.  What we seek is tight writing, without any extraneous words or phrases; these ultimately lead back to the old "show, don’t tell," rule of narrative.   

What doesn’t surprise me, is that this group is sharp enough to catch all the spots you let slide, whether it be story line, word use, voice, style, etc., so that a lesson is learned in each workshopped piece not only by the author, but by all the members.  I think we’re each developing a practiced ear, and I, for one, have learned to be honest in and with my work; if I think something’s not going to fly, I’ll not defend it. 

We all let something slide by now and then–just can’t find the perfect word so we toss in the first that comes to mind, know a time line’s not right, but figure we’ll spend time later fixing it, place a Federal Colonial house in the deserts of New Mexico (yeah, that one’s mine!)–but the pleasure and comfort of a group of minds dedicated to the art of narrative is invaluable in gracefully pointing it out.