Stuck in the Brambles of My Mind

Sacchi Green

I don’t know how I’ve managed to write anything, ever. Without deadlines I’d never finish anything, although I generally manage deadlines that I’ve promised to meet. Many a story hasn’t made it in time to meet the deadline in one or another Call for Submissions where I’ve made no commitment. Sometimes another chance will come along, and I can manage to finish an abandoned story in time, although by then it’s morphed into a somewhat different story, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

But I can’t multi-task when it comes to writing. If I’m supposed to be writing one thing but get stuck, for one reason or another, I can’t work on any other writing project. I procrastinate and avoid, and think longingly of other things I want to write, and Calls for Submission that sound tempting, but I don’t let myself turn to another project while a current one is hovering gloomily over my head, which all too often means that little or nothing gets done.

 I keep plenty of other kinds of metaphorical plates spinning in the air, though somewhat wobbling at times. Just now I’m handling selling my father’s house (where I grew up) now that he’s in a long term care facility, and dang, that kind of thing is complicated, what with realtors and lawyer-speak and town restrictions and clearing out sixty years of a family's accumulations. And I visit my dad almost every day, taking him to doctor appointments, and lunch twice a week, while also caring for another family member with severe effects of Lyme Disease. And I manage to keep my traditional vegetable garden going, so far, in spite of a crazy deer who seems to think tomato plants are tasty. Housekeeping, not so much, but I get by. Anyway, I can multi-task when necessary, when there’s no avoiding it and other people are affected.

But I can’t work on more than one writing project at a time. I don’t think it’s a matter of not being able to think about multiple things more or less at once, but of recognizing my tendency for procrastination and trying not to put off one thing and turn to another. That, of course, is totally unproductive, since nothing gets done, and I might at least be managing partial stories that could be finished up when another chance comes along.  Maybe I’m punishing myself for getting stuck in a major project like my first novel (which is, however, essentially done now, having taken as long as I used to take to write ten or so short stories.)

I guess I used to be more prolific, but even then I couldn’t manage to have more than one story in progress at a time. And I haven’t managed to follow the prime advice for writers, which is to write every day, no matter what, no matter how stuck you may be, or how blank your mind feels. And…well, okay, no matter how distracted you get by following Facebook and/or Twitter and all the ways that news both fake and factual and generally depressing batters at your consciousness.

But look, right here, in spite of having nothing to say, I’m finishing a piece of writing that I’ve committed to doing, and on time. I’ll take my sense of accomplishment where I can get it. And maybe now I’ll go spend an hour on something else I should be doing, like revising a never-quite-finished story I want to include in a collection of my work so that there’ll be at least one piece that hasn’t been previously published. Unfinished stories do come in handy, after all, although this particular one may be unfinished for good reason, and stuck beyond hope amid the brambles of distraction and procrastinative tendencies of my mind.  

Essays on the Desk and Bones Under the Water

by Jean Roberta
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Do I put off writing by doing other things, or do I write to avoid doing other things? Both.

After all, I won’t get fired if I fail to send in a story submission for an anthology whose deadline whooshed past me while I was grading student essays or even grocery shopping, cooking & cleaning up dog poo. (Realistically, I probably wouldn’t get fired for putting off the grading for a few days, but sometimes the day job has to take priority. And the other stuff doesn’t really need to be explained.)

Last week, I did something that is more-or-less against my Principles. (These are like the barb-wire fences of my childhood in Idaho. I liked testing their stretch to find out if I could get under or over them without getting stuck.)

A gothic story was lurking in the back of my mind, and wouldn’t go away. It began to take shape in mid-March when I was on a bus trip for three hours with my spouse to attend the annual convention of the NDP (New Democratic Party, farthest-left of the mainstream Canadian political parties). A call-for-submissions inspired an image of a river rushing musically over rocks – or something else? I knew there was something down there.

In real life, Spouse & I were going to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, known as the “Bridge City” because the North Saskatchewan River winds through it, with numerous bridges. By the time we got there, I knew the something under the river in my mind was a body that had been there for a generation, undetected.

The atmosphere of this story was so strong that for brief moments, I felt as though I had read it somewhere. Then I remembered that I hadn’t written it yet.

Soon the deadline was breathing down my neck, so I sent the editor an email, asking for a deadline extension. She graciously responded: “Because it’s you” (with winking smiley-face). After that, finishing the story a.s.a.p. became a serious obligation. I couldn’t leave that body under the river for months or years before figuring out how it got there.

So I cancelled a class. Bad me. But it was just one class.

If/when everything I’ve ever done is weighed by some disapproving angel on the Day of Judgment, this cancelled class will probably earn me a little tick mark in the list. But it probably wouldn’t be enough to open the trapdoor that would plunge me to the Fiery Depths. That would be too gothic.

That whole day, I was in the Zone, the one writers like to live in. I wrote & wrote. (Technically, I typed & typed.) The maximum word count was 6500 words, and I watched as my word count went up and the plot thickened. At 3500, I realized I was more than halfway through, and worried that I might not be able to stay under the wire. Well then, I thought, something might have to be pulled out. Time for that later.

By evening, the story was wrapped up at slightly over 6K. Yes!

I forced myself to put off sending it to the editor as soon as the last period was in place. This is the time when a little procrastination is a very good idea. I knew that what looked brilliant to me in the moment would probably make me groan later on. (Why did I leave that awkward phrase in? And why did I use the same cheesy word twice in one paragraph?)

Spouse asked if I planned to cook supper.

Yes, I said, as soon as my story is really finished. I hoped she would chill out and snack on leftover Easter candy.

I reread the story, made some changes, and fired it off.

Then I was assailed by doubt, much like a gothic heroine being accosted by a sinister figure in a swirling cape. Point of View: the story starts out in third-person omniscient, but morphs into third-person limited when the heroine emerges from childhood into adolescence. I was sure the editor would reject the story for being an incoherent mess.

And then there was the creepiness factor: the call-for-submissions called for “dark erotica.” Was my story both dark enough and sexy enough? I knew it would probably be too dark for Spouse, which seemed like a sign that I was on the right track, but did the editor want the murders to be described in gory detail? Or would that kind of melodrama make my story as over-the-top funny as The Rocky Horror Picture Show?

And besides all this, there is some dubious-age-of-consent sex. None of the characters have a clear age, but they are both young. How worried would the editor be about accepting a story that could possibly be interpreted as child porn? (But then, said my Common Sense, a reader who would read my story thus would probably run screaming from the whole anthology.)

Well, I thought, I just have to consider doing a massive rewrite after the editor rejects the story. I’ll have plenty of time to consider sending it somewhere else.

Obviously I can’t write, I thought, which is really too bad since I am on-schedule to teach a creative writing class in September. What a fraud I am. At least I can do laundry and clean up after our pets, who lack human discernment. Being loved by animals probably doesn’t outweigh cancelling a class.

The day after I sent off my story, the editor sent me an email: “Consider your story shortlisted.” O miracle! O sudden, unexpected resolution of complications!

I think I should spend more time putting off everything else so I can write.