Putting
the heat to writer’s block
I started writing a 1,500-word draft yesterday. By day’s end I’d netted 509w,
including two titles and some text with “doomed” stamped all over it. I’ve done
worse, but I’ve also had sessions where my draft shot out like Grammy Pearl’s
ninth baby.
As a non-fiction writer, the ore body I mine is parked next to my draft in the
form of interview notes and other collected documents and images. I don’t build
worlds from scratch, so my writer’s blocks are usually small. I am, however, a
fussbudget and therein lies my torment.
I need a hot title, a perfect deck and a tantalizing, classic 5W lead before I
feel ready to dive into the story proper; usually, with the right set-up, my
articles rapidly unfurl. But sometimes, alas, I fetch up: I concoct multiple
titles, rewrite decks and harass lead after lead, yet blessed release evades
me.
Like yesterday: “The tranquility outside the plants …” Cute. “Every
manufacturing plant has a hotline …” Oink. “When something breaks
unexpectedly…” Zzzz.
I choke out three paragraphs under two titles and an inspirational blank space
for my deck. I extrude more painful lines and then, unexpectedly, a medical
metaphor pops into my head. I hammer out a short paragraph, tinker, reread my
words to date, peek into my empty cup, check the wood stove, race upstairs for
an oatmeal cookie, watch a dog unload onto my lawn, clomp downstairs and ease
back onto my perch.
I grab paragraph five and drop it into the lead position. Heaven. I delete my
titles and invent two more. By now I’ve been squirming and jumping, answering
emails, writing cutlines for other projects and juggling files for nearly five
hours. I’m gagged.
It’s time for The Cure: I turn on the answering machine, plod upstairs, run a
hot bath and dive in with a Get Fuzzy collection. While I relax, er, study plot
lines, my unconscious will sort through today’s efforts and report back to me
in the morning.
Copyright
© Carroll McCormick 2012
-30-
No comments:
Post a Comment