The Ongoing Reality Show Fiction
Jun 30, 2007
Problems with writer's block
It's Thursday and I'm the Purple Crab, destroying my third strawberry milkshake of the evening. I'm talking to the bartender.
"I'm trying to write a story about a man who stands on his hands all the time. And he thinks everyone else is crazy for walking on their feet. He says they're all upside down. I'm having some problems though."
The bartender doesn't look up, polishes a glass.
"I'm just, I have the main scene all planned out, with the man who walks on his hands like, attacking the narrator. But I can't. I don't know, it's not working out. I mean why would the protagonist meet a man who walks on his hands? He can't just meet him in the street."
I take another sip of my strawberry milkshake.
"I mean, I've worked out that the man can have some sort of problem with his inner ear, and that's why he thinks everything should be upside down. That's all sorted, but I can't work out a way for the protagonist to meet him. I can't make a story that incorporates this character. Does that count as writers block?"
The bartender holds a glass up to the light, squints at it and then goes back to polishing it. It's like he's a girl, I'm fucking invisible.
"So I mean I've been working on it for like, two or three nights, I've got all these .txt files on my computer, upsidedownman1.txt, upsidedownman2.txt. All attempts I've made to write a story with this guy who walks on his hands. Some of them I get over ambitious and work in too many plot points. I had one where I was talking to a werewolf who loves pineapple juice. I don't even know how I was going to bring that round. Some of them I never manage to work any plot points in, it just spirals off into some dumb conversation."
No-one's listening to me, it's Thursday and I've been having a terrible week, keeping myself awake at weird times trying to catch some inspiration. Hours lying on the floor in my room, trying to start the internal combustion monologue of my prose. The bartender has a shaved head and like, a dozen piercings. He goes into the back room, leaves me alone with my milkshake and the sound of cars humming beyond plate glass. I down the dregs of ice-cream, leave enough money to cover my tab and tip. Walk out onto the street level where it's not as cold as winter used to be. Maybe kids won't have snow days anymore.
I walk home through the warm wind, which smothers me like ether.
***
The next day my knees stop working. I don't know what it is but I get out of bed and collapse forward from shock and pain. Lying on the floor, still half asleep I assume it's some temporary problem, cramp or an equivalent but when I try and get up I'm met by the same agony. What the hell. I lie there some more, bending my knees and feeling nothing. But as soon as I apply weight to them the joints scream and I have to pull myself back into bed, using my hands, crawling.
***
I'm looking at the magazine wall in a WHSMITHS when this guy wearing a massive trenchcoat stands next to me. And I'm thinking that he wants me to move out of the way, like he's trying to look at a newspaper that but I'm stopping him, so I sidestep away, but he sidles up to me and says.
"There are daisies in Moscow."
I'm staring at a copy of Gardeners World thinking what the hell do I do. He repeats himself.
"I heard there are daisies in Moscow."
I dare to look over at him and he's smiling straight at me. He's got to be crazy, he's a crazy person and he thinks he's a Russian spy and that this is some sort of passphrase. I sidestep again so that I'm in front of the lifestyle magazines. Kate Moss is on the front of this month's GQ.
The guy carries on talking, he's wearing nice clothes for a crazy person. Maybe he only went crazy today.
"Because of..the temperatures. Because it's so warm."
What the hell does GQ stand for? Guy...quotient?
"Global warming. It's, because of global warming."
Gay - no it can't be anything to do with gay. Garrison? Gauteng? The guy is silent for a moment, waiting for me to reply.
"There's not normally daisies in Moscow at this time of year."
Gorilla Quarrel. Goat Queries. Why so animal themed all of a sudden?
"They say maybe kids around here won't have snow days anymore."
Gentleman's quarterly. That's it. Bingo. I've got to get away from this crazy guy. But before I can escape to the jigsaw section or look at greeting cards he says:
"Sorry to have bothered you."
and dissapears.
I stand, staring at Kate Moss' cleavage and think about how hard it is to write conversations. Every time I try to write a story with conversations I get ruined. And I always think that next time I'm reading a book I'm going to pay really close attention to what they do when there's a conversation. But I always forget.
***
My agent calls whilst I'm trying to play Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon: Advanced Warfighter.
"Riaz? Wolfson here, how's it going?"
I say it's alright whilst I order Brown to put supressing fire down the street so that I can get Allen across the road and into a position to snipe the machine gun nest that's pinning me and Kirkland.
"What happened to that story?"
What story
"The one with the man who walks on his hands. You said you were going to write it weeks ago."
"Write a story? About a man who walks on his hands?"
"Yeah, Riaz, remember? You write stories?" Wolfson's getting sarcastic.
"I think you've got me confused with someone else, I just play Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon: Advanced Warfighter all day."
"Very funny kid, but I seriously think you should focus on that story, I thought it had potential."
"I thought it had potential." I'm copying what Wolfson is saying because that takes the least effort. Kirkland yells that he's taking enemy fire and as I check the tactical map I see that two rebels have managed to flank our position. Kirkland bites it covering my retreat. I dive behind what I think is meant to resemble a Mercedes S Class.
"Well you should work on it then, what's the problem? Writer's block?"
"Maybe,"
"Well snap out of it, whatever it takes." Wolfson's still talking whilst I cower behind the Merc which is shuddering under gunfire. Brown's M60 jams whilst Allen is out in the open and a sniper, now unsupressed, drops him as he sprints across the road.
"--a road trip, maybe go to a club."
I neutralise one of the flanking rebels from the cover of my luxury sedan but I can't see the second one because he's worked his way behind Brown who's still trying to unjam his machine gun. I can't hear him scream over the noise of the Merc's alarm which has bizzarely only gone off now.
" --ake some drugs or have a girl break your heart, those two are GUARANTEED to work kid."
I give up, reload the game.
***
Life continues, though some nights I sit at my chair with my forehead resting against the screen which is black except for the blinking damned cursor. And some nights I wake up on the floor. And some nights I forget the lights. And some days I forget the curtains.
Eventually I get sick and lie in my bed with a fever at night and feel sick with time and it's passing. No watch and no sunlight means there's 8 hours a day where I'm forced to investigate my place in time. It's revolting, I'm hopeless. Every time there's a noise outside I think it's the end of the world, I think the Koreans have nuked me, the terrorists have crop dusted the country with Sarin and the fascists are outside my door, ethnic cleansing boots on. It happens all night. Vivid, repeating nightmares that travel in stale spirals.
I go into my housemates room and look at his fish. Camera from behind the tank, distorted view of me and Joe looking into it.
He points at one of his angelfish "This guy keeps swimming upside down, it's freaking me out."
"I bet he thinks all the other fish are crazy."
"I think he's sick."
I bet he thinks all the other fish are insane and he's screaming at them:
"WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH YOU FUCKING IDIOTS? You're UPSIDE DOWN, DUBMASSES."
Rotate the camera upside down and track the upside down fish for a while.
***
I took a load of photographs once and showed them to a photographer friend of mine who's never really liked my work so I've always figured she was a good person to show my photographs to. She said the photographs were depressing. So I said:
"That's what I was going for, like, a bleakness, I wanted them to feel bleak."
And English isn't her first language, so she didn't know what bleakness was, so I explained it to her. And she said "But why make something just to make people feel that?"
***
I'm telling Bill about my idea for the man who walks on his hands.
He says "It sounds like a good idea actually, not the kind of thing I'd write but it could still be cool."
"Y'know where I got the idea?" I'm holding my half full strawberry milkshake and limp wristedly waving it around. "I got the idea from my housemate, he's got these fish, and one of them started swimming upside down."
Bill's nodding.
"And I thought, I thought I bet that guy thinks all the other fish are insane for swimming that way round. I bet that fish thinks that he's right swimming that way round."
Bill looks thoughtful for a second, munches on the celery in his bloody mary. Then he starts talking: "I bet fish have a really complicated idea of up. I bet it's not that simple in the fish world. And I bet they don't say 'Things are looking up,' or 'I'm feeling down.'"
"Well obviously they don't Bill. Why would they."
*** ¶ 12:45 AM 0 Comments
"I'm trying to write a story about a man who stands on his hands all the time. And he thinks everyone else is crazy for walking on their feet. He says they're all upside down. I'm having some problems though."
The bartender doesn't look up, polishes a glass.
"I'm just, I have the main scene all planned out, with the man who walks on his hands like, attacking the narrator. But I can't. I don't know, it's not working out. I mean why would the protagonist meet a man who walks on his hands? He can't just meet him in the street."
I take another sip of my strawberry milkshake.
"I mean, I've worked out that the man can have some sort of problem with his inner ear, and that's why he thinks everything should be upside down. That's all sorted, but I can't work out a way for the protagonist to meet him. I can't make a story that incorporates this character. Does that count as writers block?"
The bartender holds a glass up to the light, squints at it and then goes back to polishing it. It's like he's a girl, I'm fucking invisible.
"So I mean I've been working on it for like, two or three nights, I've got all these .txt files on my computer, upsidedownman1.txt, upsidedownman2.txt. All attempts I've made to write a story with this guy who walks on his hands. Some of them I get over ambitious and work in too many plot points. I had one where I was talking to a werewolf who loves pineapple juice. I don't even know how I was going to bring that round. Some of them I never manage to work any plot points in, it just spirals off into some dumb conversation."
No-one's listening to me, it's Thursday and I've been having a terrible week, keeping myself awake at weird times trying to catch some inspiration. Hours lying on the floor in my room, trying to start the internal combustion monologue of my prose. The bartender has a shaved head and like, a dozen piercings. He goes into the back room, leaves me alone with my milkshake and the sound of cars humming beyond plate glass. I down the dregs of ice-cream, leave enough money to cover my tab and tip. Walk out onto the street level where it's not as cold as winter used to be. Maybe kids won't have snow days anymore.
I walk home through the warm wind, which smothers me like ether.
***
The next day my knees stop working. I don't know what it is but I get out of bed and collapse forward from shock and pain. Lying on the floor, still half asleep I assume it's some temporary problem, cramp or an equivalent but when I try and get up I'm met by the same agony. What the hell. I lie there some more, bending my knees and feeling nothing. But as soon as I apply weight to them the joints scream and I have to pull myself back into bed, using my hands, crawling.
***
I'm looking at the magazine wall in a WHSMITHS when this guy wearing a massive trenchcoat stands next to me. And I'm thinking that he wants me to move out of the way, like he's trying to look at a newspaper that but I'm stopping him, so I sidestep away, but he sidles up to me and says.
"There are daisies in Moscow."
I'm staring at a copy of Gardeners World thinking what the hell do I do. He repeats himself.
"I heard there are daisies in Moscow."
I dare to look over at him and he's smiling straight at me. He's got to be crazy, he's a crazy person and he thinks he's a Russian spy and that this is some sort of passphrase. I sidestep again so that I'm in front of the lifestyle magazines. Kate Moss is on the front of this month's GQ.
The guy carries on talking, he's wearing nice clothes for a crazy person. Maybe he only went crazy today.
"Because of..the temperatures. Because it's so warm."
What the hell does GQ stand for? Guy...quotient?
"Global warming. It's, because of global warming."
Gay - no it can't be anything to do with gay. Garrison? Gauteng? The guy is silent for a moment, waiting for me to reply.
"There's not normally daisies in Moscow at this time of year."
Gorilla Quarrel. Goat Queries. Why so animal themed all of a sudden?
"They say maybe kids around here won't have snow days anymore."
Gentleman's quarterly. That's it. Bingo. I've got to get away from this crazy guy. But before I can escape to the jigsaw section or look at greeting cards he says:
"Sorry to have bothered you."
and dissapears.
I stand, staring at Kate Moss' cleavage and think about how hard it is to write conversations. Every time I try to write a story with conversations I get ruined. And I always think that next time I'm reading a book I'm going to pay really close attention to what they do when there's a conversation. But I always forget.
***
My agent calls whilst I'm trying to play Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon: Advanced Warfighter.
"Riaz? Wolfson here, how's it going?"
I say it's alright whilst I order Brown to put supressing fire down the street so that I can get Allen across the road and into a position to snipe the machine gun nest that's pinning me and Kirkland.
"What happened to that story?"
What story
"The one with the man who walks on his hands. You said you were going to write it weeks ago."
"Write a story? About a man who walks on his hands?"
"Yeah, Riaz, remember? You write stories?" Wolfson's getting sarcastic.
"I think you've got me confused with someone else, I just play Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon: Advanced Warfighter all day."
"Very funny kid, but I seriously think you should focus on that story, I thought it had potential."
"I thought it had potential." I'm copying what Wolfson is saying because that takes the least effort. Kirkland yells that he's taking enemy fire and as I check the tactical map I see that two rebels have managed to flank our position. Kirkland bites it covering my retreat. I dive behind what I think is meant to resemble a Mercedes S Class.
"Well you should work on it then, what's the problem? Writer's block?"
"Maybe,"
"Well snap out of it, whatever it takes." Wolfson's still talking whilst I cower behind the Merc which is shuddering under gunfire. Brown's M60 jams whilst Allen is out in the open and a sniper, now unsupressed, drops him as he sprints across the road.
"--a road trip, maybe go to a club."
I neutralise one of the flanking rebels from the cover of my luxury sedan but I can't see the second one because he's worked his way behind Brown who's still trying to unjam his machine gun. I can't hear him scream over the noise of the Merc's alarm which has bizzarely only gone off now.
" --ake some drugs or have a girl break your heart, those two are GUARANTEED to work kid."
I give up, reload the game.
***
Life continues, though some nights I sit at my chair with my forehead resting against the screen which is black except for the blinking damned cursor. And some nights I wake up on the floor. And some nights I forget the lights. And some days I forget the curtains.
Eventually I get sick and lie in my bed with a fever at night and feel sick with time and it's passing. No watch and no sunlight means there's 8 hours a day where I'm forced to investigate my place in time. It's revolting, I'm hopeless. Every time there's a noise outside I think it's the end of the world, I think the Koreans have nuked me, the terrorists have crop dusted the country with Sarin and the fascists are outside my door, ethnic cleansing boots on. It happens all night. Vivid, repeating nightmares that travel in stale spirals.
I go into my housemates room and look at his fish. Camera from behind the tank, distorted view of me and Joe looking into it.
He points at one of his angelfish "This guy keeps swimming upside down, it's freaking me out."
"I bet he thinks all the other fish are crazy."
"I think he's sick."
I bet he thinks all the other fish are insane and he's screaming at them:
"WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH YOU FUCKING IDIOTS? You're UPSIDE DOWN, DUBMASSES."
Rotate the camera upside down and track the upside down fish for a while.
***
I took a load of photographs once and showed them to a photographer friend of mine who's never really liked my work so I've always figured she was a good person to show my photographs to. She said the photographs were depressing. So I said:
"That's what I was going for, like, a bleakness, I wanted them to feel bleak."
And English isn't her first language, so she didn't know what bleakness was, so I explained it to her. And she said "But why make something just to make people feel that?"
***
I'm telling Bill about my idea for the man who walks on his hands.
He says "It sounds like a good idea actually, not the kind of thing I'd write but it could still be cool."
"Y'know where I got the idea?" I'm holding my half full strawberry milkshake and limp wristedly waving it around. "I got the idea from my housemate, he's got these fish, and one of them started swimming upside down."
Bill's nodding.
"And I thought, I thought I bet that guy thinks all the other fish are insane for swimming that way round. I bet that fish thinks that he's right swimming that way round."
Bill looks thoughtful for a second, munches on the celery in his bloody mary. Then he starts talking: "I bet fish have a really complicated idea of up. I bet it's not that simple in the fish world. And I bet they don't say 'Things are looking up,' or 'I'm feeling down.'"
"Well obviously they don't Bill. Why would they."
*** ¶ 12:45 AM 0 Comments