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Ben 124 |
The
Looming Genre Cliff
This morning, I'm starting a
brand-new writing project—one that's in a different genre than my usual—and I’m
experiencing all sorts of emotional turbulence. It’s helping me remember what
it is like to have a writing block. Puts me in touch with what others who are
facing writing blocks—what they might be feeling.
The fear. The sense of standing at
the edge of a glass wave that's also a sort of cliff.
This fear of the unknown is
compounded by all sorts of predetermined
thoughts I might hold about that new not-yet-written piece: daydreams of
outcome, reactions of as-of-yet non-existent audiences. I’m even anticipating
my own pleasure at the contemplation of a final version of this writing
project.
Those are the (mostly) pleasant
thoughts.
Then there’s the fact that my pulse
is elevated and my breathing constricted.
I’m anxious. This situation
heightens the inner conversation I am having about my writing ability and
writing quality. What normally hums non-stop behind the scenes at inaudible
levels is now vibrating and in bold letters.
Any noise (someone coughing in the
household, the branch of heavy black footsteps overhead) is a spike in irritation
because it makes me more aware of standing on this precipice between writing
and not-writing. Also, those disturbances increase the volume of my inner talk
about my current writing situation.
But, hey, I’ve recently been looking
for something to shake me out of my lassitude with poetry. I’m done writing 95%
of my next book. No longer invested in the invention phase for the manuscript,
my energies had tilted toward editing and sculpting it for readers. I can’t
dwell any longer in the creating phase for this book; it’s almost as though I’m
being forced out of its space.
Well, starting a new genre and a new
project has definitely taken the lethargy out of me (Evidence A: rapid pulse
staring at screen).
I think this is happening to me
because I've got a nice routine established.
By having a morning poetry practice (which I probably do 360 days out of
the year), I've established a comfortable way to re-engage my inner voice each
day for the purposes of this type of writing. The pens and notebook I use, the
coffee I make, the sequence of events that gets me to my writing desk fifteen
minutes after waking up.
With this new genre, I'm mainly
noticing my discomfort, but I appreciate this situation. I’m not going to push
this discomfort away. Instead, I’ll stand at the edge of this genre cliff and
observe, watching my breath, and observe.
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