Book

Writer’s Block: Not Quite What I Was Expecting

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To be honest this wasn’t quite what I was expecting when I hit the dreaded ‘writer’s block’. For years I’ve been able to type away, through thick and thin, and yet I’m now sat behind a screen not knowing what to do. I knew it had to come at some point, I just didn’t expect it now.

Let’s make this clear, the writer’s block I *think* I’m currently facing is not due to lack of ideas or inspiration. That is very much not a problem right now (unless you can count an overabundance of ideas as a problem). The problem is more that when I type something the words feel dry, as if they lack energy or flavour. Out will pour multiple paragraphs of content, then I look back at it an hour or a day later and just want to delete it all. It is unfair a comparison to make, but it feels like some kind of post-natal blog depression. Some days I can’t even bear to write something new, for fear that it will never match up to my demanding standards.

There’s no need to consult a doctor or Google over this text-based disease, I know exactly where it stems from and why it’s not something that can be cured overnight. Over the past couple of months I have ploughed as much time as possible into writing a novel. Not just any novel, the novel which I have been telling myself I am going to write for quite literally years. I’ve worded and reworded the synopsis hundreds of times in my head since I was seventeen years old and, like this frustrating itch or swelling lump on my body, I feel like I can no longer deny myself and my mind the injustice of not putting these thoughts into black and white. I need relief. For many nights I have woken up in cold sweats having seen the lead character in my dreams and I find myself frequently walking past colleagues blindly just because instead of seeing them, I see the scenes of an unwritten novel play out right in front of my face. You may think me romantic for saying these things, but it’s all completely true and happening right now. The mind my a beautiful thing, but it is by no means simple to understand. Needless to say my novel needs writing, if not to free me from fictional torture.

This is where the difficulty comes in. The novel I’m writing is not all sunshine and rainbows. It’s not a comedy, but it’s dystopian. If you’ve never come across the genre before then think titles such as 1984, Brave New World, Handmaid’s Tale. They’re books which relate to a fallen world, one which has strived for perfection but failed. This where the blog gets heavily impacted because, on top of work, life and investing heavy amounts of time writing a dark storyline, it is difficult to be upbeat and funny with the little remaining energy I have to write the blog.

So you’d think therefore the novel would be the best dam thing in the world, that Nobel prize winning literature would be flowing like rivers from mind to PC. It really feels like it isn’t. My hope had been that by reading other novels I’d be inspired in my writing style and tone of voice but instead I feel pig-sick. I (wrongly) convince myself that I could never write anything as good as my literary predecessors and I even start doubting my own storyline. Despite having it rattling around my brain for seven plus years I find myself questioning if what I have really is a solid story. “Surely someone would have written this already if it was any good?” At which point I glance back to my open Word document and feel empty and the sight of pages stuffed with text.

This was not what I expected from writer’s block. This unfounded self-loathing, self-criticism, mild self-disgust. I think to myself that I should stop reading, but I then shake my head of this thought. To tell a writer to stop reading really would be literary suicide. Another recommended fix would be to get someone to read my work, but I can’t even bring myself to do that and then I get angry with myself for not taking the pride I should in my work. And thus the endless bitter circle repeats itself once more. I said it above and I’ll say it again, there is no quick fix to this. Based on this acceptance I’m therefore going to adopt the third way, to keep writing and editing and writing until I shake off all these negative thoughts. Tackle the problem ‘word on’ so to speak. After all, 1984 wasn’t written in a day and I’m pretty sure Orwell didn’t publish his first draft. Let’s get words onto paper and go from there. You can do this Alice, you can dam well do this.

If there is one thing to take light from this unpleasant situation it’s that, in developing a form of writer’s block, I finally feel like I am becoming a serious writer.

Five Minute Review: Five Go on a Strategy Away Day (Parody) by Bruno Vincent

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Five little minutes, one little book. This one should be easy…

Five Go on a Strategy Away Day (hereafter “Five Go…“) by Bruno Vincent is a short story based on the original Famous Five classics written by Enid Blyton in the 1940s/50s. At only 105 pages long, Five Go… is a quick book to pick up and complete in one sitting. As a slightly slower reader I was able to read this title cover to cover during my train commute (and that’s with two train changes in between). Perfect if you want something to easily tackle in one go, less of an interest if you’re looking for a more long term investment that you’ll come back to time and time again.

The story follows Julian, Dick, George, Anne and Timmy the dog as they tackle the nightmares of a poorly managed team away day. As I read this there were certainly some laugh out loud moments. More than anything because, as someone who has previously had to help organise team building days on a budget, I can heavily relate to some of the scenarios contained in these pages (Eg, “I’ve got 485 unread emails back at the office, so why am I here?” [sic]).

Five Go… isn’t a book to go for if you’re looking for value for money, no doubt my copy will stay on the shelf for a number of months before it gets relegated to a charity shop (as per the millions of other copies in circulation around the country), however it was a nice little pick up to cheer me up and take my mind off work and world issues, even if for just an hour or two.

Five Minute Review: The Garden In The Clouds by Antony Woodward

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Five minutes, one book, one review.

The Garden in the Clouds by Antony Woodward is an autobiographical novel depicting the author’s move from London to the Welsh borders. Woodward’s narration of events takes the reader down the rocky journey he personally experienced in his attempts to get his five-acre plot into the famous National Gardens Scheme (alias ‘the Yellow Book’).

Whilst this book is humorous and light hearted, you get a strong feeling of the inner frustration, difficultly and financial resources ploughed into what I personally thought was a rather unattractive house and garden to start with. I felt the author’s London background resulted in a writing style that overly romanticised country life to a point where it sounded like all rural folk are cheery, friendly people, happy to assist with demolished walls caused by clumsy urban folk wanting a taste of ‘the good life’. I’ll save you the trouble of finding out for yourself, we’re not.

This was a nice little read when sat in the bleakness of January, but I wouldn’t view The Garden in the Clouds as a particularly inspiring tale. It paints a sickly, unrealistic, image of rural life that has not existed for fifty years. Woodward’s need to become ‘at one’ with the landscape seemed so stereotypical you’d think he’d Googled ‘country life’ and adopted all the hobbies that came up on the listing. The National Garden’s Scheme, using a vintage tractor to make hay, keeping bees, in fact all that was missing was sheep farming (unfortunately his neighbour beat him to that one). If I was him I’d have saved myself the time, money and stress and bought myself somewhere in the South of France.

Five Minute Review: Empire of The Sun by JG Ballard

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Five minutes to write a review on a recent read. Here we go:

Empire of The Sun by JG Ballard is a semi-autobiographical novel set in Shanghai (China) during the Japanese occupation of the 1940s.

The novel and centres itself Jim, a young boy born and raised in the Western ex-pat district of the city. Setting the scene on the eve of the Pearl Harbour bombings, what follows is a dramatic series of events resulting in Jim’s separation from his family and the experiences faced by the pre-teen as he fends for himself in Shanghai and in a series of labour camps. Despite all the horrors unfurling around him, Jim maintains an eerie calmness throughout, which is perhaps more disturbing at points than the war crimes themselves. The bright light of an atomic bomb takes the plot down a somewhat more dystopian route as the Japanese soldiers flee and the Western survivors and Chinese communists fight over what little remains. Ultimately Jim comes out of the War alive but a markedly changed person from the little boy we’re introduced to at the start.

Ballard’s novel is by no means an easy read. As the plot progressed I found myself increasingly frustrated by Jim’s naivety towards the growingly desperate situation, especially when it opened him up for other prisoners to take advantage. I am prepared to accept though that if I was a 11 year old in a work camp I might have adopted a similar coping mechanism. Regardless of this Empire of The Sun paints a fair reflection of the often overlooked period of Japanese occupation in China and the work camps. When so much has been written about World War Two in the West it was refreshing to read something with an Eastern focus.