Trav's Thoughts

It really sucks to be mired in cement. That's what this case of writer's block feels like. It feels like my brain is full of cement.

See, I have this novel called Outlawed. I started it 15 years ago. It has a bunch of characters and an intricate plot. And it's just sitting somewhere in my brain. I can't find it anymore. I look at pages of old notes, and charts, and maps, and ideas - nothing looks right. Nothing seems like it fits. I'm stuck. The story is stuck. Everything is frozen.

Where's the damn story? I know how it ends. I know what happens to almost every character. But I can't find the words anymore.

That's painful. Words are life. But the words have disappeared.

I've tried all the exercises. I've tried to write backwards from the end. I've tried to massage small scenes and write from the middle. I've tried outlines. It's just so frustrating.

The words used to flow. Whole chapters used to write themselves. Not anymore.

So, I'm left with things I've written in the past to remind me that I really can do it. I've written before - possibly it will happen again. Because I'm in love with words.


FOR LOVE OF WORDS

As I think, so shall I become, evolved
in perception as much as in deed,
Wandering far afield on rational plains, yielding
effortlessly to the subtlety of vision.

Unhampered by solidity does the mind itself proclaim
a knowledge unseen. . .vistas upon horizons,
Distorted normality in a world gone missing
from itself; consciousness devoid of reason or sense.

Stimulated as by intellect, makers of a new rhetoric;
to strive in the unattainable glory of articulate rhyme;
Lofty eloquence grandly spoken to replace substance,
clarity foregone in vehement poesy.

Passionate speakers they, grandiose and bombastic,
blanketing nonsense in ornately turned phrase.
Pompous and foolish, but succeeding to best the fools,
almighty speech broker, bargaining his dose of Roget's.

The poet no less the offender, archly wrings meaning
from none via assorted rhythmic fancy.
Intonation his rule, pure diction on the page;
metaphoric euphoria in an overture of language.

Such as these do equate life's purpose to a word,
beautifully set in print with its fellows in
Happy pursuit of indelible verse; ticketed as prized
work by souls lost in pursuit of less.

For want of a simple fashioning of words to encase
a meaning clear and untainted by fanciful muse
Do some seek a widening of the gates, marrying mind to
vision, blending a thought with its true word.

Deeded in time to each thing comes real meaning,
uncluttered by pieces of man's rude intellect.
Brilliant insight stands apace, waiting for a simple thing;
thought, once accepted, keys knowledge.

Unfettered light then unleashed upon us all, and with
its luminescence the need to embellish is lost.
Speak what is meant and what is conveyed will be known
to all, understood for its own, for love of words.


Maybe that's my problem - being in love with words.