There is a chair.
It sits on a line that runs north and south. It spins, but does not roll.
Turn and face east. You’ll see that you’re in a room. It isn’t a particularly well-lit room, despite the efforts you’ve made to keep it from looking like a dungeon. Let’s call it your office.
In front of you is a desk. No, make it a table you found at a garage sale. It’s okay that it doesn’t match the rest of the furniture in your office. It’s yours and that’s what matters. Besides, it’s not really an “office” office. It’s a corner of your living room. Or your unfinished basement.
Scattered across the table are papers and books and a red stapler and bendy metal things that used to have a name but you’ve forgotten what they’re called. That’s because you’re focused on the thing that occupies the center of the card table: your computer. I’m going to make it a desktop computer, but you can picture your laptop if you want. In one corner of the screen is your novel-in-progress, but most of the real estate is filled with your web browser. There are at least a half dozen tabs open right now. One goes to Nathan Bransford’s blog. Another to Chip MacGregor’s site. And still another to Rants & Ramblings. There’s the Pandora link, of course. And one for MSNBC.com. You’re slightly embarrassed to admit that one takes you to Thesaurus.com. And slightly less embarrassed to admit one leads to TheBloggess. (Jenny makes you laugh. That’s okay. She makes me laugh, too.)
Take a look at the stack of books next to your computer. Plot & Structure by James Scott Bell. Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. Stephen King’s On Writing. And a few novels you’ve started reading but haven’t finished yet. (Yes, I see that like-new copy of War and Peace you bought five years ago. Makes a great bookend.)
Paperclips!
Yes, that’s what the bendy metal things are called. You feel damn good about yourself for remembering that, don’t you. Go ahead. Embrace this moment of successful recollection. Celebrate it. The room needs a little more cheer. Especially after reading that blogpost on the state of publishing and those two “pass” letters.
Bow down to me, paperclips, for I am your master!
Okay, let’s not overdo it. See that empty notebook? Grab it and a couple of pencils. Or pens, I don’t care. (But good luck finding one that works in that pick-up-sticks mess-of-miscellaneous bin.)
Now spin 180 degrees. Face west.
You’re not in your office anymore.
You’re on a grassy hill, watching two lovers say goodbye under a weeping willow. You’re hiding in a bunker, deafened by the sounds of war and trying not to retch from the smell of death. You’re huddled in a damp corner of a tiny room with a girl who can’t be more than five, watching as she methodically pulls the stuffing out of her well-loved bear, listening as she mimics angry words that have painted bruises on her skin and in her heart.
This is the place where stories live.
Yours is here somewhere. Follow a path or a parade or a rabbit or a trail of crumbs until you find it. When you do, step right smack dab into the middle of it. Listen. Watch. Smell. Touch. Test your own voice to learn its echo.
Then get out your notebook and write. Keep writing until you can write no more. Until your notebook is full. Or your pencils are stubs. Or your pens run out of ink. (Told you.) Or maybe until you’re so saturated with the truth that holds the story together you can’t take any more.
Go back to your chair and sit down. Take a deep breath.
Then spin.
Set your notebook on the desk. Sigh if you must. (You must.) Your office isn’t as much fun as the place where stories live. Words like “query” and “agent” and “rejection” and “revision” reside here, hovering like dark clouds above your computer. Sometimes they yell so loud at you they wake your napping children.
It’s not the prettiest place in the world, but it’s your place. Your office. And it’s the place where you piece together your publishing dreams.
Sigh.
Why, yes, I do know what you want to do right now. You want to spin again. Of course you do. But hold on just a second, okay? Take another look around your office. Notice anything different?
It’s brighter, isn’t it. The clouds above your computer aren’t so gray. The stack of books doesn’t look so menacing. The red stapler is practically orange. I’ll bet you know exactly where the light is coming from.
Yep. Your notebook. Your story.
Maybe you can work on that proposal today after all. You might want to organize all those notes first. You could use a…
Paperclip!
Yes, a paperclip.
You are brilliant.
Comments
27 responses to “Spin”
Loved this. I spin so much that it makes me dizzy, and even then sometimes I can’t come up with anything. Writing is tough. At least spinning around is amusing. Thanks for this post. molly
Some of the most interesting stories are born out of dizziness. Or is that delirium? I forget. Wait, I remember now, it’s dementia.
Have fun spinning.
iLike your spin zone.
I like it too. But every once in a while it makes me a little nauseous. Sort of like that time when I was 12 and went on the Mad Tea Party ride at Disneyland, except I wasn’t trying to write a novel then. Which was a good thing because it’s hard to write when you’re throwing up.
“Yours is here somewhere.” A thousand thanks to you. This is, by far, the best piece of written word I’ve read online this week… and I don’t have any office, makeshift or real, or even a project in the works at the moment.
Thank you for such generous praise. Well, I’m assuming it’s generous, but then again, you might have only read an article about cardboard manufacturing apart from this post. Come to think of it, an article about cardboard manufacturing sounds intriguing to me. I like cardboard. I used to make things out of cardboard. Not things as intricate as the sort you find in Michel Gondry’s “The Science of Sleep,” but cool things nonetheless. Like one time? I made a movie projector. It only worked in my imagination, but I didn’t mind. That’s where I spent most of my time anyway.
Thanks for the inspiration. Sometimes I think I’m the only one living in stagnation. Unfortunately, I bought the desk that matches the hutch with the printer and laptop and all the supplies back when I was making money writing magazine articles. Now most of the magazines are out of business (or using interns who write for free) and I have all this stuff but no way to pay for it. I wish I were still working on my dining room table with my red stapler and my precious Uni Jetstream 1.0 blue pen–my favorite possession.
I’m glad I followed this link from Twitter. Your post came at the perfect time.
I think all writers have one foot in stagnation and one foot in inspiration and one foot in perspiration and another foot in expiration. And maybe one in palpitation and one in imagination and one in expectation. Writers have lots of feet.
A wonderfully engaging entry, Stephen. Couldn’t stop reading; just signed up for more. I’d like to say more, but my paper clips are acting up again — down! — get away from the keyboard! — excuse me, I have to go now.
Paperclips are far from benign creatures who gladly do our bidding. The way they hold our papers together might look like the gentle hug of a friend, but behind closed doors, they’re anything but friendly. In fact, they’re plotting our demise. And do you know why? Because we’re constantly bending them out of shape to poke reset buttons and hang Christmas ornaments and clean Oreos out of our fingernails.
By the way, you have a pretty name. Even the angsty paperclips on my desk can’t argue with that.
(That’s why I keep them in a box. Closed.)
No, Steve. I’m not brilliant. You are. Truly.
I’m only as brilliant as the people who think I am. Okay, maybe slightly more brilliant.
Way more. And deep down I think you know that.
I don’t look “deep down” very often because some heavy stuff lives there and I don’t like to wake it from its uneasy slumber. Except when I’m writing fiction, of course.
I suppose you could be right. But it’s okay if you aren’t.
Oops, I almost forgot I’m supposed to be marginally funny here. Let me try again…
Paperclips!
“You are brilliant.” No you are. Kat stole my thunder, but she’s right. Truly.
Kathy, did you steal Nicole’s thunder? If so, please return it. Thanks.
And thank you Nicole.
This blog makes me feel so much more excited about writing. Thanks for this.
Also: I totally have Jenny on my bookmarks, and I am proud of it.
You’re welcome.
And I agree. Jenny rocks. In a psycho-brilliant-hilarious sorta way.
Love the description. It made my office look brighter — and my WIP too. Thank you.
Just think of this blog post as the virtual skylight of a writer’s dark office of dreams. Or maybe it’s the virtual candle of a writer’s dark office of dreams. Or glow worm. Take your pick.
This is marvelous. Truly. So glad I met you during a minor rant on Twitter. 🙂
Oh, and you had me with your sidebar quote. I have never consulted the instructions. I’m a learn-as-you-go kinda gal. (Okay, but I did read portions of Plot and Structure and I learned a few things that helped my… non-fiction 🙂 )
The only time I consult instructions is when the three-shelf bookcase I’m trying to build ends up looking like a tennis racket. This is assuming I don’t need a tennis racket, of course.
Loved your entry in Chip MacGregor’s contest. I’ll lower case with upper class is a great line! Laughed out loud!
I’m glad you liked it. I don’t think it was bad enough for Chip, though. Next time I’ll use the word “loins” in there somewhere and that should bump it to the top five.
This was brilliant. It reminded me of a Billy Collins poem about writing.
(here from L.L., and it’s nice to “meet” you.)
I think this is the first time my work has been compared to a Billy Collins poem. Previously, the closest I came to such an honor was being compared to a lyric by Phil Collins. I’m still not sure what the commenter meant by “Su-su-ssudio.”