I am having a major writer’s block crisis and I am reaching out to both of my readers (BoMR) for their infinite wisdom and guidance.
Approximately two years ago I began writing words with the intent of making those words coherent enough to amass them into a book. I was cruising right along (write along?) and I even had some reasonably interesting characters and about 100 pages of stuff. I almost called myself a writer. I mean, hell, I would even call anyone a writer that can fill up 100 pages of “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” Insert hard stop here! Because this is where I stopped writing about 6 months ago.
I have spent the last 6 months thinking about writing. I have spent the last 6 months looking for software to help me organize my writing. I have spent the last 6 months reading about writing. I have spent the last 6 months with my laptop in my lap and “The Son of His Father” opened in Word. You are getting the message here, right? I spent the last 6 months NOT writing.
There are at least two reasons why this is happening. The first no one can help me with. I am mortally afraid of writing. I believe that writing is somewhat equivalent to running up and down the street naked (without the accompanying screams of children and cars careening off the road as they shield their eyes). Each word is like an item of clothes which is why I have managed to put on 150,000 pairs of pants….just in case.
The other reason is the reason I am reaching out to BoMR. I have no written anything in 6 months because I realize that I have abso-freakin’-lutely have no idea where this story is supposed to go. I do not know what happens next. I am sure you are saying “Hey, Dan, you are writing a book that you created and you have no idea what is supposed to happen? Didn’t you have this stuff worked out in advance?” Nope…I am plotless.
Allow me an opportunity to explain a little what my story is about. I grew up in a section of Newton Massachusetts called The Lake. The Lake was very different the other sections. It was populated mostly by blue collar Italians whereas Newton was very affluent and populated with Not Italians.
My story takes place there. It is not an autobiography, but my memories form the point of reference for this story. it is about a man named Dino but he goes by the slightly more anglicized Dean, who is working in some big city as some nondescript middle manager. He is a tad self-centered as he muddles through his less than fulfilling existence. One day, he gets a call that his father has died back home in The Lake (by the way, there is no Lake in The Lake. Weird). Dean has spent a lot of his time running away from his Italian-ness. He was always embarrassed by his heritage and he was the only member of his family to leave The Lake. Of course, he returns for the first time in a few years to attend his father’s funeral. Once there, he realizes that not much has changed. It feels like he has stepped back in time. With that is a lot of mixed emotions. He feels both resentment for the barrage of stereotypes and a small part of him actually misses this life. He doesn’t fully realize this yet, but it is bubbling up inside him. He attends the funeral and the post-funeral feast…..screeching halt.
What now? At this point in the book, absolutely anything can happen. Dino can go to Italy to visit his father’s birth house. He meets a woman in The Lake that teaches him that he is not the center of the universe. His father could have a secret that gets slowly uncovered drawing Dino back to The Lake or the Russians can drop a bomb on the town. I have no effing idea.
Right now, this story is not much more than a hyper-sentimental journey and eventual transformation of a self-centered man.
OK, here we are. Dino has just buried his father and risen from the table after the feast. I am now reaching out to BoMR: WHAT THE HELL DO I WRITE NOW?!
Thanks for listening to me.
Ciao for now.