Bugger.
This is book number six and why has no one thought to tell me the rules? I am once again flying by the seat of me drawers (stops for a minute to examine very stupid last statement and carries on regardless) and have been taken over by the mysterious hands which obviously don't belong to me.
I suppose it is not cool to admit that one is taken over by unseen forces but the fact of the matter is that my ghostly writer often writes crap and I have to start all over again. The hands are also not terribly good at spelling, much less editing anything as we (we?) go along but I have been wondering if I could pop off on holiday and leave them to it.
I have romantic thoughts that my 'ghost writer' might be Daphne. My solid reasoning tells me that Ms Du Maurier only lived a few miles away, she's dead, and she probably misses writing. Unfortunately my solid reasoning also informs me that I have not ever, to my knowledge cobbled together a sentence like "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again". I may have touched on "Last night I went down the chip shop" or possibly "Last night I dreamt of chocolate again" so maybe Daffers is resting in peace and has no interest in how my next chapter is going to shape up.
The fact is that my writing is increasingly becoming an out of body experience. Somewhere along the line I have got the engineers in and made a bypass around the headland. I should be embracing this thing but it scares me sometimes; traffic moves at an incredible speed and only just misses the road works and blocks. Without the head police in control I turn into a boy racer with a hatchback and an ear bursting stereo. It also bothers me that I never know where the current writing road is going much less who the fuck is driving.
Oh well, the next signpost says Chapter 13 - unlucky for some. Suppose I'll go and make some tea and wait until it's finished.
.
31 comments:
Minx! What if she's a he? Maybe he's called Darren and sings hymns in his spare time, before making like a poltergeist and invading your brains to write all about things he'd never dare tell his mother? Good post, though - I never usually ponder about whether I'm possessed but at least now I've got reason to feel excused if I'm having a slow day. Maybe writer's block is when your ghost-writing pal goes on holiday?
Matt! You may have a hymn singing Darren or Dylan but I definitely have a Delilah. She leaves her nail file beside the pooter and can't read a map.
If you are suffering from writer's block I suggest syrup of figs (figmentius imaginatum).
Just wondering if Ms Du Maurier liked chocolate...
I think the book Rebecca made me fall in love with writing on stationery with a fountain pen.
I love when "the others" take over and do the drawing for me. I just watch. They're pretty good you know. Almost as good as me.
It's a weird feeling, isn't it? It's like the book is already written out there (maybe in some parallel universe) and is dictated down to us.
We're just the conduit ...
The sense of being a conduit is relished in the purest of creative states. I have felt it with a flute, a guitar, a paint brush, a keyboard and a mason's trowel at my hand and they all find a commons in the Daphne or Darren we suspect the muse to be. To watch it happening through myself with no jealousy from ego's need to be "doing it" at being so used is a great joy in my life. Great post, I see the blog serves as a pressure relief valve, when the fun becomes work sometimes.
Oh I love the feeling of that! The muse just keeps whispering in my ear!
Hah, Leslie, I think Rebecca made me want to speak like the queen!
What? You mean I'm not an original, Debi? Bugger, double bugger.
Just so, G&G, the muse muses all around as long as the head is disengaged.
Well, tell her to speak up a bit, Roberta, and write it down.
"Daphne Du Maurier". One of my favorite short story writers. I had a good book of short stories by her called, "The Breaking Point" that I left at my ex-husbands along with a couple of hundred of other books. (all the books in the library were mine, except for a bible & a few high school year books. That in itself is interesting to contemplate) I'm not a writer though & although I understand the concept of the muse, for me I don't imagine creativity comes from anything other then myself. I think if a muse is anything, it's an extension of our own thoughts. I'm prob. totally lacking in imagination, here, but then again i'm not a writer.
You should put the writer's block under the front wheel so the car doesn't run off!
I often think that my muse is a little gin-soaked fairy with a scruffy dress and black boots. I don't suppose it matters what he or she is as long as she does her job and eases the imagination onto the paper. A muse is not just for writer's either. She is the one who stops you doing the dishes in favour of listening to a piece of music.
Regarding the books - do American husbands get custody of the books then? Shameful.
My car never runs off, John G, she knows where she is best off!
I am jealous, Minx - it's been ages since I had an invisible friend who did the writing for me and I am remembering how good it was - like driving without lights: wheee! 'Last night I went down the chip shop' is good, let's face it anything that begins with chips or chocolate has got a definite something going for it. As long as your out-of-the-body way keeps touching in on that kind of thing you can't fail. Just fasten your seat belt.
Laughing over the image of "...a little gin-soaked fairy with a scruffy dress and black boots."
Must not have changed clothes since the girls club soiree, then?
In my experience, American husbands don't give a fuck about the contents of the library, they just like the idea that the books make them look half-way intelligent by filling up the book cases.
Thinking of that, I am going over tomorrow to save "Daphne Du Maurier" from a fate worse then death.
Natch. I wouldn't worry about it. Someone else drives my writing too. I just go along for the ride. I gave up worrying about it long ago.
I think Debi summed it up perfectly - the story is already out there, we're just the conduit.
Now rev that engine, sit back and enjoy the ride! Yeeehaaaa! Erm, yep, that means I've just finished mine.
Driving without lights, Signs? People do that for other reasons here in Cornwall.
She always looks like that, Leslie, chip off the old Minx!
Fabulous, Handmaiden. I love a woman on a mission.
Things are quiet around the litty blogs, Marie - must be all that writering.
A good feeling to finish a piece, Aty, but one that is coupled with a sense of loss as well. Make words while the sun shines, I suppose.
I like the idea of writing as an out of body experience. I wish I could channel a literary ghost...maybe Margaret Mitchell. She never got to write more than one novel, bless her. And what a novel it was :o)
Ooh, there's an idea, Karen. We could start a dead authors society - Gone with the Words, or somesuch.
Maybe the heart writes and the head edits...unless you've been 'it on the 'ead...I'm in a similar position asking, 'where are we going?' and 'are we there yet?'
Just enjoy it! :-)
Hit on the noggin, Jon? Is that what happened? And no, I not nearly there and where is where, anyway?
I am enjoying it, Vesper, every damn, awkward sodding word of it.
I don't know from here, that sounds flipping fantastic.
I often don't trust the words I come up with myself, and much prefer the ones I over-hear coming from somewhere "other".
I mean yeah, it wouldn't do for editing, but for the initial writing it sounds perfect to me. That is, to me who is safely entrenched in her own body, with no one else taking over and knocking her internal editor out cold. Oh gotta go, be back later,
Just keep listening--D knows where she's going, and when she's good and ready, she'll even let you know.
Um, just to clarify the record, American husbands often get custody of their socks and underwear, but not always...
I think that is a sign that you know quite a lot about writing at this stage and don't need to worry so much about the mechanics. That's how I feel about poetry when I get started on a sequence: it just comes out and I work with it when they come onto the page. Some of it might be alright and some of it might be utter shite, but I have honed me shite-detector quite well at this stage ;)
Ooooo, a ghost is doing the tapping. We're in a for a treat! :-)
You hear them too, Taff? Welcome to the club.
Hope she knows where she is going, John, I am relying on her.
Where do I get me a 'shite meter', Cailleach, sounds like the thing to have.
Wish I also had a ghost for the housework and all the other nasty jobs, Shamey, it would leave me free to lie on the sofa.
Every time I go for a paddle(sometimes a piddle) in the kayak I drift pass Daphne's house at Boddinick,it's a stunning house,the garden goes right down to the water.I can just imagine her sat in the garden writing.
Can I borrow the Hands? Mine are so tied up of late that an extra pair would be handy :P Particularly hands that can write.
Piddling at Boddinick, Monsoon? Could be the start of something interesting.
Quick, Saaleha, have mine, wouldn't want you to drop the baby!
Piddling in a kayak?
Sounds a bit messy.......
Probably piddled in worse places.
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