Non-Writing Writer

I was inspired this morning as I walked to practice piano for an upcoming recital… this would have been great, had I been inspired to practice. Rather, I was inspired to set the opening of Wordsworth’s The Prelude to music. 

My roommate (bless her) stopped me just in time: “Ryanne, if you write a melody and add lyrics, you’ll also want to add harmony and piano. You don’t have time!” 

Valid. 

But I felt strongly the annoyance of being unable to create due to the pressures of my ordinary, required pursuits. 

So I wrote a little rhyme to vent: 

A non writing writer’s a monster they say:

A little too frazzled and nearly insane.

She lives in an enchanted, storybook world 

Yet can’t venture in, for life is a whirl.

One single word leads to many and two-

Well, they multiply to be more than a few. 

And should she dare to compose a small line 

She risks the danger of falling behind;

The everyday life has no cares for the muse,

Though the poet’s soul, she hardly did choose. 

So cursed with a mind that brews up ideas 

And a heart that ever ceaselessly feels,

She stumbles about with a businesslike stride 

And forces her little brainchildren to hide

And wait for a time when life will relax 

It’s grip made of boring and ord’nary tasks-

So she might finally write them all down,

These inkling ideas that, impatient, abound. 

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The Race to the Finish Line

Caption for the featured image: “I love writing, but it turned me into something escaped from Star Wars. #RememberMeAsIOnceWas”

I just finished the rough draft of what I suppose is my second novel, but is the first of what I hope to be a trilogy or series… And by “just finished” I mean I typed “THE END” not even twenty minutes ago before staring in exhausted disbelief at my laptop.

I had no motivation to put on real pants or leave my house today, so I decided to marathon to the end of my novel. I did not necessarily expect that to take nine hours of writing with only intermittent breaks for chocolate and coffee, but I am not complaining because, as tired as I am, it was one of the most fun days I’ve had this summer.

Weird, right?

But seriously, marathon writing was incredibly rewarding! Not only do I have a chunky novel draft to show for it (over 83,000 words and 375 pages woot woot!!!), I surprised myself with what I hope to be quotable lines, unique insights, character growth, and some google searches that might be a bit concerning should they ever be discovered… (Examples: “cat noses,” “Italian word for eyebrow,” and “Bacchic frenzy dance music”).

It was a long day of pajamas, chocolate anything, laughing at my own jokes, crying over my own adorable and flawed characters, texting my support group (aka, my poor best friends who have to deal with me on days like this), talking to my dog, avoiding my disheveled reflection, and praying my vision holds out until the end.

BUT I DID IT.

I’m sorry, but I need to take this moment to just celebrate.

My draft needs revision. It needs to be retyped. It probably needs to be restructured in places. But I finished it for now and that’s something to celebrate.

I complain about writer’s block, writer’s despair, and other #WriterProblems like inexplicably finding typewriter ink on my forehead despite writing with a Macbook, but I am overjoyed to announce that all of these make the Writer’s Victory even greater.

And with that, I am going to eat some well-deserved whipped cream and call it a night.

 

 

 

Sing, Muse

Dear reader,

Please read the following poem. Then, please click the link and listen to me read it; I have of late found great value in reading poetry aloud. Once you do those two things (it should take but two minutes of your time), you are welcome to read my explanation of the poem or to interpret it for yourself. I’d imagine both will lead to similar conclusions. Finally, if you are so inclined, I would love to hear from you! Thank you in advance!

-Ryanne

First, the written word: 

Sing, Muse, of rage-

     or rather- Desire.

     Drive with twin rhyming whips –

              Name and Fame-

     up mountains toppling, rising peak,

     ever crying, out of reach,

     “On, on, onward!”

.

Harpy howl to clamoring poets’ ears

     as siren song does fall.

     Dazzling, drawing, drowning:

     divine-seeming, it pulls

     still higher, higher

     up Tow’r where language

     began and begins

     “On, onward, pilgrims!”

.

So scaling e’er, traipsing eager,

     though weary,

     worshippers seeking sanctuary

     not for rest

     but to exalt,

     that which in climbing, we sculpt:

           New relic, sainted self.

.

Oh! To be one of the many few,

     who, pious, always “onward”

     and yet- when time trickles low-

     kneeling, wonder,

          “wherefore.”

.

Wherefore place an icon made

     (like us only in its fade)

     of substance age-old, ever-new:

     Ambition dressed as Holy Muse?

 

Second, the spoken word: 

 

Finally, a brief word of explanation: 

I found myself forcing creativity today, working to compose a piece of music without passion. I was inspired only by the thought that if I finish this, it will be another successful accomplishment to my credit.

But as I realized that selfish ambition was my main motivation (at the moment), I was deeply convicted. Why create at all if what compels me is untempered ambition? What profits it to climb what a favorite author of mine calls “the Alpine Path” if I seek only to plant my lonely, temporal banner at its peak?

And, as in most moments of intense emotion, poetry happened. In scribbling and speaking this poem, I was able to recall why I write and compose: not to glorify myself but, as in the parable, to be a faithful steward of my talents. To do this, I must write to the best of my ability to reflect the true Author and pray that my words will direct minds toward the living Word.

Writer’s Despair, the discouraging cousin of Writer’s Block

Have you ever been filled with despair because a book is too amazing to be true? Because the author’s wit flows effortlessly? Because the imagery bubbles from the pen as naturally as water from a spring? Because you just know that no matter how hard you try, nothing as profoundly simple, as beautifully tragic, or as utterly endearing can be birthed by your amature pencil.
So thanks a lot, Louisa May Alcott, for being about this bout of Writer’s Despair by your adorable novel, Jo’s Boys. I think that the only cure is more reading and scribbling, as prescribed by another despair-inducing author, Ray Bradbury.