I had a boss who, upon inspecting an inferior piece of work, would always say the same thing: “Pit-i-ful.” He would positively spit out the first syllable, would pronounce the “i” long, and put a grave emphasis on “ful.”
If he read my blog, he’d say “pit-i-ful” with such vehemence that it might crack the earth. My best excuse for not blogging is that Wife and I are having our place painted, and the floors sanded and stained, all because of the bed bug woes of earlier. This requires an inordinate amount of cleaning, planning, and trying to find places to stick Baby without access to a choking hazard.
I am returning from a week away with the in-laws while the contractor does his magic, which, upon inspection, I will utter, “pit-i-ful.” For now, here’s another entry in this forlorn “series” of entries. And before you mutter, “Welcome back!”, this will be, in all likelihood, my last post for a while.
Remember that I am about to go home, alone, to an apartment half finished, sleeping in brain-eating varnish fumes. Then again, it will probably help my writing.
I am cursed with a wealth of ideas. This might not seem like a plague — it’s hardly frogs raining from the sky — but it’s less of a blessing than it would appear upon first inspection.
When I was in college, I started writing my ideas down in a notebook, since lost to time (though you can probably find it if you’re willing to wade through a garbage mountain outside of Chicago). I kept a purple-ink pen latched to the notebook, which was a leather-bound datebook pilfered from the offices of a job I had showing apartments in Ann Arbor, Mich. (I spent more time thinking of ideas than actually working, but never mind.)
There was no orderly progression of these ideas, or real reason for them, other than they were persistent, odd, and occasionally disturbing. If I were to be held hostage, I could probably recall some of the contents of the notebook, which were ideas for stories, characters, band names, and other assorted ephemera that has been largely lost to the mists of time.
I numbered each successive entry, and I know that it passed 100 rather quickly. The best of the ideas were eventually transferred to electronic form, where they reside upon the hard drive of the very computer upon which I write these very words, a very ironic thing indeed since it’s been a very, very, very long time since I’ve actually looked at them. The file is collecting the electronic version of dust, you might say.
Despite the eventual displacement of paper for electronics, and its ultimate demise in landfill, there was a time that I would have guarded The Notebook with the same ferocity as a Mama Bear on amphetamines protects its young. And if you’ve ever had to do battle with a Mama Bear on speed, you’ll know what I mean.
The problem I’ve had with this curse is that I’ve always had great ideas, and burdened by a dearth of ways to express them. If I had the cajones, I would have tried standup comedy, acting, or screenwriting. And if I courted faith in the unburdening powers of mind-altering substances, I would have tried expressing my ideas through interpretive dance.
But, no: I am cursed (again) with reticence of several flavors. I have stage fright that turns me into a zombified caricature of myself, and the fact I am less-than-aggressive makes me ill-suited to the world of screenwriting or other forms of writing that require selling one’s wares or other forms of human interaction.
The situation boils down to this: while I struggle to translate ideas into something worth expressing — an actual short story or novel, for instance — The Notebook remains as real as ever, a Muse or albatross, depending on my mood. I’ll remember a brilliant idea conjured from nothingness two decades ago and think, “You know, Bookfraud, you really are a creative dude,” then remember a cringe-worthy stupidfest of a story idea and think, “You know, Bookfraud, you have the creativity of a robot accountant.”
There’s even a movie about it
I always wondered if others suffer from this ailment. They call writing fiction “the midnight disease,” as it afflicts those crazed individuals at all hours of the day and night. But to be harried by ideas is more like a “dream disease,” as all of the best notions come as if one is in a state of extended stupor.
The Notebook is like the crazy ex-girlfriend: lots of fun and wild-as-a-insane-aslyum sex, but there’s really no way it’s gonna work out in the end. You’ve got to put up with the 3 a.m. phone calls, the stalking, the dead bird at your front door with a note that says, “If you don’t get back together with me, I can’t be held responsible for what I’m going to do next.”
Not that this actually happened to me. But it’s not a half-bad idea for a story.
This is one hell of a series, child. You just don’t hold anything back, do you?
PS: I have deemed you a KICK ASS BLOGGER. check it out, yo.
Ah, varnish fumes. That’ll inspire some heady thinking, for sure. Nice post, Bookfraud. Hope you survive the next few weeks!
Welcome back. A member of my (abandoned) dissertation committee once told me what a “brilliant, exfoliating mind” I have. She meant it as a complement and not in the dermatological sense (unless I was sorely mistaken), but sometimes I think it’s kind of a curse. How to harness the flow and be productive?
BTW, “Why I Write…” is one helluva series.
^compliment. fuck.
P.S. The Midnight Disease vs. The Noon-Day Demon. Who wins?
wow…i had just written about notebooks too. it seems most writers have these lieing about filled with half worked ideas. could the next great american novel be found amongst them? who knows?
Now how did The Notebook wind up in a garbage mountain outside Chicago? That would be a story. Some lucky fool will find it one day and be like, What genius came up with these incredible ideas! You never know.
Myself, I keep my random unused ideas on scrap paper in random places all over the apartment. Sometimes I find one and I read the gibberish and can barely even decipher my own handwriting. I guess a real genius would put them all in one place, or learn how to write neater.
I definitely think you should run with the dead bird on the porch story.
I also suffer from too many ideas. I get the writing itch soothed by the calamine (to continue a truly repulsive metaphor way too reminiscent of your bed bug woes)of the idea extrapolation. Instead of a notebook, I have one for each idea. I can’t stick with anything for long, generally speaking, but I’m trying to keep the notes in one place. And then there is the relational database. I spent literally a week closeted in a vacation resort hammering out the world of a long five novel arc. Had a blast. Didn’t write a word of text.
I do know what you mean about too many ideas.
I hope you get the work done soon in the house and can return to a normal existence. I’m trying to keep doing things around the house so we can sell it and buy a bigger one. But the niggling projects are really getting to me. I just spent the last 3 evenings replacing the bathroom floor. Bleh.
Post-it notes. All colors and everywhere. Random, often ridiculous thoughts I just have to write down just in case.
Let me know if the varnish fumes work as a source of inspiration.
I think the “notebook as crazy ex-girlfriend” theme is a fantastic idea in itself that would resonate with many writers. Love the analogy! Dead bird and all.
By the way, the word you want is cojones. Cajones are drawers, the kind in a dresser. I suspect you have plenty of those already, probably containing notebooks.
I don’t keep a notebook of ideas because, if I did, I would see all the stupid things I thought were brilliant and get depressed. Instead, I let the ideas percolate in my brain and whatever sticks after a month or more -not letting me think of other more important things – is what I’ll explore. If it doesn’t stick around for a few weeks, I know there’s no way I can hang onto it for the year it will take me to write/rewrite, etc.
I keep many notebooks of ideas and/or notes. One of which was stolen out of my car several years ago (along with videogames and a keyboard which were far easier to replace). In the last year or two, I’ve tried to start just going with the idea as soon as it pops in my head because once I backtrack, it doesn’t have the same energy anymore.
Notebooks works best when I’m looking for a way out of a corner I’ve written for myself.
You were right about Great Expectations, by the way. The book is great.
Go for a Paul Auster-esque notebook found in garbage heap outside Chicago and the terribly twisty tales it tells…or inhale some more varnish and try another thought. Eventually the ideas do work themselves out. I think many writers have a wealth of ideas and a dearth of time/energy/motivation/patience etc etc…its our curse.
I am envious of your ability to come up with ideas, though, I often worry I’m just doing a slight variation on something that’s already been done.
I kept a journal for many, many years — 1985 to 2000. Skipped a few years an then started the blog. That’s where my life goes now. I still keep a notebook to jot down lines for poems or things I hear in movies and songs.
Come back soon, BF.
“Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss.” — Joan Didion
She’s got my number. Yours too, BF, from the sound of it.
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