Gerard Houarner

Or…”interrupted by a person on business from Porlock” — sustaining the vision of the story you want to tell as life’s storms rage around you.

Trust me, it’ll make sense.

Quite some time ago in a LOCUS interview, Jay Lake talked about the challenges of containing the story he’s working on in his mind, or living in the “dream world” of his fictional creation.

I’ve always related to the problem, and kept the issue alive in my notes if not in my ever shrinking mind. I know I’ve mentioned the idea before, but perhaps never explored the concept. Also, over the years as life has closed in and its many challenges consumed innocence, insouciance, and energy, writing has become harder, not easier.

The topic haunts me.

One of the many romantic notions about writers is that they rattle off poems, stories and novels in a “white heat” of inspiration, working day and night, chain smoking, sitting in their dirty underwear in small rooms, their haggard faces lit only by the light of a computer screen (a single dusty bulb in the “old” days, and by candle flame in ancient times) surrounded by empty liquor bottles and piles of pristine finished manuscript, until the book is done and the royalty checks are already in the mail.

Everything real seems to stop in these writers’ lives. Children are magically fed, creditors compassionately defer their pursuit of unpaid bills. The sanctity of the torch of inspiration is respected, and the fire is allowed to burn until the fuel is spent and words are forged.

Now, it’s true there’s a least one famous thriller writer who books a hotel room for a few weeks and locks himself away to write a novel. And there are writers with significant others who “enable” their writing by taking care of the little details of life so they can concentrate on living in the imaginary world of their story until the tale is told.

The reality is that for most writers, that ain’t happening. More often, we’re like Coleridge with what we innocently and passionately believe is Kubla Khan in our heads, putting down lines from a (hopefully not opium inspired) dream vision until we’re interrupted by, as the story famously goes, a person on business from Porlock.

And if you’re a writer and never heard of anything from the above paragraph, stop reading and don’t write, but search out the poem and Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Romanticism.

So the problem (one of many) for writers is keeping what you’re working on alive in your mind. For me, what Jay Lake is talking about is more than a memory problem of recalling plot direction and character tics. And it’s not “inspiration,” that magical booster shot people who want to be writers wait for so they can produce something when, and only when, they feel like it.

I believe containing the story in your mind is about getting a state of awareness about what you’ve done, where you’re heading, and what you’re supposed to be doing with your story when you’re at your keyboard. Something like an altered state, without the opium. An understanding that certain things have happened and that, because of those things, the blank page/screen is waiting for you to set down what you already know, deep down inside beyond your conscious mind, will happen next.

Maybe it’s a meditative state, for some. Or the “zone” athletes talk about, in which years of practicing certain skill sets, along with instinct, experience, and athletic talents, combine to elevate performance out of the mud of fear, nerves and thought. A higher state is achieved in which the baseball appears bigger, moving slower, toward your gigantic bat which swings so effortlessly.

A dream state. Being “in the moment.” Focused on the thing you are doing.

This precious state of knowing and being happens all the time in life, I think, though we may not be aware of it. I think it happens in the process of raising kids, working, driving, praying. Addicts miraculously rise from their stupor to orchestrate their next score.

For writers, I think it means avoiding the struggle of finding the “next thing” to write, rekindling the fire of “inspiration,” feeling again the urgency of having to say the thing you wanted to say in those first moments you scribbled down the story idea. It means recapturing the magnificent arc of story you saw at some point early in the process, re-entering the dream of your vision of Kubla Khan, with all its shimmering details, its clever references, plot points, characters, imagery and layers of meaning, and dragging it out into the waking world whole and complete.

We want it to happen whenever we write.

But it doesn’t happen all the time. We can’t live 24/7 in the dream state of our stories. Other lives, including our own “real world” lives, also need tending and care. Duty calls. Responsibilities knock on our doors.

Obviously, opium worked, at least once for Coleridge. The “romantic” image of writers that includes empty liquor bottles documents the supposed need for alcohol and other drugs to “lubricate” the imagination.

Certainly there are plenty of literary legends fueled by this kind of inspiration. There’s also a lot of bs, folks claiming one thing but doing quite another because, well, the bon vivant is a cool “platform” from which to sell stuff. Aside from the physically, emotionally and cognitively self-destructive aspects of these habits, there’s also regret.

If you wrote that well when you were high, think how much better it would have been if you were in your right mind.

And then there’s the sad reality that 99.9% of that stuff is buried, unseen, along with the creators. Mostly, at a very young age.

So what triggers these states? What else can we use to find the dream in which we can create?

I believe the discipline tricks writers use – writing in the same place, at the same time, every day – not only helps with production, but it also gets the writer back into the “space” or “head” of writing. It’s certainly helped me at times.

Keeping a Fortress of Solitude, a Batcave, a private space decorated so that it resembles the inside of your mind, is a tried and true. But I’ve found that isolating, at times. Cut off from life. Too unreal, perhaps too comfortable. And sometimes, when illness, death, disaster, financial woes or other big life tragedies and issues knock on the door, the Fortress walls come down, or they seem just silly and irrelevant, both in terms of life and to a story you may be trying to tell.

Music, especially when writers talk about specific genres for different types of writing, also serves as an emotional and imagination gate to get back into the story. I’ve seen candles and scents would do the trick.

There are stories about writers doing it naked, as if getting back into some kind of primal state to get the work done.

But not everybody works that way, and even if these techniques work for the structure and discipline of getting back to the work of writing, there may still be problems finding the dream of the story, particularly when time has gone by or a writer is jumping from one piece to another.

I guess what I’m looking for is something tied not to the act of writing, but to the story you’re trying to tell. An anchor, or a touchstone. A key that unlocks the cabinet through which you enter the adventure.

Well, yes, music works for a lot of people in this regard. Theme songs, like a Quincy Jones arrangement for a detective show, except the show is your story and the theme song is whatever rocks your boat. Alas, most of the time this is not for me. I find music too distracting, engaging me in ways that make me want to do other things besides writing, unless I’m writing a very musical story. And even then, at some point, I have to shut it down so I can concentrate on what the characters are saying and feeling.

I guess one factor in finding the right “key” is understanding which of the five senses dominates your awareness – are you visual, auditory, etc?

I do find getting in touch with the story’s setting a good way to start things up each time I write. Working on a longish piece set in a surreal desert, on and off over the past months (more on this another time), I found pictures, documentaries, even a screen saver all pretty good starting points. I write a lot in urban settings, and I live in a city, but I’ve also done nature settings, and I like parks and country, too. I know in those times when I write in a non-urban setting, I’m always thinking of and remembering the time I’ve spent upstate, out West, by the sea, etc.

Setting to me establishes the mood of a story. Again, I can see how music would be a great tool. But I’ve used, as above, documentaries, Sunrise Earth (HD films of sunrises in different parts of the world), and touchstone movies – Blade Runner, Casablanca, David Lynch stuff, surreal cartoons – running silently in the background to guide me into my zone.

Another way is to start every writing session by editing the previous session’s writing. This is a good habit, anyway, as what seemed like gold last night can turn out to be lead in the morning. But, depending on your need, re-reading the work and starting to tinker with it can get you back into the frame of mind you were in when you were last writing. Sparks fly, connections are re-opened. You’re reminded of things you wanted to say, or why you said such and such. You recall threats, you react to dangers. Hopefully, at some point, you’ll feel the need to stop editing and move into the action.

Yes, I know, there are some writers who cannot go on before finishing the perfect page. I studied under one of those. And for that person, the story was complete in his mind. It seemed like the dream of the story was readily accessible, though I was too young and stupid at the time ask. Most of us are not like that.

The point here is to get back into the overall story, the dream, and not to get caught up in close editing. Unless, of course, you find that to be your key. In any case, reviewing old work can wake up the other part of the brain where the dream is living. Listen to it when it calls.

By the way, I recently talked here on Storytellersunplugged about using “dead time” in your life as part of the writing process. Doing a little editing – re-reading what you’ve written, doing minor edits on the fly on your portable computer, smart phone, or manuscript pages — is not only a smart use of little snippets of time while waiting for something to happen, but it also helps to keep that dream alive in your head. Maybe it’ll make you more motivated to hurry home, or dip into the dream for as much time as you may have, and carry the story a little further along with new material.

The biggest key for me getting back into the dreamtime, I’ve found, are characters. I guess it’s something like an actor waiting in the wings, ready to throw up, having no memory of the lines, dreading the cue to step on stage. And when that moment comes and the floorboards creak underfoot, the actor doesn’t so much enter the play but the character in the play, and the lines flow and the fear flies off and the game is afoot.

It’s not the easy or magical, or nauseating, when I write. But I have found that once I’m “in” the character – I have a firm grip on needs, fears, strengths and weaknesses, as well as a sense of personality like sense of humor, patterns of connecting with others, how they relate to friends or family – I can see and understand the story through that character’s eyes. I’ve done long pieces through the eyes of several characters and never had a problem switching around and getting into the story from their point of view. Their individual worlds, and the world of the overall story, was usually within my reach.

Finding and feeling comfortable with the characters is another story, of course. Looking back, I can see the “failed” stories, particularly the ones that never sold or the ones I never bothered to finish, had problems centering on my lack of connection with the characters. The dream never came alive.

Sometimes (let’s not say often) dreams die when published. They never come alive for other people. So it goes. But at the very least, the dream should be alive for the writer.

Strong characters carry their own atmosphere, bring the mood to the story, invite certain kinds of characters to play with them. Good characters can make the work of telling a story so much easier.

Think of the Harry Potter series. Really, all that fantasy stuff is wonderful, but not particularly original. The magical schoolboy is practically an English genre all to itself. But it’s Potter and his Scooby gang that makes that dream come alive for readers. When I imagine myself writing something like that (and cashing all those checks!), I envy the way the characters come alive for readers, and how it must have been to work with them and letting the story flow from their traits, their histories, habits, needs and fears.

In my surreal desert fantasy (no, really, I’ll talk more about that next time, I really must), which was a pain to write and is still a pain in the editing/revision process, which this column is interrupting so I must hurry and finish so I can get back to that dream, I was only able to get back to it after through the many interruptions I had because the main character had a weight of her own. Sometimes she’d say or do things that completely surprised me. But I had a strong sense of her right from the beginning, and that anchor allowed me to slip back enough times (but not al the time, because no solution is perfect and writing is hard no matter how many tricks and shortcuts you use) to keep the dream of that story going.

Another thing that kept that piece, and most things I write, going and alive in my head is having an ending in mind.

For the desert piece, the reason I even started it was to write about the Caravan of Death. This was an idea and a collection of characters from one of my novels. I always loved the idea and wanted to return to it. I started the story knowing the little girl I invented would meet the Caravan of Death and somehow all hell would break loose. For that little girl to hold her own against something called the Caravan of Death, there’d have to be some special qualities to her, and finding those qualities became part of the process of telling the story, part of the dream.

But a general idea of the ending, in most cases, is part of the beginning of the story. As I’ve said before, the seeds of the end are always at the beginning. They may be invisible, implied, cast like shadows around the edges, part of the background, in the imagery and symbols, but usually it’s there, somewhere, lurking, waiting. You may not be aware of it. The secrets may only be revealed with time, the story’s development. You may re-read that beginning a hundred times before you see it. Or, you may have to go back and plant the damn seed as the ending becomes clear by telling the story. One way or another, the end usually gets there in the beginning.

And I say this not just because I have an Ouroborus tattoo on my arm.

It may not be the ending that actually happens, and in fact, it’s probably better if the ending changes as the story evolves. But having that ending, or just a general idea for how the character conflicts will resolve (where the characters are going in their individual arcs), serves not only as an anchor for the plot, but for all the different levels of the story being told. Having a direction, an ending, helps to give the dream And by general idea, I mean, do I want

Part of the reasoning behind beginnings/endings and characters as keys to keeping the story alive in your mind is another piece of advice that a lot of writers talk about: having a strong foundation.

By foundation, I don’t necessarily mean a strong beginning, though that helps. But, I’ve found to my chagrin, beginnings change. You think you’re starting in middle, like the sage writing advice tells you, but suddenly you discover you need to start the story earlier or, more often later.

And having a big finish in mind is no guarantee that it will happen, unless you’re the kind of writer who lives by the outline. No problem with that. If the outline works, and can contain the dream and make the story come alive in your mind, I envy you. Most writers I know throw out the outline at some point.

But a start and end does help to define the dream. It’s like recognizing a picture, knowing the outline on a map is not some vague blob, but Africa and all the history and pain and wonder that the name conjures.

And going back and making that beginning stronger, going back and revising and inserting and deleting material, even leaving notes here and there for yourself with what needs to be done right in the manuscript (and believe me, I’ve been startled by my own forgotten notes more than once, and slapped my head over a forgotten part of the dream that needed to poke its head out at the place I’d left a marker), is another reason to edit during “dead time” and start writing sessions by re-reading the story.

If you’ve been away from your story for a while, start at the beginning. See if the beginning awakens the dream, reminds you of the things you’ve already written about what’s going to happen, if the characters come alive and fill you with the need to go back into them, and if you sense what’s coming, good or bad, at the end, or perhaps more importantly, feel the drive to find out what happens, in the end.

If you do, then the story is still alive inside you, and the dream waits for you to join in the adventure.

Yes, we’re all busy. All the time, it seems. There are bills to pay, responsibilities to meet, places we have to be and things we must do.

“Modern” life and its freedoms have their pressures. Choices come with consequences. The consequences, frankly, are not as dire as those that come from a lack of choices. But, hey, what’s life without drama.

For many of us, there’s a need to use every moment we can to pursue something or other. To be active, engaged. Boredom, restlessness, frustration seems to come easily. So do opportunities for distraction.

For writers, of course, there are deadlines. The next story to be written. A new market to jump into. And the perpetual complaint that there isn’t enough time to write.

Well, time is relative, as the saying goes.

A lot of us talk about how we carve out time to sit at the keyboard and punch out a few lines. But sometimes it’s hard to come up with anything during those stolen moments. Hard to switch gears, to concentrate, to return to the world we created in our imagination. We might spend a lot of time getting back into that frame of mind.

Sometimes the fight is less about finding time to write, and more about preserving the need and the frame of mind to create.

So maybe another way to approach the writing gig is looking at the time that falls into our laps inconveniently. That would be the unplanned time we spend waiting for something to happen. (There’s an argument to be made that all time is about waiting for something to happen, but I edited that out because, well, I gave you guys a break.)

Some people call it “dead time.” You’re trapped in a commute, a meeting, a waiting room, an event. Whatever. The point is, you’re in a time and place that isn’t engaging you. You’re bored, adrift, perhaps losing your mind.

Some pull out a laptop or even a “smart” phone (don’t get me started) and start working on a piece.

I suspect these days people are more likely to be texting, gaming, shopping online, etc.

Reading is a traditional pastime, and for writers, essential.

But if you want to write, and can’t pull out the project you’re working on for whatever reason (like, you’re driving, or the setting isn’t appropriate), there are ways to exercise the writing muscles, and maybe gain an inch or two on whatever you’re working on.

Writing, even though it’s done mostly sitting down (unless you’re a best-selling media writer who prefers dictating into a machine while taking walks), is an active endeavor. It requires engagement of mind and body, attunement to senses, imagination and cognition. I say again, imagination.

I think we’re encouraged, if not trained, to turn imagination off in many situations. If we live in a variety of “worlds” – family, faith, work, creative, sport, etc – we have a lot more material to work with, but we are also undercover. Spies in the house of God. Locked in roles, tucked away in boxes.

We may spend a lot of time fighting not to think outside the box.

Working out the imagination is not a bad way to pass your dead time.

It can take work. Playing games is definitely easier. So is reading. Sometimes playing someone else’s game is what’s needed to relieve the stress, to give your mind and spirit a break. But in playing your own games, I think you’re preparing yourself to write.

Perpetual daydreamers have a different problem, but the problem, as far as I can tell from my own lost ramblings inside my head, is not being focused on a specific story or purpose. A little more structure can be helpful.

One dead time problem is being stuck worrying or obsessing about whatever is going on in your life, a negative kind of daydreaming. One way to get out of that “head” is to pay attention to what’s around you, looking at things as if they were brand new, through the perspective of someone else, a stranger, someone else in the vicinity, a friend or enemy, whoever is behind the thing you’re obsessing about, an alien, a traveler from another time or place. Focus on what’s outside, rather than inside.

Details make a story real. You’re gathering information, and practicing how to fill out information from the vague, dreamy settings in your mind. You’re also practicing observing the environment from the perspective of different characters. How does a boss view a meeting room, as opposed to the clerk taking minutes, the tech guy, the presenters, the people who will be called upon to come up with reactions. Or a child’s perspective on the family holiday dinner, versus the grandparent, the friends and neighbors, the person the daughter or son brought home to meet the family, the hosts.

Doesn’t matter how many times seen the room, been down that road, passed that pile of rubble, heard the family story or institutional line. Stepping outside of yourself forces you to experience the familiar in unfamiliar ways.

Just because you’ve seen a sunset doesn’t mean you’ve seen anything like the one happening now.

I grant you, the experience is not always pleasant. It’s a little disorienting. Surreal. It’s also…work. So is writing. The value to me in this kind of exercise is that it helps me bore down to the details I need when I’m actually at the keyboard trying to get something done. The other payoff is that, sometimes, I get something out of it I can use in the piece I’m working on.

Along the same lines, you can also get into describing people and places in different literary styles. From spare to lush, hyper-realistic and detailed to metaphorical, trying out different approaches to setting a scene is a good exercise that can break the monotony of your own writing voice or style. Coming up with one-line character descriptions is, of course, an art that may never be mastered, but I guarantee practicing it during dead time on a train ride will not only be entertaining, but improve your ability to call upon the skill when you’re at the keyboard. Finding ways to describe what they’re actually doing – how a doorman stands in the door, waiting, or how a construction worker acts in the cab of a crane, are all fair game. Looking at buildings, sky, bridges, hallways, cars, etc, will either send you scurrying off to Google for concrete details or inspire you to write poetry (if you’re not already one).

You don’t have to use your overly-detailed or metaphorical gems (um, “the parking lot looked as if the earth had tried to shrug it off its tired shoulders,” for example). You just want to play at being another kind of writer. Stretch and practice skills you will absolutely need when it comes down to working on a story. You never know, you might wind up reaching for pen and paper (or electronic device) to actually write something down.

If you’re the crime kind, you can tune the observational game to find, like Sherlock Holmes, or Monk, what’s off in the details of your environment or the people around you. Or, knock one small aspect of what you see out of whack, or make the place or person too perfect. Flaws and flawlessness, the keys to conflict.

Projecting yourself, or a character you’re working with, into your dead time environment is another variation. I often discover a new level of hell in places I find myself – for instance, at work, surrounded by a massive 5 year construction project, the steady pounding of piles being driven into the earth or the whine of the machinery driving them through rock, informs my every working minute. I can look out my window and put myself in and around the machinery, in the ditches and holes, pipes, concrete, etc. My travels take me to all kinds of odd setting, like a massive food distribution warehouse where my mind riffed on hell as an endless warehouse, demons sitting on top of food supplies but providing free access to bleach.

Perhaps a more challenging exercise for me might be to think romantic comedy instead of hell. We all have our lessons to learn.

But looking out on to landscapes from your deadtime vantage point, or following the story happening in a window across the alley, or through the open doorway in another office, are just as productive in a creative exercise kind of way.

If your deadtime is not physically restrictive – say you have an hour to kill before an appointment – then an alternative to sitting in a café and reading or writing might be to explore the neighborhood you’re in, paying attention to details, differences in people and places, architecture, food, etc, from what you might be accustomed to experiencing. Walking a narrative in your mind. Listening for different speech rhythms, music, smells, sounds.

Of course, a more immediate use of deadtime might be to keep the last couple of pages of what you’re working refreshed in your mind, even if you haven’t had time to work on the piece. Some of these games might serve to shake up what you’ve written, force you to look deeper, or come up with another angle on character, setting, plot.

From personal experience, it can also extend the amount of time you’re working on a project. Nothing like getting new perspective on work you think is already done. Maybe it’s good, maybe it’s just putting off the inevitable slide into anonymity. But, for the moment, it can be fun.

Somebody once told me I’m always seem to be working because, at that time, I’d was always writing things down – snatches of conversations from which I harvested titles and dialogue; odd facts; descriptions of friends and family members other people would talk about who seemed interesting as potential characters. I guess I had a lot of dead time, back then. Or, perhaps truer, I used my time better in those days. I certainly aim to get back to those days.

Perhaps, I may even email myself my clever bits, if there are any, while everyone else is texting under the table.