Pragmatism

It's like restraint; it's holding back. I hate it. I truly hate holding back. But, I think it's a good thing. But I'm not sure. I am deliberately holding back the ambition with the novel. I don't expect it to be published. But, I want it to be really, really good. It won't. It's the first attempt at writing a novel. It's bound to be crap. I might not even finish it.

I'm not writing this as an author-to-be only. I have been struggling with this project as a warming up to be able to go back to the university. I've tried to do that a couple of years ago and failed miserably. Twice.

And for blatant reasons. I tried to continue where I dropped out many years ago and that meant starting the advanced class of social anthropology.

It failed, because I hadn't been reading for a decade. Well I had read half a Donald Duck story when I was baby-sitting a few years earlier.

The next time, same course, I got the reading part working better, but not the writing, because I hadn't written anything in a decade. Zilch. Some notes before going to the supermarket.

And there's plenty of writing expected at the university. I couldn't even decide to write in Swedish or in English. 

Which I have now.

More on that tomorrow.

And it failed because I hadn't left the house more than on the rare occasion and had no routine for getting up, getting dressed, and all that.

You have to crawl before you can walk. At least I don't have any tendencies for getting socially phobic, which I should after living as a recluse, with my socially phobic husband for years.

So I have returned from the dead and I have started to activate the social network. I'll write some more about how it's like to actually be able to say the famous "The rumors about my death..."

And now I've spent a year reading and writing daily. In English. And I have also gotten closer to some answers to the questions: Is writing anything for me? Am I good enough? The latter is not a relevant question because I can work on it until I am. Or until I die, whichever comes first.

But do I want to do this?

I haven't given up on the novel after more than a year of daily struggle, on my own. There's no teacher, or employer, or anybody else pushing me; I probably do want to do this.

And now I'm going back to the university. I applied, while I was thinking of something else, at the very last minute a few months back.

I got in, but haven't really thought much of it; I have hardly looked at the letter lying here on my desk. I can see it in the corner of my eye.

The course is about writing.

Creative Writing in English.

Half time. (Restrain!)

Starts next Monday.

Motivation - the characters and my own...

Why do I write?

Why does anyone write? Often it's obvious; we have to. To document, communicate, make notes to help us remember. I often need to write to be able to understand the heart of some matter, the logic, reason of a theory, idea, or to be able to put forward an argument. And sometimes to figure out what I really think or want when I can't decide.

But this is different. This urge to cook up stories, invent characters, and places, I don't know where it comes from.

And on an another level it is all about putting the words together, play around with their meanings and make contradictions possible.

I just do this. A pen and a paper and I start to write nonsense, doodle a bit, and then a few rhymes and then I toss it. Maybe that's what dudes that bounce and kick a ball back and forth when they get a chance, are doing too. There's no reason for that. It just feels right, an organic need. I'm not going to figure this out. The dude kicking the ball outside alone or in a flock doesn't care if it makes sense. He just keeps doing it.

The motives for this might not be analyzable.

But writing conveys meaning and information that affects the writer and the reader too. It's not the ball being bounced, kicked and tossed, it's the representation of it. If it doesn't make any sense, it's not satisfying. The world doesn't have to make sense. But words do.

Something changes at the core when you describe the dude and his ball. The dude needs to be explained, we need a motive for the hours he spends in the afternoon sun. What makes him do this? Is he crazy? Is he held at gunpoint? He's training for a competition, hopes to win a prize, make money? To pay for his mothers much needed surgery? Now there's a reason. Almost a story. 

I know he does this everyday for the same reason as I rhyme and doodle. It feels right. But in a story we need some answers or it’s no story. "Stop bouncing that bloody ball around and do something useful, damn it!"

What motivates my characters to do what they do? I have to figure that out. What make them tick? That's what make them 'real'. In the real world people do the strangest things for no particular reason. Sure, we think there's a reason, but it's mostly just a guess, any explanation goes. In a story that won't do.

J could fall in love because Betty is pretty and has brown eyes. He would fall in love once every three minutes walking around downtown if that was all it took. No good.

Or does J loves Betty because his brain happened to trigger a flood of chemicals the first time she was around? It's got nothing to do with her. It's sheer coincidence. Just as likely, just as logical, probably why it would happen in the real world, but why bother writing down chains of events that are random? Random words, a bouncing ball, doodles...

The story needs to become what the ballgame becomes when the other dudes come together, and there are goals and rules; and the spectators go crazy.

Stories are games with bouncing words, the writer makes the rules, and the characters try to make sense of it. And the reader feels as if it is important.

Two to one and the home team wins...

J loves Betty because she is everything he is not. Her ability to enjoy a few moments of light in a world of endless gloom... That's what I settle for. And we'll see if it holds up when the going gets tough.