Why Prolificacy? · 10:49pm Feb 10th, 2023
I've been defeated a lot in this lifetime. One too many times. We've all been there—done that. Where you've given your all, and dirt is poured back into your awaiting hands. There's often a call inside us to be good and do well.
Isn't that why we're here? Wasn't that what we were told when we were all children?
Be good to each other, and do well on your tests.
It's built into us to succeed. To do tasks and arts to a certain kind of excellency. You're marked by a percentage on a test; the classroom gasps at the kid with the best artwork. Rare is a child taught to be amused with his own creation. To be satisfied with his marks, his processes, and his experiences.
This keeps going as you get older. But I'm sure you know that. We try to do well at our jobs—even when we shouldn't. Even when we're underappreciated. We go that extra mile knowing we'll be shit on for it… and somehow are surprised when the sky squats and spreads its clouds.
And even though it'd make sense to do the minimum, others and myself still push through the bullshit, doing the work because it needs to be done—and, sometimes, in a certain way. All you catch is flack, and even at the end, when the job is done, the better answer is revealed… you won't hear more than a grunt. But you do as you must. You are compelled by your nature. It is why, even when your mind knows better, you do the thing anyway.
Hello. My name is B_25. And I've had a rough little bit. I know I've been trying to be a bit more professional and whatever-the-fuck lately. But it seems like some old elements have come out to play. I can already hear the whispers. Those who chatter to each other in an echo chamber with untested opinions. Yes, yes. Read and discuss as you like. Fill your vacuum with my words and your words about me. Have fun.
Anyway, To the blog.
I'd always felt an attraction to the idea of being a writer as a kid. Not a good writer. My tongue was without taste, so I didn't know what a bad writer was either. Instead, I wanted to be a writer with no quantitative attached. Dealing with words and living through stories was enough for me. All the other details would come when one goes from Level One to Level Two.
Why the attraction to being a writer? I couldn't tell you.
It wasn't in our family. Our family was only creative when it came to swearing, and my sister was only good at telling the kind of stories that got her out of trouble. There wasn't any writer that I even looked up to at the time. No such model stuck out that caused me to whisper: I'd like to be like them.
My attraction was to the idea and nothing more. Despite this, I never wrote, and I rarely read. I was in a special class reading a Halo book. One of my teachers, confused, took the book and read a page. They then asked me to read the page. Afterward, they asked me what had happened.
I couldn't tell them.
Pointing at an assortment of words, they asked: "Can you tell me what any of these mean?"
"No."
"…t-then—"a series of blinks "—how are you reading?"
"Dunno." I shrugged. "Sometimes, the character says something, and I understand it."
And I'm much the same way now. My stories are without details and descriptions. I cannot paint you a picture. Instead, I can tell you it was a round, empty room, dusty and littered with suspended spiderwebs. I'll cue a few more details between dialogue and happenings to fill the space. Beyond that? You're on your own.
Skirts always did a great job of balancing that. It always takes him a sequence of three to set the setting to the point that you get it. You know precisely from those minimum words the environment, the scale, what is happening, and the mood/atmosphere. He nails that shit. He puts enough for you to complete the picture. It's like he hangs a certain kind of frame that, no matter what you envision inside it, everyone's vision will nearly be identical.
I can't do that. I tried—and I failed.
I tried it again—and it still didn't work out.
I tried it once more, and—fuck it. They're in an abyss. They're floating in a black abyss, having a conversation. There. I can't do editing. I can't do major revisions. All I can do is write a lot and cut the needless words. You write and create a cinder block. Then you chisel until it's likable. That's the way I write. I can't do transformative stuff. Yes. It's the best way to improve, and you learn a lot.
But I'd rather take a saw to my cock and learn to play the violin that way.
The name of this blog is why be prolific? And the truth comes from wanting to write a lot of ideas and enjoying the act of writing itself. Long ago, I wanted to be a good writer. And why wouldn't you? Writing well implies you leave behind good things. Readers will read such things, and it will affect them. There's nothing wrong with leaving behind a good story.
Except for the work, the rewrites, the hours of pondering, and the overall loathing that goes along with it.
I've got this story where a writer gets sucked inside his half-finished works and has to finish them from the inside. Some of the powers of being a writer follow him. He can create from nothing, but he cannot erase. You can create a forest or a monster with your following line into the world. A simple, believable injection. But you cannot suddenly have them gone without good cause. That, and if the characters—or himself—act Out Of Character, the world collapses. So everything that happens has to be believable.
The goal was to have a depressed character that grows into something more. However, the story begins with him failing. He's unlikeable. The purpose of the work was to work through my problems alongside the character through the series of issues—and discoveries—that arise in the tale. It'd be a two-for-one. But because the beginning was botched, I'd have to start again.
How to do it?
There are many ways. You could change him around, have him reference the story he's working on to his editor, and then he finds himself inside that story. Logical progression. You could make him more likable or his own character—separate from me. You could find and do all these little things.
But then… the story might not start quick enough. How do we fix this? Oh! How about some celestial energy cracks from the sky? It washes across the world, bringing the words from his pages alive? The words strike the ground, and what they describe arises. So the text is scattered shot, and trees, houses, and people—and the scenarios they were in—populate the street. Then, the villain comes out. He fights the writer, angry for being trapped and unfinished. He throws around cars, putting people in their middle before rolling the metal into a ball.
A goddess comes from before, and she puts everything—and the writer—into the words to stop it from getting worse. A little bit more explosive. You have a villain, and he's targeting the many weaknesses of the protagonist. Plus, you set a future, invincible opponent. It works, kinda. But perfect. But it's going somewhere.
Then you go to write it—
Why aren't my fingers moving?
You can't do it. You know how it should go. Got the basic idea swirling inside your head. Go. C'mon. Type those words. Let's get it.
It's not working.
You try, and you try, and despite the apparent improvements, you cannot write the new opener. Why? Well, because the important element of the character has been changed, you could say that he's now more like a typical anime protagonist in how he'll learn and deal with the world. The personal connection is gone. Perhaps, I could force myself through, and—
Don't you have to go to work soon?
17K written and 17K wiped. Little time between work and sleep, and instead of spending it with friends or family or games, you are writing something that's going to be torn apart, slashed, and destined for the bin. Rewrite. Rethink. Fix. Fix. Fix.
What's the point of this?
You're supposed to write well.
At the cost of the fun?
Mhm.
Everyone wants to do well. It makes sense. You're hitting the highest skill for your given activity. And, usually, that draws the best result. Who wants to leave behind bad stories? But then I remember something that will follow me to the grave.
I am a no-one and a nobody. I barely string the letters to form correct words, and it's a miracle that sentences are made. I cannot do better. God set my max Skill Level at 6 and refused to sell me the expansion pack. I am stuck. I am trapped, limited. I cannot do better. And I cannot be better.
Something fundamental is slanted, and it cannot be fixed.
Is there something wrong with me personally? Is that the cause of the other issues? Or do the other issues cause it? Are some people just fucked—and that's that? Or must you attempt the impossible repeatedly, without a change in result, until the world smiles upon you?
I am tired. And I am tired a lot. None hold the fault but me. I do not know what to do about it but live with it the best I can. It's the same shit, day in, day out, and one wonders why they don't do the minimum. Why attempt anything at all if the result will always be the same? In all the things I have pursued, I have failed, and all I have to show for that time is the sand pouring between my fingers.
I thought that I would be someone by this age.
Yet, I am still no one.
So… why the prolificacy?
Because if one cannot write well… one can at least enjoy the writing. The experience of finding a story as you write it. The sudden expressions and explanations that you needed to hear for yourself. The feeling that comes from a paragraph forming in exactly the right way. Of living through a relationship through characters you love.
There is a joy in writing on the other side of the spectrum. Just like in that childhood class, where all the kids flock around the best drawing—there is another child, all by herself, happy to draw, amused by the process, going her own way.
It was the same way for me.
This last while, I have tried hard to improve. I couldn't write well… could not write in the way that I thought would impress the people I admired… but I could write in a way that I enjoyed. That, even if the story succeeded or failed, I enjoyed writing for the sake of it. There might be results for this. But none were worth the price.
When you write a lot, one does not care if they strike the idea in the best possible way it could be done. They do not examine the million routes that could be taken, and deem, through logical thinking and rethinking, the best sequence. Instead, the writer goes down the route that feels right, and even if it wasn't the best possible route, they make that route the best that it can be. Outliners pick the best path; Gardners make the best out of the path they stumble upon.
What does this mean for me? I still don't know.
Probably that I will scrap everything again, start from the beginning again, and hope that it all does not end the same way… again.
If you cannot write well, at the very least, you can write content you enjoy. Write as you like, and revise until it's right. What you leave behind might not be the best. You may not even improve as one should. But you will have enjoyed the process. Been allowed to live through an idea you wanted to read. And done so without the horrible hesitation and restrictiveness that comes from 'trying to do a good job.'
That's the rant of the year out of the way.
I hope this blog rewarmed the mug sitting on your desk.
~ Yr. Pal, B
We've only got so many trips around the sun on this dirt ball.
If you're not spending that time being happy, then what the fuck is the point?
5713083 Preach!
From my own subjective experience, there's a thrill towards working and reworking a story to get it just right. What "just right" is is completely subjective of course. To me it's a balance between achieving maximum fun and maximum quality. Can't have one without the other! Also, the opinion of anyone who tells you "you're not really doing it if you're not following xyz subjective writing advice" can be safely discarded.
5713108
Exactly! When someone isn't having fun, it shows in the quality of their work.