Writers' Block

The more often I engage with the art of literature, the more I find writers' block to be equally inconvenient to a bad case of the sniffles. Most people grow up being told "write what you know," and this is something that pops up at least once a week for me. Actually, I'm having a problem with it right now. Sometimes it helps to sip a cup of hot tea with cream. Others find inspiration during a hot shower. One time I was told by a charming young writer "my best ideas come to me naked." I very much would like to know what you do. Sometime sketching relieves that appropriately named "block" from my brain, as does jogging and stretching. Every now and then a stubborn entity feels the need to block my creative flow and all focus dissipates. It seems like the little flashing icon that the letters sprout from upon the screen (I'm over tired, please don't mind me) is telling me to hur-ry hur-ry. First of all, that is simply rude. Second of all, I find I preform at my best the second an assignment is assigned. I am also curious to know, those of you who preform under pressure, what specifically makes that your preferred method? And does it always work?

My Favorite Collins Stanza

Quatrain out of "Lines Composed Over Three Thousand Miles from Tintern Abbey"

Nothing will be as it was
a few hours ago, back in the glorious past
before our naps, Back in that Golden Age
that drew to a close sometime shortly after lunch.

This stanza painfully reminds me of the moments I have, that we all have, when in a single instant we fudge up. It takes less than a millisecond to alter the course of a relationship, life, and ideal. Of course, that same second possesses the ability to illuminate a truth, moment of compassion, or secure a friendship, but I find discussing the element and meaning of chaos to be more fun.
That moment of change is the one before you realize your breaks have no intention of working during rush hour traffic. It is the moment you acquire a case of word vomit and fall victim to passion, rage, etc. Once those precious collections of characters and syllables fall from one's lips, circumstances change. Worlds dissolve. All other arrangements of characters are rendered useless. You might be left lifeless, a victim, a criminal, and there is no physical possible way to return to the second before the incident occurred. This stanza references the realizations one has to how perfect the imperfections of their lives were, and will never, ever be again.

Form is Everywhere!

Lost Cause
Beck

Your sorry eyes; they cut through bone
They make it hard to leave you alone
Leave you here wearing your wounds
Waving your guns at somebody new

Baby you're lost
Baby you're lost
Baby you're a lost cause

There's too many people you used to know
They see you coming they see you go
They know your secrets and you know theirs
This town is crazy; nobody cares

Baby you're lost
Baby you're lost
Baby you're a lost cause

I'm tired of fighting
I'm tired of fighting
Fighting for a lost cause

There's a place where you are going
You ain't never been before
No one left to watch your back now
No one standing at your door
That's what you thought love was for

Baby you're lost
Baby you're lost
Baby you're a lost cause

I'm tired of fighting
I'm tired of fighting
Fighting for a lost cause

While trying to enjoy some mindless entertainment, which seems impossible now that I'm being trained to see patterns, signs, and symbols, I noticed a familiar pattern. Aabb. Then I heard the abcbb. It presented me with an urge to turn this melancholy song into a consistent poem of the aabb ccdd etc. rhyme. For the purpose of this exercise I removed the chorus, or refrain; I'm not sure which is the correct term. Also, note that I limited myself to about eight syllables per line.

Your sorry eyes; they cut through bone
They make it hard to leave alone
Leave you here wearing awful wounds
Waving your guns at someone new

So few people already know
They see you come they see you go
They know your tears and you know theirs
This town is crazy; no one cares

There's a place where you seem to go
No one left to watch your back now
Never again you'll be before
The power of your big oak door

Pulling my dreams out of your wings
But what could all of these tears mean?
The war is over; we both lost
While fighting for a useless cause

Any suggestions on how to alleviate the awkwardness of the last line while excluding the extra syllable?

Even Metal Heads are Well Read

She seems dressed in all the rings
Of past fatalities
So fragile yet so devious
She continues to see it
Climatic hands that press
Her temples and my chest
Enter the night that she came home
Forever

Oh (She's the only one that makes me sad)

She is everything and more
The solemn hypnotic
My Dahlia bathed in possession
She is home to me

I get nervous, perverse, when I see her it's worse
But the stress is astounding
It's now or never she's coming home
Forever

Oh (She's the only one that makes me sad)

Hard to say what caught my attention
Fixed and crazy, Aphid attraction
Carve my name in my face, to recognize
Such a pheromone cult to terrorize

I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me

(Yeah!)

(oh-oh)
I'm a slave, and I am a master
No restraints and, unchecked collectors
I exist through my need, to self oblige
She is something in me, that I despise

I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me

I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me

SHE ISN'T REAL!
I CAN'T MAKE HER REAL!
SHE ISN'T REAL!
I CAN'T MAKE HER REAL!

She isn't real (She isn't real)
I can't make her real (can't make her real)
She isn't real (She isn't real)
I can't make her real (can't make her real)

This is a song, Vermilion, by the metal band Slipknot. Even in the counterculture of the "metal heads," literary references are rampant and force alternative meaning and depth into the songs and the over all style. "Rings of past fatalities" seem to me a reference to Dante's Inferno. "The night she came home forever" can easily be interpreted as a reference to Browning's poem "Porphyria's Lover," and the final stanza can be interpreted as evidence to support this claim. "Dahlia" clearly refers to Black Dahlia, the Massachusetts murder victim who inspired a vast amount of literature and film. The Dahlia is also a flower, and the phrase "Fixed and crazy, Aphid attraction" is a poetic notion that compares her to the flower, and him, to a bug, an aphid, that cannot help but ravish her. Think on the phrase "Such a pheromone cult to terrorize." It's stunning and odd, but is open to interpretation. Since pheromones are what aids attraction, and a cult is a collection of people who partake in nonstandard thinking or practice, often times harmful ones, then how do these words offer different meanings depending to the reader? "I'm a slave, and I am a master" is a clear Biblical reference. The list goes on infinitely; it is far longer than the word requirement allows. My point is, even the most obscure of cultures look to classical poetry and literature to influence their work. Also, signs are everywhere waiting to be analyzed. Before you write a song off as noise, observe and question the content. It's shocking.

Creative Process

I'm quickly discovering the magic of revision. Here is the first draft of a haiku I'm trying to "make work." Please bear in mind that I chose to this particular form because I want the concentration in the tone, even though the subject matter is not the norm.
Bones beneath the skin
Shimmers as ice on the like
Warm as the cabbin

It didn't have the coherency I wanted, so I move some words around.
Warm as the cabbin
Shimmering ice on a lake
Bones beneath the skin

I wanted to incorporate more of the weather inspired, seasonal elements so I tried to make the bones less predominate.
Warmth from the cabbin
Like bones hovering beneath
Shimmers on the lake

Still, I'm not satisfied with my current draft. I'm looking for words to secure the content but ease the subject matter into the message. The idea is convey an image of the light reflecting off the ice in the same way light bounces off bones hovering beneath the skin. Imagine a mother's hands. That's a lot to accomplish, I know, but poetry is about creation. I want this message in this form. Now I need the best words to convey it.

Open Mouth Insert Foot

At some point everybody makes a comment that acquires blank stares and inappropriate giggles. Sometimes it takes a long time to laugh about certain incidents. One time, I was enjoying my afternoon at a friend's horse facility and her farrier was present. David, the farrier, was in his early forties, and I couldn't help but notice he wasn't wearing a ring. I ask "David, you're a young guy. If you don't mind my asking, are you married?"
He responds in an exaggerated drawl, "Ohhhh no. I went through that rodeo once and I ain't ever doin' it again."
I took this to mean he had experienced a rather unpleasant divorce. I muster all my tact to approach the subject, and respond with, "What? Was she a bitch?" At this point my darling friend pipes up with a bewildered look upon her face. She replies to my question on his behalf "No, Ashley, she's dead. she died of a brain tumor." I began to cry. I cried inconsolably for hours, stuttering apologies. They both laughed and assured me the situation wasn't as bad as it sounded. Jesse passed roughly ten years prior to my inserting both size ten point five shoes into my mouth. I learned a valuable lesson that day: keep your mouth shut, and never ask personal questions until you know someone for more than five minutes.

The Beginning of a Stanza Piece

Unholy Occurrence

It was more than a loss of life endured
The self lets go the spirit follows
Across the bridge are footsteps heard
Fear like blood washed the Hollows

Women, children, not one spared
Civil war commands men to garner
A village dissolved in the same nightmare
Terrorized by a spirit darner


And then I drew a blank. A long one. The legend of the Headless Horseman is a favorite story of mine, and I wished to retell it in my own words, in my own way. The historic setting is perfect, I feel, for the abab cdcd etc. form. However, this version of the tale is more closely related to the 1999 Tim Burton film than the 1820 story by Washington Irving. The first two lines refers to the fact that it was a spiritual force that drove the horseman to act. In the film, a woman possessing his skull controlled the murders, though the town felt they were at random. The idea of random killings, by a spirit, raises the town into an uproar. The men watch for the big black horse in shifts and are ready to attack. In the legend, the crossing of the bridge is the gateway of the unknown; the hessian soldier (in Irving's story) turns into a skeleton upon crossing. I'm looking to complete the tale but the two stanzas almost feel complete to me. Suggestions are most appreciated.