I spent a few hours today working on a new chapter…
The images are there already. Those have been swirling about in that whirlpool known as my mind for some time now. The ideas are all there too–all present and correct. I can see the characters, hear them. As well as smell the sea and the harbour about them.
Yet when it came to it, today, the words were playing hard to get. And obviously are in want of wooing.
Because it’s not just a matter of plonking the easiest down on the page. It’s finding the words that convey the poetry of the language too and the poetry of the images as well, the rhythms of the land and wind and sea, so that a visual music is created for the reader, one that will play inside their head. And which will take him or her not just directly into that place (so crisply outlined in my mind), but with a closing of the eyes, it all will be perfectly vivid, but also which will take them into the hearts of the characters…
I should mention that I’ve also been having this trouble with my sonnets as well. I’ve got a couple of fine opening quatrains on the go, but then nothing, zip, zilch…
So I’m thinking at this point that perhaps I ought to change my methods. Hence, does anyone know what words prefer–Dinner with champagne? Roses? Chocolates? A day out to the seaside?–in order that they will again fall onto the page for me and seduce you?
M.M. Bennetts 
How very coincidental – or have you just been reading our latest instalment on Val’s thread ? We have just been cavorting about on this very subject : this is what I replied to RP’s discourse on words (a mere five to ten minutes ago) :
”Ah. Words. Yes, I remember those. Or things like them. Words . . . words . . . words . . . lot of them about, I notice. Bit of an infestation. Should we call in the, er, . . . wot yer call’em . . . extinguisher thingies . . . exterminators ! ?Or set traps for ’em. .. .?
Or woo them in with , I dunno, treacle sandwiches or something, and get them onto the screen in an orderly line . . .”
Ah, no, I had missed that entirely–between getting a couple thousand not-right words down and a head cold, I’ve been less than about today. I tell myself the not-right words will give way, however…or at least I have something from which to work. That’s the theory anyway.
A cold ? Right, pay attention : fresh root of ginger, grate a piece about 2 cm thick, pour boiling water over it and leave to infuse for five minutes. Add honey and lemon if desired – and a good splosh of whisky. Should sort you out overnight . . .
Yes, ma’am. Right away, ma’am. Just as you say, ma’am.
There’s a good BennsyBear
Mine like long walks. They’re either wonderfully congenial after a long walk, or they abandon me to stay out of doors longer. It’s a gamble, but they always come home when it rains, so I get them back in the end.
I find I just have to write something. Anything. And then the other side of my head says ‘no, that’s the wrong word’ and then it gives me the right one. And I agree with all that stuff about the ginger. Or you could just go for broke and drink the whisky.
I trawl the net. Or fiddle with a cover design. Or think of a scene two or three stories ahead. Anything not to write. Because I can’t, you see…I just can’t. Nothing’s good enough.
Pathetic, isn’t it?
Okay – blubbing self-pity over. Got ten web articles to complete next week so better pull half-a-dozen fingers out and get on with it.
Have fun!
That’s when I make myself write. Just force myself. Because at least I’ve got something down on paper to react against and say, “No, not that, it should be this…or this would be better…”
So, some of the imagery of what I should have is still eluding me. But it’s coming–phrase by phrase. And since I know I’m slow over this stuff, I don’t allow myself to compete with others who say, “Oh I write 2000 words a day…” So, you know, just keep at it.
You’ve got more self-discipline than me.
See – I’m lazing around typing not-a-lot when I should be filling in my bl**dy VAT return.
Oh…the exquisite joy of self-employment!
Great Article……quite helpful