Hi everyone,
Well after a frenetic start to writing the manuscript - 7 chapters boom boom boom - I have done the writer's equivalent of a hamstring injury.
I am struggling to get myself to the keyboard to continue exploring the incredible lives of Raymond and Captain Angus. Some of it has been forced on me, in that I have had to hold the narrative while I research some of the more technical details of the story - like the boat. My vision of Captain Angus's boat is that of an old wooden schooner. I have had to undertake a lot of research to get the terminology, sailing lore and stuff like rigging, dimensions, construction material and so on down pat. I have even visited many docks to try to find a model upon which I can base my descriptions. Although the boat is not a major part of the story, I feel I need to paint the picture accurately if I am to make the reader's experience a believable one.
I have also had to refresh my knowledge of Scottish folktales, common language and geography so I can be true to Captain Angus's background. I have used many friends and associates to check my interpretations as well as devouring volumes on Scotland and its people (I have visited myself but it was a while ago now. I fell in love with the place and maybe that's the reason for Captain Angus's background).
So anyway, all of this has distracted me from the lives of Raymond and the Captain, a necessary distraction though. The upside is I have much more landscape information from which to draw upon to add to the tapestry of the story. The downside is I now find it difficult to steel myself for the challenge of reentering into the Captain and Raymond's lives and tackling the enormous challenges that I know they are both facing.
So, in a nutshell, I am looking for every excuse possible to ignore Raymond and the Captain at the moment: beautiful day so I'll go for a walk, do my tax return, clean the house....I've even set up a group for writers in Facebook called "Writer's Almanac" just so I feel like I'm doing something productive while I steer clear of Raymond and Captain Angus.
And, everything seems to be magnified a thousand times over. Jack the cat, whom I love very dearly is dying, he is not in pain but he is not long for this world. He is not even my cat but has been a big part of my life - am I being overly sensitive here? The news depresses me so I don't watch it anymore. I watched a documentary on a group of people, volunteers, that look after orphaned elephants. I watched a baby elephant trying to get it's dead mother to stand up and the vision tore me in two.
So I need to get back my inspiration and courage to tackle what I know I must, and that is the story of Raymond and his battle with anxiety and depression, his battle to find happiness; and Captain Angus's struggle to fulfil his last promise to his beloved wife. The story of the unlikely friendship and bond that these two men strike up, and the beauty of hope, love and faith.
I don't have writer's block, I know what I need to do. I just need a little push to get back into the zone. If anyone has any good tips on how I can get back in the zone, I would love to hear from you. Usually watching an inspirational movie, or listening to music does it for me, but not this time. Maybe I need to get horribly drunk...hmmm maybe not.
Joe.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Raymond Figg
Again,
thanks for the feedback and comments from Shannon, Kisatrtle and Rocky.
I was just wondering if you guys, or anyone else who stumbles upon my rantings, knows of any good tools or applications that I should put on the blog. My main aim is to be able to communicate easily with people who view my blog and highlight comments from contributors as a thank-you for their effort. I want people to contribute to the development of this story and I want to make it as easy as possible.
Back to Raymond Figg. Rocky has asked about the root cause of his breakdown.
I am not entirely sure yet myself. Raymond has been with me now for a few days and like meeting a new friend, slowly I am learning more and more and where once he was like the silhouette of a stranger passing by me on a foggy night, I can now see him with increasing clarity, his physical features at least.
I make him to be in his early 30's and attractive not in your archetypal square-jawed, tall dark and handsome way, but in a boyish way. You can still see the boy in his face and eyes. About 5f10, with curly brown hair and soft eyes.
In my mind's eye his sits with me on a beach and we are staring out over the water towards a sunset. I wonder why he chose to bring me here. Off to our left I see a pier and there I see "The Selkie" with Captain Angus sitting on its deck. I turn my mind's eye back to Raymond; he seems pensive and his face is downcast. I wonder if it has always been this way. I think about what question to ask him first but he beats me to the punch:
"What's happened to me?" he asks himself more than me. "I used to be happy. Great job managing a team in a call-centre. Great girl. Great friends. Great life." He picks up a shell and casts it towards the water. "I was the life of the party, full of energy, looked forward always." He turns to face me. "I had dreams, Joe," he says. "I believed I could do great things. The world was full of magic and opportunities..." he turns away again and picks up another shell which he throws with venom into the water. "Now my life's gone to crap and I don't know why." He shakes his head. "What happened to the old Raymond Figg. I want him back. Now."
I can't help but feel for Raymond. There are a thousand questions I want to ask but this will take time, I need to go slowly and ask the right questions as you would with anyone in pain whom you hope will become a friend. Instinct tells me the questions can wait and it is more important to listen.
"12 months ago," he continues. "Out of nowhere. I wake up feeling a bit funny. I had a lot on at work. I try to get ready but this funny feeling doesn't go away. I feel light-headed, like I've eaten something spoiled. I sit down on my bed and I start to think the walls aren't real. Can you believe it? I'm sitting on my bed looking at the walls thinking, my goodness are they real and then I start to think the same about the floor, I feel like it's insubstantial, incapable of supporting my weight, that If I step onto it I am going to fall into some abyss. My heart starts to pound trying to force it's way out of my ribcage, there's a steel collar around my throat and I'm finding it hard to breathe, I feel like I'm going to soil myself, a cold sweat forms on my forehead. I want to get to the phone but I'm scared of getting off my bed...I feel like I'm going to die."
I nod.
He stands and walks to the water's edge; he is facing away from me looking out to sea. "Where did this come from? Why?" He turns back to me. "I'm 32 and I had to call an ambulance. And there was nothing wrong with me. Panic attack the doctor's said. See your mental health professional. I AM NOT CRAZY!"
He walks back and resumes his seat. "Ever since that day I've changed. Every little spike in my body and I think Oh Oh here we go again. I check my pulse every day. I check for hospital locations when I go out just in case...." He pauses. "Does this sound like a normal 32 year old to you?"
I'm not sure if he wants me to answer so I remain silent.
"Well?" he asks.
"Have you sought help, Ray?" I ask.
"Mental health professionals?"
"Yes."
"No. I'll get through this. I'm no quitter. I've done some research on the net. Read the forums. I've learned how to control the panic. I'll find myself again. This is just a rough patch."
"You need to talk to people," I say.
"I'm talking to you."
"Not just me. What about your friends? Family?"
"I don't see my friends much anymore."
"Why?" I ask but he doesn't answer. "What about your family?"
Raymond gets up again and stares at the pier 200 metres to our left. "My father used to take me there when I was little," he says. "Loved boats, he did. We were going to buy our own boat one day, dad and I. There was an old boat at that pier, one that dad used to get me to draw when I was little, so we could build it when I got old enough."
Raymond turns back to face me, there are tears in his eyes. "My dad used to say, 'Imagine the adventures, son. You and me. The captain and his mate.'" He kicks the sand and scoffs. "All gone," he says.
"The Boat?" I ask.
"The Boat. Our Adventures. My dad."
Before I have a chance to say anything, he leaves me. And I am left with a 1000 more questions.
thanks for the feedback and comments from Shannon, Kisatrtle and Rocky.
I was just wondering if you guys, or anyone else who stumbles upon my rantings, knows of any good tools or applications that I should put on the blog. My main aim is to be able to communicate easily with people who view my blog and highlight comments from contributors as a thank-you for their effort. I want people to contribute to the development of this story and I want to make it as easy as possible.
Back to Raymond Figg. Rocky has asked about the root cause of his breakdown.
I am not entirely sure yet myself. Raymond has been with me now for a few days and like meeting a new friend, slowly I am learning more and more and where once he was like the silhouette of a stranger passing by me on a foggy night, I can now see him with increasing clarity, his physical features at least.
I make him to be in his early 30's and attractive not in your archetypal square-jawed, tall dark and handsome way, but in a boyish way. You can still see the boy in his face and eyes. About 5f10, with curly brown hair and soft eyes.
In my mind's eye his sits with me on a beach and we are staring out over the water towards a sunset. I wonder why he chose to bring me here. Off to our left I see a pier and there I see "The Selkie" with Captain Angus sitting on its deck. I turn my mind's eye back to Raymond; he seems pensive and his face is downcast. I wonder if it has always been this way. I think about what question to ask him first but he beats me to the punch:
"What's happened to me?" he asks himself more than me. "I used to be happy. Great job managing a team in a call-centre. Great girl. Great friends. Great life." He picks up a shell and casts it towards the water. "I was the life of the party, full of energy, looked forward always." He turns to face me. "I had dreams, Joe," he says. "I believed I could do great things. The world was full of magic and opportunities..." he turns away again and picks up another shell which he throws with venom into the water. "Now my life's gone to crap and I don't know why." He shakes his head. "What happened to the old Raymond Figg. I want him back. Now."
I can't help but feel for Raymond. There are a thousand questions I want to ask but this will take time, I need to go slowly and ask the right questions as you would with anyone in pain whom you hope will become a friend. Instinct tells me the questions can wait and it is more important to listen.
"12 months ago," he continues. "Out of nowhere. I wake up feeling a bit funny. I had a lot on at work. I try to get ready but this funny feeling doesn't go away. I feel light-headed, like I've eaten something spoiled. I sit down on my bed and I start to think the walls aren't real. Can you believe it? I'm sitting on my bed looking at the walls thinking, my goodness are they real and then I start to think the same about the floor, I feel like it's insubstantial, incapable of supporting my weight, that If I step onto it I am going to fall into some abyss. My heart starts to pound trying to force it's way out of my ribcage, there's a steel collar around my throat and I'm finding it hard to breathe, I feel like I'm going to soil myself, a cold sweat forms on my forehead. I want to get to the phone but I'm scared of getting off my bed...I feel like I'm going to die."
I nod.
He stands and walks to the water's edge; he is facing away from me looking out to sea. "Where did this come from? Why?" He turns back to me. "I'm 32 and I had to call an ambulance. And there was nothing wrong with me. Panic attack the doctor's said. See your mental health professional. I AM NOT CRAZY!"
He walks back and resumes his seat. "Ever since that day I've changed. Every little spike in my body and I think Oh Oh here we go again. I check my pulse every day. I check for hospital locations when I go out just in case...." He pauses. "Does this sound like a normal 32 year old to you?"
I'm not sure if he wants me to answer so I remain silent.
"Well?" he asks.
"Have you sought help, Ray?" I ask.
"Mental health professionals?"
"Yes."
"No. I'll get through this. I'm no quitter. I've done some research on the net. Read the forums. I've learned how to control the panic. I'll find myself again. This is just a rough patch."
"You need to talk to people," I say.
"I'm talking to you."
"Not just me. What about your friends? Family?"
"I don't see my friends much anymore."
"Why?" I ask but he doesn't answer. "What about your family?"
Raymond gets up again and stares at the pier 200 metres to our left. "My father used to take me there when I was little," he says. "Loved boats, he did. We were going to buy our own boat one day, dad and I. There was an old boat at that pier, one that dad used to get me to draw when I was little, so we could build it when I got old enough."
Raymond turns back to face me, there are tears in his eyes. "My dad used to say, 'Imagine the adventures, son. You and me. The captain and his mate.'" He kicks the sand and scoffs. "All gone," he says.
"The Boat?" I ask.
"The Boat. Our Adventures. My dad."
Before I have a chance to say anything, he leaves me. And I am left with a 1000 more questions.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Captain Angus Cargill
Firstly let me say an enormous thanks to Shannon and Kisatrtle for reading my blog. I am truly honoured.
Everywhere I look at the moment, and maybe because I have a heightened sensitivity to it due to story that is forming in my head, I see and hear people extolling the virtues of new age spirituality, of modern day guides: The celestine philosophy, The secret, the works of Eckhart Tolle, just to name a few.
Tolle is now a household name due mainly in part to Oprah and the online classes discussing his work. I have read his latest and many other works by philosophers new and old when I felt my mind becoming receptive to the ideas of happiness and meaning in the modern world.
I have no doubt that the teachings of spiritual leaders and philosophers help many to find happiness. But I also wonder if it is sustainable, will the works of some of these teachers still be mentioned in years to come or are they cyclical? Do they hold the same value to all or are they simply products of the western world's desire to get away from the 'rat race'? How does "the secret" help a starving child in Africa? How does "living in the now" help a family that is starving with no money? Would significant human achievements like those of Martin Luther King have happened if the man did not have a vision for the future?
Physicists search for unification. The unifying law that brings together the various theories: string, quantum, relativity... and unites them all in an single unquestionable truth.
Do we have a single unifying law for the soul and spirit?
John Lennon famously said "all you need is love." Is that true? Can serial killers love? Dictators bent on shaping the world in their own image, are they capable of love?
Is faith that unifying law? God? And is he for everyone?
What is that single undeniable truth for happiness? Is there just one? Is there any?
All these questions form a maelstrom of ideas, doubts and questions in my mind. My mind is set on a track to write this book and Raymond Figg has appeared in my head. But writing is not a start at A finish at B process. My mind having focused on the theme of my story now begins to explore all the tangents and in the maelstrom, seeds begin to be planted. I feed them with information relating to the story I want to write and the seeds begin to germinate, their young and delicate shoots are buffeted by the winds of the maelstrom - but the seedlings have taken hold and they are strong.
One of these seedlings is Captain Angus Cargill. The maelstrom in my mind ceases and clarity sharp and vivid takes over. I see the Captain sitting on his boat. He is weather worn and ancient, wisps of white hair float around his head on the gentle sea breezes. His boat seems in a similar state of disrepair, detritus strewn all over its deck. He looks at me with eyes that are sharp and strong but full of sorrow. "It is time for me to go," he says. "Where?" I ask. "I wish to go to my love." A solitary tear rolls down his cheek. "Where is your love?" I ask. "She rests with the seals," he replies. I notice the name of his boat "The Selkie". The legendary seal people of Ireland and Scotland. "That's impossible," I say. He looks at me and through his eyes I see his will begin to fall apart. "You are right," he says. "But not because I do not ever have faith but because my body fails me and I cannot ready this ship for my last voyage."
I am not sure what to say to him, his sorrow has touched me. "She," he begins, "was my soul's partner." He looks away. "With her last breaths, she took my hand and kissed it, 'I love you Angus Cargill' she said to me, 'keep me in your mind and have faith that I will be near you always, in the sea that you love, with seals that we both loved.'" The captain seems to have become older in front of me with the burden of his sorrow. "I've failed her memory," he says. "This boat will not be ready and I have lost my strength and my faith." He looks back to me and the fire and intensity has returned to his eyes. "So it is time for me to go, maybe you can help me young man. If you cannot I will go of my own accord, I have had a good life, travelled the world, met many people, I have loved and learned but now there is nothing left for me here."
I don't know what to say, the captain's image stays fixed in my mind and I feel a ball in my throat at his plight. "You can't go," I scream in my mind's eye. "You can't. You still have so much to give." The Captain looks at me with a mixture of hope, confusion and sorrow. "I am old and beaten," he says, "I have nothing left for you." I physically shake my head even though my conversation with the captain is happening in my imagination. "NO YOU CAN'T GO ANGUS. I have someone for you to meet," I say. "Raymond Figg is his name. He needs you. And you need him. Please."
The Captain of the Selkie nods. I am mentally exhausted but happy.
Raymond Figg wants to talk, he has something to tell me about his father. I don't have the energy. I need to go outside and see the world. Talk to people of flesh and blood.
Joe.
Everywhere I look at the moment, and maybe because I have a heightened sensitivity to it due to story that is forming in my head, I see and hear people extolling the virtues of new age spirituality, of modern day guides: The celestine philosophy, The secret, the works of Eckhart Tolle, just to name a few.
Tolle is now a household name due mainly in part to Oprah and the online classes discussing his work. I have read his latest and many other works by philosophers new and old when I felt my mind becoming receptive to the ideas of happiness and meaning in the modern world.
I have no doubt that the teachings of spiritual leaders and philosophers help many to find happiness. But I also wonder if it is sustainable, will the works of some of these teachers still be mentioned in years to come or are they cyclical? Do they hold the same value to all or are they simply products of the western world's desire to get away from the 'rat race'? How does "the secret" help a starving child in Africa? How does "living in the now" help a family that is starving with no money? Would significant human achievements like those of Martin Luther King have happened if the man did not have a vision for the future?
Physicists search for unification. The unifying law that brings together the various theories: string, quantum, relativity... and unites them all in an single unquestionable truth.
Do we have a single unifying law for the soul and spirit?
John Lennon famously said "all you need is love." Is that true? Can serial killers love? Dictators bent on shaping the world in their own image, are they capable of love?
Is faith that unifying law? God? And is he for everyone?
What is that single undeniable truth for happiness? Is there just one? Is there any?
All these questions form a maelstrom of ideas, doubts and questions in my mind. My mind is set on a track to write this book and Raymond Figg has appeared in my head. But writing is not a start at A finish at B process. My mind having focused on the theme of my story now begins to explore all the tangents and in the maelstrom, seeds begin to be planted. I feed them with information relating to the story I want to write and the seeds begin to germinate, their young and delicate shoots are buffeted by the winds of the maelstrom - but the seedlings have taken hold and they are strong.
One of these seedlings is Captain Angus Cargill. The maelstrom in my mind ceases and clarity sharp and vivid takes over. I see the Captain sitting on his boat. He is weather worn and ancient, wisps of white hair float around his head on the gentle sea breezes. His boat seems in a similar state of disrepair, detritus strewn all over its deck. He looks at me with eyes that are sharp and strong but full of sorrow. "It is time for me to go," he says. "Where?" I ask. "I wish to go to my love." A solitary tear rolls down his cheek. "Where is your love?" I ask. "She rests with the seals," he replies. I notice the name of his boat "The Selkie". The legendary seal people of Ireland and Scotland. "That's impossible," I say. He looks at me and through his eyes I see his will begin to fall apart. "You are right," he says. "But not because I do not ever have faith but because my body fails me and I cannot ready this ship for my last voyage."
I am not sure what to say to him, his sorrow has touched me. "She," he begins, "was my soul's partner." He looks away. "With her last breaths, she took my hand and kissed it, 'I love you Angus Cargill' she said to me, 'keep me in your mind and have faith that I will be near you always, in the sea that you love, with seals that we both loved.'" The captain seems to have become older in front of me with the burden of his sorrow. "I've failed her memory," he says. "This boat will not be ready and I have lost my strength and my faith." He looks back to me and the fire and intensity has returned to his eyes. "So it is time for me to go, maybe you can help me young man. If you cannot I will go of my own accord, I have had a good life, travelled the world, met many people, I have loved and learned but now there is nothing left for me here."
I don't know what to say, the captain's image stays fixed in my mind and I feel a ball in my throat at his plight. "You can't go," I scream in my mind's eye. "You can't. You still have so much to give." The Captain looks at me with a mixture of hope, confusion and sorrow. "I am old and beaten," he says, "I have nothing left for you." I physically shake my head even though my conversation with the captain is happening in my imagination. "NO YOU CAN'T GO ANGUS. I have someone for you to meet," I say. "Raymond Figg is his name. He needs you. And you need him. Please."
The Captain of the Selkie nods. I am mentally exhausted but happy.
Raymond Figg wants to talk, he has something to tell me about his father. I don't have the energy. I need to go outside and see the world. Talk to people of flesh and blood.
Joe.
Monday, May 5, 2008
The seeds have been planted
0 comments, o views. Funny. Maybe I should concentrate more on writing my ms (manuscript) then on blogging. But something tells me that I should be doing this, for a number of reasons, and I have learned to trust my instincts even if I 'm not sure of the language they are using to speak to me.
I briefly toyed with the idea of researching strategies to supercharge the traffic to my blog but then thought otherwise. I've had to scratch and fight so hard to get my other projects to publication that I feel like I deserve a crack at trusting to fate. So I've decided I'm going to leave the blog in the hands of the of the "word-of-mouth gods" and if interest is generated then so be it.
The central theme of "happiness in the modern world" has been bouncing off of the grey-matter walls in my head for days. Pressure creates diamonds and I think the same applies with ideas. Constant musing on ideas - with numerous iterations, changes of mind, reshaping, going off on tangents - generally leads to moments of clarity. These moments usually occur when you've taken a rest from staring at the same spot, like some madman, talking to yourself while trying to reach a revelation on the central theme of the story you're going to tell. Out of habit, I try to frame the central theme into one sentence that will encapsulate the story that I wish to tell. I find that this technique stops me from trying to write about too many themes and muddling the true message of what I want to get across. My father, a very wise man, once told me that the best tasting pizza is the one that is simplest, because you can be sure to taste the flavour -too many ingredients and the flavours are lost.
Anyhow, I digress, please forgive me.
Back to the central theme of "happiness in the modern world". I have a character forming in my head and his name is Raymond Figg. He is sitting on the side of his bed with his head held in his hands. A year ago he suffered an anxiety attack and the resulting depression has changed his world forever. Before his anxiety episode he had everything a successful guy could want: a great job, a loving partner, friends. He has told no one that he's suffering, not even his family, and he refuses to seek help. He thinks he'll be alright. I (the writer) am not so sure and I begin to worry for him. I want to know more about him? What happened? Where did the anxiety and depression come from if he had such a good life?
It's time for bed (for me the writer) and as I close my eyes, Raymond's face appears and he begins to talk to me. Here we go, the madness of creation begins.
I briefly toyed with the idea of researching strategies to supercharge the traffic to my blog but then thought otherwise. I've had to scratch and fight so hard to get my other projects to publication that I feel like I deserve a crack at trusting to fate. So I've decided I'm going to leave the blog in the hands of the of the "word-of-mouth gods" and if interest is generated then so be it.
The central theme of "happiness in the modern world" has been bouncing off of the grey-matter walls in my head for days. Pressure creates diamonds and I think the same applies with ideas. Constant musing on ideas - with numerous iterations, changes of mind, reshaping, going off on tangents - generally leads to moments of clarity. These moments usually occur when you've taken a rest from staring at the same spot, like some madman, talking to yourself while trying to reach a revelation on the central theme of the story you're going to tell. Out of habit, I try to frame the central theme into one sentence that will encapsulate the story that I wish to tell. I find that this technique stops me from trying to write about too many themes and muddling the true message of what I want to get across. My father, a very wise man, once told me that the best tasting pizza is the one that is simplest, because you can be sure to taste the flavour -too many ingredients and the flavours are lost.
Anyhow, I digress, please forgive me.
Back to the central theme of "happiness in the modern world". I have a character forming in my head and his name is Raymond Figg. He is sitting on the side of his bed with his head held in his hands. A year ago he suffered an anxiety attack and the resulting depression has changed his world forever. Before his anxiety episode he had everything a successful guy could want: a great job, a loving partner, friends. He has told no one that he's suffering, not even his family, and he refuses to seek help. He thinks he'll be alright. I (the writer) am not so sure and I begin to worry for him. I want to know more about him? What happened? Where did the anxiety and depression come from if he had such a good life?
It's time for bed (for me the writer) and as I close my eyes, Raymond's face appears and he begins to talk to me. Here we go, the madness of creation begins.
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