Building Walls around the Fountain

This is a Scott Watson guest post, which I (Rebecca) am finishing up formatting before I go meet Scott for mini-bookclub, wherein the two of us will discuss a book we have both read while eating dinner (and likely other books we have read/written/wish to write, and other relevant matters such as cats/children). This is distinct from regular bookclub, wherein Scott, me, and a bunch of other friends meet up to discuss a book we have all read, books we have read in the past, 15 years of bookclub related books, the most hated book we have ever read in bookclub (a secret, but it comes up a lot) and other relevant matters such as cats and/or children. Also at bookclub we eat lunch or snacks not dinner.

I have worked in publishing most of my life, on the practical logistical side (important if admittedly boring), but that detail hasn’t prevented people from being compelled to share that they have a great idea for a novel/movie/tv series/musical and they just need to find a writer to create it. I wonder if the hype around AI chatbots is an expression of this desire to write a novel, without the fuss of actually writing. A technological weapon to defeat writer’s block.

Setting aside the debate of whether writing is the result of the struggle and to remove the struggle removes the writing, I must confess writer’s block has been a foreign concept to me. I don’t have much sympathy for the “I have an idea” people, as I have never found that the challenge (politely not saying “You only have one idea?”). The flow of ideas, characters, plots are constant, a bubbling geyser in my mind. My challenge is shaping water in some vessel. The art I lack is not dowsing but masonry. My words are poor containers, as I struggle to articulate the flow in my mind. There are many cracks, too many misfit stones, allowing the water to spread across the cobblestones as shallow puddles that quickly vanish.

The English language has never been a top ability of mine. I often wonder whether it was my creativity and work ethic that impressed my English teachers enough to get through their classes. I have gotten better, I will allow myself that, but it doesn’t come easy. My head still gets away from my mouth and pen, particularly in conversation. If we meet, I’m listening (honest)—my excitement just got the better of me (if I ever do this in your company, please take it as a compliment, a sign of your coolness.)

Perhaps I’m just blind to the minds of others, maybe we are all fountains, water water everywhere. Yet, I had enough kind, confused comments over the years to lead me to believe my thinking is unconventional, my statements appearing to come out of nowhere. The closest I have come to experiencing this myself is when I have conversations with little children, their randomness matching mine. Their tongues twisting in struggle to express what is happening in their brains. They have my sympathy.

Still, I wonder. Do you watch a show and then play with its ideas, see how you would write it differently? Do you find yourself trying to place songs in a soundtrack of a movie or show? Do you put yourself to sleep with a group of stories that you rework, editing till the mind shuts down. Are walks or long drives an excuse to ponder a place’s history, its people, or to drift into a sea of ideas? Am I alone in such madness?

Regardless of the answer, I carry on.  I try every night to create a fountain. They’re still ill-shaped and I’m not confident enough to show them to anyone, but they are made so I take a little bit of pride. They are getting better looking, I think.

Where is all this going? I guess I’m saying two things. First, that ideas are cheap, silly, wonderful things. There is nothing wrong with being curious and playful with them, but remember they are phantasms if you don’t work on them and make them into something. The action matters more than the idea, even though the idea happens first.

Second, if we ever meet, your ideas are great and I am listening to you, but I am knee deep in water.