dimanche, novembre 13, 2005

Writer's Block

So, I'm writing a book --- a collection of short stories. One of my New Year's Resolutions was to have it finished by Dec. 31st or to at least have a rough cut done. How's that going you may ask? Well for the past couple of months, I've been suffering from a semi-severe case of writer's block. Whether my case is based upon some subconscious feeling of dread on my part that everything I write is terrible or I simply have reached a dearth of interesting, vibrant material or I simply fear the possiblility of failure, I simply don't know. Maybe its a combination of all three. Sometimes I feel better creating euphemisms for what's bothering me so instead of saying writer's block, perhaps I'll call it creative inhibition.

So far, I have ten story sketches and I'm working on creating the templates for those sketches now. By the 31st, I hope to have those sketches completed. On a happier note, last week I had a meeting with an independent film director and she wants me to co-write a screenplay for a film she will shoot in June 2006. This offer did boost my confidence somewhat but fear is a powerful emotion, particularly my atychiphobia (also kakorrhaphiophobia).

The writing workshop in Brooklyn that I assist with is helping out my writing a lot but I think if I can get published and get my work out there, if only in a few small venues or publications first, I'd feel much better and confident about my writing. Confidence. I think confidence is the key. I feel that most of the times that I feel that I have failed at a task it wasn't necessarily because I couldn't do it, it was more because I had no confidence when I undertook the task. Belief in one's self and one's abilities is crucial to success. There are plenty of people who aren't good at anything but because they're confident, they go a long way or at least a longer way than people who are talented but aren't confident in their abilities.

Maybe I need a vice... Alcohol. Drugs. The best and the brightest writers were tortured souls...Dostoyevsky, Fitzgerald, Coleridge...But then again, I don't need any undue tragedy in my life.

I found this poem by the superbly talented Sandra Cisneros in her collection of poems called Loose Woman. As I am beginning to forcefully awaken myself from my "creative inhibition", I choose to surround myself with great writing:

"You Bring Out the Mexican In Me"

You bring out the Mexican in me.
The hunkered thick dark spiral.
The core of a heart howl.
The bitter bile.
The tequila lagrimas on Saturday all
through the next weekend Sunday.
You are the one I'd let go for the other loves for,
surrender my one-woman house.
Allow you red wine in bed,
even with my vintage lace linens.
Maybe. Maybe.

For you.

You bring out the Dolores del Rio in me.
The Mexican spitfire in me.
The raw navajas, glint and passion in me.
The raise Cain and dance with the rooster-footed devil in me.
The spangled sequin in me.
The eagle and serpent in me.
The marachi trumpets of the blood in me.
The Aztec love of war in me.
The fierce obsidian of the tongue in me.
The berrinchuda, bien-cabrona in me.
The Pandora's curiosity in me.
The pre-Columbian death and destruction in me.
The rainforest disaster, nuclear threat in me.
The fear of fascists in me.
Yes, you do. Yes, you do.

You bring out the colonizer in me.
The holocause of desire in me.
The Mexico City '85 earthquake in me.
The Popocatepetl/Ixtaccihuatl in me.
The tidal wave of recession in me.
The Agustin Lara hopeless romantic in me.
The barbacoa taquitos on Sunday in me.
The cover the mirrors with cloth in me.

Sweet twin. My wicked other,
I am the memory that circles your bed nights,
that tugs you taut as moon tugs ocean.
I claim you all mine,
arrogant as Manifest Destiny.
I want to rattle and rent you in two.
I want to defile you and raise hell.
I want to pull out the ktichen knives,
dull and sharp, and whisk the air with crosses.
Me sacas lo mexicana en mi,
Like it or not, honey.

You bring out the Uled-Nayl in me.
The stand-back-white-bitch in me.
The switchblade in the boot in me.
The Apapulco cliff driver in me.
The Flecha Roja mountain disaster in me.
The dengue fever in me.
The Alarma! murderess in me.
I could kill in the name of you and think
it worth it. Brandish a fork and terrorize rivals,
female and male, who loiter and look at you,
languid in your light. Oh,

I am evil. I am the filth goddess Tlazolteotl.
I am the swallower of sins.
The lust goddess without guilt.
The delicious debauchery. You bring out
The primordial exquisiteness in me.
The nasty obsession in me.
The corporate and venial sin in me.
The original transgression in me.

Red ocher. Yellow ocher. Indigo. Cochineal.
Pinon. Copal. Sweetgrass. Myrrh.
All you saints, blessed and terrible,
Virgen de Guadalupe, diosa Coatlicue,
I invoke you.

Quiero ser tuya. Only yours. Only you.
Quiero amarte. Atarte. Amarrarte.
Love the way a Mexican woman loves. Let
me show you. Love the only way I know how.

Word of the day: alexithymia n. - inability to describe emotions in a verbal manner; inability to express one's feelings

"I have come to tell you you are beautiful. I believe you are beautiful, But that it not the issue. The issue is they want you dead"
---Nicolas Guillen