Lately, I’ve been getting into riding my bike along the Brays Bayou here in Houston several times a week. It’s a nice stretch near our neighborhood with a path for biking and running. The only problem is that it’s so open, there’s always one direction where the wind buffets you like a whip, and keeps you from getting up to full speed. So basically, there’s a portion of the ride that’s a bit of a chore.
I’m finding out that writing is kind of the same way. My biggest problem throughout college and my early adult life was that I had a terrible habit of starting new projects without finishing them. Getting started on something new wasn’t a problem at all — it’s actually the easiest part. But once that initial rush of doing something creative is gone, you’re left trying to ride against the wind or run up hill. It’s what I refer to as the Creative Bog.
The Bog is kind of like the Swamp Thing. It is that muddy place where finishing seems nigh impossible. It’s like wading through cement to see any progress on your project, and as the old saying goes, it’s hard to see the forest through the trees. I can’t think of any more metaphors for it, but you get the idea: this place sucks. I can’t tell you how many first chapters or first pages I have of scripts and stories. It’s embarrassing, really. Eventually, I had to learn how to stick something through. Even when it was boring, when I knew it sucked or when it wasn’t what I first envisioned.
As weird as it is, it was Leet World, our goofy Counter-Strike machinima show, that finally taught me this lesson. When we first started making it, we honestly never thought we’d make more than a few episodes, because frankly, that’s the way it always was. For one reason or another, several months later, we found ourselves at the end of the first season. The feeling of getting that far was immensely satisfying, even though there were things about it I knew could have been better paced or structured differently. And at the end of it, I had finally done something I hadn’t done before: I stuck it out.
And the thing is, the Bog isn’t a unique place that only shows up every now and then. I’ve had to traverse its depths with each new thing I’ve undertaken. Web Zeroes and even Seven Sons have undergone the same thing. Right now I’m in the 60,000-80,000 word region for the book, and I was always dreading this point. Since my target is about 100,000-120,000 words, I knew that once I got just over the halfway hump, things were going to get a bit spotty. At the moment I’m engrossed in an action sequence that I’ve been working on for almost 3 weeks, and I’m about ready to bang my head against a wall because it feels like what I’m doing every night is terrible.
Even though I’m not an expert at this, I’ve managed to see a few year long projects through from start to finish. So the only advice I can offer about getting out of that awful swamp known as the Creative Bog is to stick it out. Keep pushing forward, even when you know it could be better. Because once you get through to the other side, you’ll be a better writer/painter/bowling pin juggler/whatever for it, and you’ll be happy you did it.
I think the trick to doing this is a daily discipline, and one that requires your full attention, even when you want to divert it other places. The creative process is kind of like some great Rude Goldberg device, moving of its own accord once it gets enough steam, and perpetuating its own motion. The worst thing you can do is stop it dead in its tracks, because giving it the momentum it needs again to keep moving is even worse. The simple way of saying that is this: do not let something you’re working on sit for too long, because every day you stay away from it is going to make it that much harder to pick back up. Even if you only have time to contribute a little bit to it, do what you can. Before you know it, the hard part will be over, and it’ll be fun again. Sometimes things you love require work, and that’s OK.
And really, there are far too many people in this world who start things without completing them. Occasionally, we’ll see flack about Web Zeroes from other creative types who think they could do the show better, which is a criticism that doesn’t bother me in the slightest. The difference between them and us is that we actually made something, while they sat on the sidelines. You can be the best at what you do in the world, but if you never actually contribute, you’re still in the same spot as everyone else.
In the end, the sense of accomplishment you get from wrestling through the creative process is probably more valuable than what you were working on anyway. Even if I end up finishing Seven Sons and can never sell the damn thing, I’ll have written a novel. I’ll either keep re-writing it for years on end if I have to, or I’ll move on to the next thing. But I’ll have finished something, which is more than what a lot of people can say. It’s hard but totally worth the trouble. So if it never goes anywhere, that’ll be fine by me. Because calling myself a novelist is kind of a cool thing to be able to say at parties, I guess.
Also, the manuscript will make for a rad coaster.
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Photo by J-A-X. He takes pretty sweet pictures of Houston.
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