I like to read.

Dear Friend,

My life is a novel; an overdramatic romantic-tragedy-horror-action-mills&boon-cum-selfhelp(intheformofdon'tdothis) novel that absolutely no one should read. I write in it every day as I get up, and shower and have that familiar first cigarette of the day that makes me feel dizzy. I write in it as I make the familiar walk up Easter Road to uni, and then back down again. I write in it as I eat my dinner and download some music. I do all of that easily, just the litany of my life: the superfluous background setting on which I write the plot.

Writing the plot is the hardest part. The setting is easy: it's mostly predictable and fairly laid out in front of me. When it comes to the real writing, I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. I'm no writer, and I'm certainly no life planner. So I freewrite, and keep freewriting. I make up each sentence as I go along, little care on the specific connotations of the words I'm using and hope that the imagery comes out as I want it to.

It usually doesn't.

I can't stop though, because, well, you just can't. It's not allowed. Banned. Illegal. Whatever, by the powers of time that be. You have to keep writing this unknown plot into it every single day, even when you feel you can't write anymore. You have to make those words come out of you from somewhere and become reality on your page.  You need to keep writing in that chapter as long as you can, so that it never ends, or that it finishes and you can start afresh. Cliffhangers are not acceptable: they mean the previous chapter is unfinished and the new one not valid.


There are tons of chapters in my book. Some good, some bad, and some mediocre. There are chapters in my book (like yours) I've ripped out, and thrown away, ashamed of them and don't want anyone to read them - including myself. There are finished chapters that I can look back on, read through, analyse, and mentally correct if the plot should ever turn in that direction again. Then there are the few ones that I haven't actually finished.

Sometimes you'll have a chapter, where the plot and characters get out of control. It starts off great; but spins into a swirling vortex of entropy. You can't control it; you can't finish it. It's too messy to tie up, but it's too painful to keep it there. So you leave it, skip a few blank pages, and start a new one. These chapters are the unfinished ones that are allowed to be unfinished. I'm not finished with them, yet. I continue writing in my book, a new page, with fresh ink and falsely, impressively neat cursive that isn't really my own, and I put a post it where I left the previous plot line. Because one day, maybe, I'll get to go back and finish writing it, whatever that may turn out to be.

Recently, I've had one of those chapters. It got way out of control. I tried, and I tried, and I tried, but I couldn't bring the plot and the characters to order again. My imagery was way off, the setting was way off, and most importantly, my characters were a complete mess. I wanted to finish it and sort it out: I tried, but I really couldn't. Some aspects had to go. Some characters had to die. Some plotlines needed to be stifled. They were ruining the entire book asofar, and I needed to eliminate them. But I couldn't. So I put in my post it, turned the fresh new page and started writing a new chapter. The postit is bright red and it's staring me in the face; but now I don't need to stare it in the face every time I go to write. It's in the past: it's there, but it's gone. For now, at least. Maybe one day I'll get to conclude it.

So here's to my new chapter. Let's hope it's going to stay in control of itself.


Do you have any unfinished chapters? What's stopping you finishing them? Do you even want to?


lots of love


Sean

xxx

Procrastination Prose 1

Alana is a character I created. 
The story is pilfered from a lecturer. 
The format of the prose is pretty much pilfered from "Invisible Monsters".... enjoy

Twirling a lock of blonde hair around her finger, Alana stared vacantly across the lecture theatre. Before her, a notebook lay open and unwritten in; pen abandoned beside. She stifled her millionth yawn – Jesus, how late had she been out last night? - and glanced around with her glazed eyes: the entire room was filled with students frantically scribbling. You had the OCD freaks with their specific type of pen writing elegantly in their pristine and perfectly organised notepads, and the scatterbrains, scrawling in their crumpled leafs of scrap paper with a borrowed pencil. Normally, she would have let a smirk creep around her mouth at their absurdity; but she was far too hungover for that today. A tentative look at her phone told her it was exactly 2 minutes since she last checked, with 58 minutes till the end.

Seconds passed, then minutes. Fifteen minutes passed, then half an hour. The lecturer continued prattling on about something – Alana had absolutely no idea: she was only here because they took attendance – and her absence grew more like a casual slip into a coma. In the distance, she heard a voice, catching occasional words. Fecundation. Naegele's Rule. Linea Nigra. She had such little idea what any of these words meant, he may as well have been speaking Chinese; though she actually spoke Chinese, so that might have been better.

“And now we come, sadly, to Abortions.”

Alana's trance broke instantly and she instinctively picked up her pen, staring intently at the lecturer.

Jump to 2009. Jump to the soccer field on a summer night. Jump to Alana running through the sprinklers laughing, beer in one hand and a boy's hand in the other. Jump to them beneath the bleachers making out.

“The unfortunate reality, is that of those embryos which have implanted successfully and are developing correctly, a large number don't get the chance to develop full term. Sometimes a woman may have been raped; sometimes a young teenage girl makes a mistake; sometimes an older teenage girl who should know better makes a mistake; sometimes contraceptives fail; sometimes the woman thinks she is ready to have a baby, but realises she is not.”

Jump to the quarterback's lips on hers. Jump to the smell of his cologne. Jump to him running his hands through her hair. Jump to his hand sliding up her shirt.

“There are criteria upon which we, as medical staff can grant an abortion. The sad reality is that these criteria can be manipulated to suit almost anyone. As you can see in your notes, one which is commonly used is 'continuing with the pregnancy would involve a greater risk of injury to the woman's health than would ending the pregnancy' and you will also see this is physical or mental health.”

Jump to them both naked. Jump to her asking him if he had a condom. Jump to him saying yes and claiming he'd put it on. Jump to her giggling and kissing him in the moonlight.

“If the situation fits any of the criteria you see here, abortion can be granted up until and including 24 weeks of gestation to allow the expectant mother more flexibility. However, the way modern paediatric medicine has been evolving, this has begun to present its own set of problems.”

Jump to Alana missing her period. Jump to her missing her period again. Jump to her attributing it to her pill. Jump to her noticing her stomach being larger than normal. Jump to her going on a diet to correct it. Jump to it not working. Jump to peeing on a stick. Jump to a blue cross.

“With our modern standards of medical care, the number of babies born prematurely has skyrocketted-”

Jump to Alana lying on the bed, legs in stirrups, single tear running down her cheek and teeth biting her lip so hard she was bleeding. Jump to Ethan holding her hand. Jump to that thing finally leaving her body.

Jump to when it started to cry. Jump to when her heart broke.

“- and sometimes, when a foetus is terminated close to the 24 week deadline, they are born alive.”

Jump to Alana standing beside an incubator sobbing. Jump to heart monitors blaring. Jump to when she held the daughter she hadn't wanted, but loved with her entire soul dead in her arms. Jump to when she held her daughter Maria dead in her arms.

Jump to Alana crying in the lecture theatre.

She sat there, staring at the lecturer, shaking with tears streaming down her face. Her dreams that haunted her flashed before her eyes and she saw Maria before her. The daughter that she killed. “Hey, Alana, are you like, okay?”