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WRITING WOES: What do you do when you're stuck?

reflexology414

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I just wondered if anyone has thoughts about this.

I'm in the process of writing up an experience I had when I was a senior in high school. It's proven tough to write about, because it took place over the course of four days, in multiple locations, and it involved two people.

This was a wonderful experience -- one of my favorites. I'd love to share it... I'm just getting hung up at the moment.

What do you folks do when you're having a tough time with your writing?
 
Turn on new age music and sit or lay in a pitch black room and think. Writing is an art form. You can't force it, otherwise the end result is less than what you'd like. Just find a relaxing place to sit and go through the experience over and over again and think about ways to write it. Don't start right when you do. After you've been at it for a while then go back to writing and let your brain sort through the info as you write it. Always works for my English and Creative writing classes.


Then again if its an ispiration problem put on a disguise and tickle some random woman on the street. 😀

Oh crap. I just made a tickling reference and used the grin smiley. I'm becoming the very kind of member I hate.
 
I'm stuck right now. I have a mainstream fiction project going, and I'm trying to create a certain kind of character, for maximum comedic effect. I've been stalled for days on this.

I don't know...I just might write the damn narrative anyway, and see what happens. I think you should just write, and correct it later, improve on it later. You'd be surprised...
 
Knox is right... Just spit it all out and worry about fixing it later. You'd be surprised what can come out if you just loosen up and let fly.

If you STILL can't write down what you really want to say, take a break from it for a day or two. Do something you enjoy, get plenty of sleep, and try not to think too much about writing. Personally, taking a short break will often get me out of a negative "groove" and give me some fresh perspective.


Good luck... 🙂
 
Uh-oh, I know too well how it feels. A friend of mine always told me: Sit down to write every day, even it is only a single sentence or paragraph. Sometimes the block will crumble and the Muse will kiss you; you'll keep on writing for hours then. Sometimes the Muse has a cold or a bad mood, or she's out to lunch or whatever. Then return to your piece tomorrow.

I've experienced writer's blocks that lasted for several months. Nothing to worry about if you haven't got to meet a deadline. So your story will be ready next year, or you'll write a whole different story in the meantime, why bother? Don't force it, but keep knocking at the Muse's door...
 
To me the best thing to do it take a break. Dont thing about it do something fun and relaxing. Like going out with friends or maybe even to to a park and observe people. That rests your mind and observing people in real life gives you ideas.
 
Thanks

Thanks for the many helpful suggestions.

I'm working on this project as a diversion from my current life. Those of you who correspond with me know that things have been extremely tense... a family member in the hospital since December, litigation that isn't going well, and ongoing rehab from a brain injury that I suffered a few years ago.

This isn't a fictional work... it's a true story. In the same week, I got invited to the prom (at a high school other than my own), bought a new (used car), rented a vintage limo, found my tuxedo at a store that rented vintage/period clothing, and spent the better part of four days with two very pretty young women (my cousin AND her best friend). I probably packed more tickling and foot fetish fun into that week than any other time in my life.

I thought it would be a wonderful story to put on paper, and the first five pages have gone well... I'm just stuck at that point.
I'll follow some of the tips given here, and try to mentally relive the experience before hittng the keyboard again.

Thanks again everyone for trying to help!
 
Hiya Reflexology! :bunny:

I would have to go along with everyone's advice about making yourself put words on the screen whether it feels good or not. Writing is more than Muse, it's definitely equal parts discipline. :whip: :cry1:
Oh well, 😉 *heehee*

But at the end you at least have something to show for it, or edit.

But based on what you outlined in your posts i gather there's another angle to the writer's block for you. It sounds like you are faced with the equally dreaded problem of having too much to tell.
Well not really too much but so much material that its making it hard to get it out.
It sounds more like your problem is organising your stuff.

When i sit down to recount stories of all descriptions, whether fictional or true, whether tickle or other, what really helps me is to pick one main point to focus on.

You allude to four days worth of activity filled to the brim with exciting tales and it's hard to figure out how to tell it.

I would suggest, that you don't try to tell the whole four days in one shot. I think you would do serious wrecking-ball damage to that writer's block if you selected a portion of the fourday event, say maybe the first day or the most exciting day and told about that.
You might also try approaching the experience from a theme base, say your experiences with a certain person or your growing discovery of the experience of tickling or something else.
Basically, what i mean is, find a common thread to anchor the way you tell your events. It will help you organise your material in a coherent path from day 1 to day 4.

the other thing to remember, is something that's been said in the thread around women tickle-writers. You don't have to tell it all at once. YOu could, say, write the first experience in one post, the second in another and so on.
You may attract more readers that way too. 🙂

Anyway, i hope this helps somewhat. I look forward to seeing what you finally come up with. :dog::dog:

Many blessings,
Chickles_🙂
 
Thanks, Chickles. That's great advice everyone can use. I'm making a note of it myself!
 
Relax. Take a break. Listen to music or meditate for a few moments. Read what you have already written. Sit back and go over in your mind the.........event of which you are writting about and psychologically relive it.

TTD
 
Put it aside and work on something else. That's why, when I'm writing, I try to have several projects going at once; if I get bored or stuck on one, I can go work on another.
 
Thanks again

I have multiple projects in the works, so that would work. Ironically, I had a few productive hours and wrote another page today.

I just need to accept that this isn't a short story, and it may take a while to write.

Thanks.
 
If there's any one part of the story that really inspires you, concentrate on that. It will take you to the other places. If you already have some inspired portions written, look at those. If you have the inspiration for other parts, write them. Don't think about what the whole thing is going to look like yet; follow your inspiration, and the parts you write with the inspiration at the start will lead you to the rest of it.
 
Spooky!!

Try watching something scary like The Exorcist or The Entity. Maybe the shock and fear factor will get those dendrites on track again and allow your creativity to go back to working condition. Then again a horror movie is my solution to everything!😀
 
Thanks for the tips

I appreciate the advice. I did have a spurt this morning, during which I wrote a few pages about various pieces of the incident, and in no particular order.

I'd love to PM with any writers who'd be willing to kick this around.
 
My 2 cents

What I have found is if you begin writing about anything, it will free up your thought processes. Write any ol thing that pops into your head, and follow it a far as the stream of consciousness will go, soon you will find you are not able to keep up with your thoughts, and the dam will be broken. Just don't worry about what you write, just write anything, and see where it takes you. After a while you will return to what you wanted to write about in the first place.

Paul
 
My pen is my meal ticket. I'm a journalist, and while I'm a hell of a reporter, my strength is my writing. I also dabble in fiction, and, yes, erotica. The fact of the matter is that some days you are going to be a better writer than you are on others. It's part science and part art, and anything that has anything to do with art will be ephemeral as much as it is ethereal.

I've learned to tolerate the fact that I will go through maddening peaks and valleys in my creativity. It's just the way creativity is. So now I don't freak about it; I make it work for me. Like a good pitcher who doesn't have his fastball on a particular day, I've developed a second option ... a good breaking pitch, if you will. Especially in journalism, there is a rhyme and reason to things, and so when I am not particularly creative, and can't come up with a good lead that day, I rely on the science of things, and simply rely on the simple but symphonic structure that every good story has.

It is not as apparent what that structure is with fiction, but if you write enough, you'll become intimately acquainted with your own style, and you'll be able to "artificially recreate" it, if you will, if the true artistic inspiration is lacking. You may be able to tell the difference between something that was truly inspired and something you labored to complete, but the reader most likely will not.

I suppose if we were all true artists, we would reject this more mechanical method as unpure and unholy; but if what we want to do is produce good copy, there is compromise involved. The trick is refining the compromise so it is less of one for you. And that simply comes through practice and attention to detail, and, yes, an artistic knack and sensitivity. So, yes, even in our least artistic moments, our strength as artists can still shine through.
 
Head

That was a beautiful post, and I thank you for sharing.

P.S. With writing skills like yours, I hope you'll post some of your own real-life experiences.
 
Wassup Head

Long time no hear bro!!

Yes, share with us my friend.
 
I don't think I've had any real-life tickling experiences since I was too young to remember, I'm afraid. It's been a rough 25 years. 😉

Good to see you again, Jerxy. I'm glad I could duck back in here again. 🙂
 
update

Once again, I'd like to thank everyone who tried to help me get through my writing woes. I've made some progress. Things are slowly beginning to move -- now it's just a matter of finding time to work on this because things have become hectic.

Here's what I have thus far, and thanks again for the help.



TRUE YOUTHFUL TICKLING: (M/FF)
PROM

High school was a socially frustrating experience for me. I lived in a conservative small town, and there were few students with whom I shared much in common.

My cousin Kate made considerable efforts to provide me with healthy social interaction. She often invited me to sporting events and dances at her school, which was nestled in the suburbs of a large city forty-five minutes from my home. I quickly formed relationships with some of her closest friends.

Shortly after spring break, every high school in the region began planning their senior prom. My school always used this event to honor aspiring beauty queens, boorish student athletes, and pompous wealthy students, most of whom were sons and daughters of local business owners.

From my perspective, prom was a ridiculous custom, hardly the pinnacle of my social development. I didn’t plan to attend. One phone call from my cousin changed all of that.

Kate insisted on taking me to the prom at her school. She and our mutual friend Kelly had just ended turbulent relationships with their boyfriends. The girls decided to attend the dance without dates, rather than enduring a rugby scrum as dozens of guys rushed to ask them out.

I accepted my cousin’s gracious invitation and prepared for the prom with heartfelt enthusiasm. My first mission was to find a tuxedo. There were local rental places, but everything they stocked was rather generic. Finding something with a little more class would require a trip out of town.

Edmund’s Formal boasted a vast inventory, and area residents routinely consulted them when planning weddings and other formal functions. Their store was an hour away, and I made the trip on Tuesday afternoon, just days before the prom.

I was happily cruising down the interstate and listening to my favorite radio station when everything went wrong. Two cars, less than one hundred yards in front of me, collided while making reckless lane changes. They spun out of control and screeched to a halt, obstructing both lanes.

The road was packed with commuters traveling at highway speeds, and cars began piling up like something out of a demolition derby. There wasn’t adequate time to stop, so I swerved toward the shoulder, narrowly avoiding the pileup. My car went into a violent skid, rolled over, and came to rest in the ditch.

I’ve always been concerned about safety, and my seatbelt was properly fastened at the time of the accident. That probably spared me from serious injury.

Several minutes passed as I regained my bearings and assessed my situation. Aside from being startled and sore, I felt fine. Common sense told me I should remain still until the paramedics arrived, but there was a strong scent of gasoline in the air. Fearing a possible fire or explosion, I abandoned my car.

The magnitude of the accident became apparent as I reached the roadside. Fourteen mangled cars were stacked in the middle of the interstate, and there was broken glass and twisted metal everywhere. It was an eerie sight, and my initial reaction was one of shock.

Paramedics, firefighters, and state troopers raced to the scene and searched the wreckage for anyone in need of medical attention. Additional ambulances were summoned, and several motorists were extracted from their vehicles. From my vantage point, I couldn’t tell if any of them were seriously injured, but it seemed likely.

I was quietly watching this drama unfold when a state trooper approached me. He called for a paramedic, who promptly sent me to the hospital as a precautionary measure.

There were excellent doctors on call at the emergency room. They determined that I had some nasty bruises and badly strained muscles, but no other injuries. The attending physician gave me some medication for pain, and what he described as a mild sedative to help me sleep. I was formally released, and my parents were waiting for me in the hospital lobby.

During the ride home, I was overcome by a profound sense of sympathy for those injured in the crash. If circumstances had been slightly different, it could have been me. That realization sent chills down my spine.

My father sensed that I was anxious, and he tried to distract me with a trivia game we’d used during family trips when I was a child. It helped pass the time, and we reached the city limits without incident. I was eager to go home, but my parents had other plans.

“Your grandmother has high blood pressure, and she’s worried sick about you,” my mother explained. “I don’t think she’ll calm down until she sees that you’re okay. We’re going to her house right now.”

Grandmother was standing on the front porch when we arrived, and she watched with concern as I stumbled out of the car and limped toward the house. I spent a few minutes assuring her that my injuries weren’t serious, and she escorted me to the kitchen where she’d prepared a feast comparable to a large holiday meal.

The food smelled heavenly, but my thoughts were racing, and I simply had no appetite. Grandmother was convinced that a good meal would soothe my nerves. She was encouraging me to eat when a car pulled into the driveway. Kate burst through the front door moments later, followed closely thereafter by her parents.

My beautiful cousin, who typically dressed like a cover girl, was uncharacteristically disheveled. Her hair was matted with sweat, there was dirt on her knees, and she was wearing a grass-stained track uniform. She also seemed rather distraught.

Kate explained that she learned of my accident during a track and field competition at her school. She rushed to see me without first taking time to shower or change. I was touched by her concern, and her arrival had an immediate impact on my morale.

I’d always found Kate to be a calming presence, especially during times of illness or injury. Her love and steadfast friendship guided me through many difficult experiences over the years. I was hoping she could ease my fears on this occasion too, as images of the crash and my harrowing slide through the ditch continued to replay in my thoughts.

Kate rushed around the table to hug me, and I assumed a defensive posture. My muscles were extremely sore, and the mere idea of a hug sounded painful. She promised to be mindful of my injuries and gently wrapped her arms around me.

Grandmother quickly prepared additional plates for Kate and her parents. She also informed my cousin that I’d shown no interest in food, and the medications prescribed for me by the emergency room physician could not be taken on an empty stomach.

Kate immediately shifted into caregiver mode. She filled my plate with Herculean quantities of homemade spaghetti, and poured what I would describe as an aquarium-sized glass of milk, which she expected me to drink. I truly wasn’t hungry, but she began to exert her considerable charms in an attempt to stimulate my appetite. That was all it took, and I began to eat.

Throughout the meal, Kate doted on me to the point of excess. She poured beverages for me, refilled my plate, and even wiped spaghetti sauce from my chin. Her concern for me was genuine, but she was being far too overprotective, and I got the impression something was bothering her. I chose not to pry, however.

The meal lasted more than two hours and featured multiple courses, including a massive selection of desserts. Things culminated when grandmother unveiled a pan of her trademark piecrust, glazed with melted butter, sugar and cinnamon. When none of us could eat another bite, we collectively agreed the meal was over.

It was nearly ten o’clock, and grandmother suggested that we relax and watch television in the living room for a while. Her favorite local station usually ran an abbreviated newscast followed by reruns of M*A*S*H and WKRP – two of my favorite programs.

My muscles were extremely stiff, and I hobbled away from the kitchen table with the gait of an arthritic old man. I was out of breath by the time I reached the living room. Kate joined me on the couch just moments before the news began.

The freeway pileup was the lead story, and the report was laden with ghastly images of the crash. My badly damaged car was clearly visible in an aerial shot filmed by the station’s news helicopter, and Kate watched the footage with a shocked expression.

“I can’t believe you walked away from that,” she said while reaching out to take my hand.

“To be honest with you, neither can I,” I replied with a hint of anxiety in my voice. “I only missed the pileup by a few feet. It was really close.”

I was hoping the anchorman would mention if there were serious injuries or fatalities in the accident, but that information wasn’t available yet. I would have to wait until morning to learn the fate of the other motorists.

My mother and Kate’s parents, awestruck by the graphic news footage, began peppering me with questions about the crash. They weren’t trying to be ghoulish or insensitive, but their queries were making me uncomfortable. Grandmother and Kate diplomatically encouraged them to change the subject, and we shared a pleasant conversation for the better part of an hour.

Fatigue was getting the best of me, and I decided it was time for bed. Kate, however, had other ideas. She asked me to remain in the living room while she showered and changed. I promised to comply, and she dashed to the bathroom.

Kate’s mother sat beside me on the couch, put her arm around my shoulder, and chuckled.

“You poor guy,” she said. “Kate usually spends an hour in the bathtub. You probably won’t be going to bed before midnight.”

“That’s okay,” I replied. “After the day I’ve had, I’m not sure I’d sleep anyway.”

My aunt spent a few minutes chatting with me about movies, sports and the weather – basically anything that didn’t involve the freeway pileup. I was enjoying our conversation when her demeanor abruptly changed.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“It’s Kate,” she sighed. “She was deeply affected by all of this… far more than you realize.”

Kate’s mother explained that the initial reports of my accident were somewhat sketchy. The entire family spent much of the afternoon on pins and needles, waiting for information. This process was especially difficult for Kate.

“Your mother called me this afternoon and said you were involved in the crash, but she didn’t know anything about your condition at that point,” she said. “Your uncle and I picked up Kate at school, and she insisted on coming here right away.”

Cell phones were in their infancy at the time of this incident – not many people owned them. Kate and her parents had no way to communicate with anyone while they were driving to grandmother’s house. They made the trip, not knowing if I was alive or dead.

To make matters worse, every radio station on the dial was providing live coverage of the crash, and reporters were speculating about the possibility of fatalities. These news bulletins only served to frighten my cousin.

“Kate finally became so hysterical that we pulled into a gas station about twenty miles from here,” my aunt explained. “I jumped out of the car, used the payphone, and called your grandmother. She said that you were banged up, and your parents had gone to meet you at the emergency room.”

Kate’s emotional reaction to my accident suddenly made sense. We’d been inseparable since childhood, and she spent a substantial part of the afternoon wondering if I was dead. I was glad that her mother chose to confide in me.

“What can I do for Kate?” I asked.

“Just try to be patient with her,” my aunt replied. “I know she’s smothering you, but you kids have always been so close, and this whole thing has left her really shaken up. She needs to spend time with you right now.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ve never minded spending time with your daughter. It’s not a problem.”

Kate’s mother smiled, hugged me, and offered to watch television with me until her daughter finished bathing. Kate was in the shower for quite a while, and her mother and I shared an entire episode of WKRP and a few minutes of Cheers while we waited for her to return.

The aroma of tea tree shampoo and floral bath soap began to waft through the house, and I’m sure that grandmother’s hot water heater was completely drained. After what seemed like an eternity, the bathroom door swung open. I could hear the sound of footsteps in the hallway, and Kate strode into the living room with the grace and beauty of a runway model.

My cousin’s aerobically sculpted form was accentuated by the silky pink pajamas she was wearing, and her hair was flawlessly styled. Perhaps for my benefit, she'd decided against wearing socks, opting instead for a pair of open bedroom slippers. Her toenails were painted an elegant shade of candy apple-red, a color I’d previously encouraged her to wear.

I had NO desire to pursue a romantic relationship with Kate, but her physical beauty wasn’t lost on me. My heart was pounding, and I’m fairly certain I was staring at her. She approached me and smiled.

“You’re sweet,” she laughed while kissing my cheek.

Grandmother and our parents made their way to the kitchen, where they began to clear the dinner table and wash dishes. Kate remained in the living room, helped me to my feet, and guided me down the hallway to the guest bedroom. I was growing increasingly tired, and it was a struggle to stay awake.

The bedroom was a welcome sight, and I was eager to lie down. Kate, however, was determined to “prepare” the room before I went to bed. This was a seemingly unnecessary gesture, but I didn’t argue.

While Kate was putting the finishing touches on my sleeping quarters, I ducked into the closet, which was only slightly smaller than grandmother’s bathroom. Many articles of my clothing were stored there for occasions when I stayed overnight. Comfort was my priority, and I donned an oversized football jersey, sweatpants, and white cotton socks.

I stepped out of the closet to find that Kate had given the room a makeover. She made the bed with freshly laundered sheets, placed a serving tray of snacks and beverages on the dresser, and tuned the radio to my favorite soft jazz station. I couldn’t have asked for a more relaxing environment in which to sleep.

Kate was still thoroughly spooked by my brush with death, and she continued to fuss over me. She escorted me to the bed, turned down the covers, and tucked me in. She also attempted to engage me in conversation, but I quickly lapsed into a deep, almost comatose sleep.

My dreams were laden with haunting images of the crash, and I awoke an hour later with my heart pounding, feeling like I’d just run a series of sprints. Kate hadn’t fallen asleep yet, and she was kneeling atop the covers, watching over me.

“Are you okay?” she asked while affectionately stroking my hair.

“I can’t seem to get the accident out of my mind,” I replied.

Kate leaned forward, kissed my cheek, and climbed out of bed. She crossed the room, poured a glass of water, and retrieved the bottle of sedative pills that were sitting on the dresser.

“You need to get some rest, and the doctor said this medication would help you sleep,” she said.

I’ve always been exceedingly sensitive to medications. There was no way to predict how this particular drug would affect me. I nonetheless decided to give it a try, hoping it would help me to relax.
 
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