Blogger SOS: Overcoming Writer's Block

During these past few weeks, I've learnt that sitting and staring at a blank draft for hours is just part of being a blogger. That trying to type, but not actually being able to form sentences, is also a familiar occurrence. And, also, I'm not the only one that rants about this; especially when almost a week has passed and still no ideas or inspiration for a post can be found. A few hours later, after spending those alternating between the empty page and social media, I tend to come to the conclusion that I should - perhaps - try again the next day, accepting my defeat. Thanks, writer's block.

Definition: Writer's Block is a condition, primarily associated with writing, in which an author loses the ability to produce new work.*

When discussing blogging, this block could be described as those times when we are unable to write a new post, and the time-gap between our last update grows from a few days to a few weeks. Now that I've managed to overcome it(for now!) - after a week of no posts - I've decided to share some advice, in a new blog feature called Blogger SOS(which will be posted monthly).

Even whilst I'm typing this post, sat at my desk, I'm listening to a playlist I put together a few months ago(that includes songs that have helped me write before). Despite the fact that music doesn't always help - and I decide to mute the volume instead - there are times when listening to a certain artist can put me in the right mood to write a blog post. When I'm stressed, and there's a collection of coursework waiting to be completed, I struggle to write a post; watching the clock as the night draws on. Plugging in headphones is the perfect escape; where I'm able to concentrate on the task-at-hand for an hour, and hopefully write something. Anything. A handful of coherent paragraphs are welcome at this point. With music playing and a mug of hot chocolate, I find I can relax into writing, and finally, the page seems to start filling up. 

 

Experiencing these 'blocks' are the bane of my existence; and, normally, it takes me a few days to overcome them. Rather than pacing the room, I tend to choose some songs that represent what I'm trying to write about, the likes of Florence and the Machine when the genre is closer to thriller/horror. I was also recently introduced to the idea of searching through pictures and tags on sites such as Tumblr, as they are filled with images that could spark something. If you can't write a specific scene, searching for a picture of the place it is set in - or something similar - can help form some vivid description passages. I use this a lot when writing poetry.

 

My notes for this post are almost illegible.

 If I'm writing a more upbeat piece, then I turn to my trusty Taylor Swift album instead, and along with using a notebook, I can work through writer's block. I think. Picking up a battered lined notebook or journal is something I know immediately resort to in the face of having no ideas. Jotting down assorted scribblings, even doodling stars in the top-corner of the page, can lead to a whole post. Making lists; drawing spider-diagrams; re-writing the first line repeatedly until it feels 'right'. Notepads should be used like this.

 

Outsmarting writer's block is the most satisfying feeling; like when you find yourself almost halfway the first Game of Thrones novel. Planning ahead - not necessarily by scheduling all your blog posts for the next few months - but writing down a few ideas that you can use at any time, although not overcoming writer's block, is taking a different route around the problem. In the back of one of my favourite notepads I have a double page spread with titles of posts scrawled down; in the hope that they will rescue me from no uploading for a week next time.
 

How often do you experience writer's block?

How do you overcome it?

 What would you like to see covered in a future Blogger SOS post?

 

Tell me in the comments! 

 

*Definition from Wikipedia 

Discussion: Are You a Planner/Plotter or a Pantser?

Assorted notepads with a few plot outlines, half-designed worlds and some character profiles are stacked in a corner of my room; each one half-filled with my almost illegible handwriting. I've attempted, multiple times, to be a planner. I've sat down with the intent to write chapter-summaries, or even plot a whole novel, but I rarely decide on more than the first handful of pages. The reason? I'm a pantser. That person who sits down at their laptop and writes whatever comes in their head; there's an idea but, no plan to follow. It's like walking with no destination. You just hope that it will all turn into a short-story at the end.

 

 

I'm impatient. Not desperately, but quite. When I've fallen head-over-heels for an idea, all I want to do is write it. I want to work through those first few chapters; rather than spend hours sorting through what will happen during them. No doubt, I'm the same with books. The wait for a sequel is always a struggle, as is the one for a book-shaped parcel to make an appearance in my letter-box. I constantly check Goodreads, and if I'm not doing that, I'm looking through the post. One thing is for sure, you don't want to be stuck in a traffic-jam with me! I find waiting a task. Holding back the urge to write - especially after weeks of struggling with writer's block - is difficult. Trying to plan during these moments makes morning or afternoon incredibly unproductive, as I want to actually be typing! I adore writing - and love how, when I don't plan, the ending comes together.

Mostly, I can blame time for my lack of planning, and how it is non-existent during the school term. If I come home and realise I haven't written a blog post in days, I normally resort to writing a short story after spending a few minutes deciding on what it will be about. It has to be quick. And, although I don't have a collection of written notes, I do think a lot about what I'm going write. Whether it's an upcoming post or new piece of writing, I spend time sorting through what I want to write in my mind, like the points I wanted to make in this discussion. Currently, I'm beginning to use Wattpad a lot more, and am writing for that; finding myself constantly thinking about the characters and their backgrounds, along with how the world it is set in came about.

 As a huge fan of Dystopia, I know I can't just expect to work out a world whilst writing, and that it needs to be thought-out. As much as I love being a pantser, writing in the spur-of-the-moment, I wish I was more of a planner. Away from my keypad, I'm always writing to-do lists and making timetables on Word; sorting out blog events and jotting down notes on post-its. Everything is so organised(most of the time). With writing, being more like this would help me, as you can really see when reading who has put the most time or effort into their work. It's crystal-clear that George R.R. Martin didn't just design the whole Song of Ice and Fire series as he went. It's too intricate. Too detailed. At the moment, I'm definitely challenging myself into becoming a plotter for longer pieces of writing, rather than just opening up a Word document immediately.

Let's see how this works out!

So, are you a planner/plotter or a pantser?
Have you ever tried to change your writing style?

Tell me in the comments!

Poetry: Knife Point

I haven't written a poem in a while; even though I adore doing it. With only one exam left, I really wanted to post something, just while I catch up on some other work.

I hope you like it!

Sharp like a knife point,

Your strangled cry.

Red like a thorn-pricked finger,

There's blood on the tiles.

 

Cracked like a mirror,

Your memories; fragmented, they are.

Sketched like a storyboard,

Woven, those intricate lies.

Broken like a clock,
Your arms stretch out, stuck.
Bruises decorate them like a colouring book,
Bones snapped in two.

 

Pure like a child's innocence,

Your life, for a while.

Written like a saga,

No, don't tell another lie.

 

Trapped, a wild-animal,

Your writhing, your caught.

Hunted like a killer,

Though, that's what you are.

 

Trailed, like a criminal,

Your show; maybe your parade.

Broadcast, they will question,

Everything you don't stay.

Before I sign-off, I thought I'd just give you a quick book update! I'm currently reading Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell and it must be one of my favourite reads so far this year! It's so much fun - and I love the whole fan fiction storyline!

Just a quick note to say this poem belongs to me - Sophie Louise - and should not be copied/used elsewhere without permission.
 

 So, what did you think?
Tell me in the comments!

Sophie
x

 

Writing: The Visitor

This is a piece of writing I decided to write on something I feel very strongly about. It discusses quite a tough-topic, that could be upsetting, and It's about to just tell you that. This was in no way written to offend anyone, so please say so if it does and it will be immediately removed from my blog.

 

Part 1

 

As he walked the corridor, he became immersed in the silence. His feet hit the ground with the same timing as the clock; slowly, as it approached eleven. A flag with red and white strips - a collection of stars clustered in one corner - could be seen outside, where a class was taking place: children clutched skipping-ropes in their hands, singing rhymes in friendship-groups; others held tennis rackets, bending slightly and preparing to swing, lime balls travelling the length of the playground. The teacher, with loosely-tied brown hair had a piece of string around her neck, a whistle attached to the end, signalling for the now red-faced class to change activity. They weren't the only one's sweating. He mopped his brow with his hand - his hairline damp. Ice-cold drops made the journey down his back. He could feel them reach the bottom. Apart from the distant noise from the Kindergarten class as they drew pictures to take home with them that evening, eagerly pointing out which of the figures was them, little else could be heard. Although, silence must always be disturbed; whether that's when a chair crashes to the floor, or when a child begins to wail. A man with a gun tucked into his coat-jacket. 

*** 

The school bus is crowded. The noise of the radio can hardly be heard over the numerous conversations that take place on topics that range from willing to broken hearts,  from first-love to break-ups, from the stresses of school to sunny-days spent lounging on the beach. I sit closer to the front, a mere few seats behind the driver with a girl who only looks up from her phone in the short-lived moments of silence - wondering why. She never attempts to start a conversation, still infuriated over the teacher's choice to sit her next to me on the journey. Jealousy strikes inside of me and I wonder what Skye is doing - it's free period, reading in the library perhaps? Chewing on his lip as his hand lingers on the edge of the page, ready to start the next chapter?  I turn the page of the book in my hands, looking forward to tomorrow when I can meet him between the bookcases for lunch - real and fictional worlds colliding. Classmates chew on strawberry laces, and reach into bags of pale-pink candy-floss; open bags of Tangy Cheese Doritos and gulp-down cans of Coca-Cola. Some sit back with their head-phones plugged in, yes-closed as they are taken elsewhere with the music - on the contrary this is better than watching the reaction of my male-classmates, who shout obscenities at their game-consoles every-time they lose. I roll my eyes. Girls re-apply their make-up, and hold hand-held mirrors, beauty-bags over-flowing with lipsticks and eye-shadows. The seats we sit on are comfortable, if you ignore the feel of gum beneath your fingers when you run a hand across the edge, or how the seatbelts press against your skin - almost causing blisters to form. I stare out of the window, unable to read in the noise, watching as the scenery changes and we approach the town . Without notice, Tony, our bus-driver pulls over into a near-by lane, the engine slowly rumbling to a halt. Questions hurry around the bus in an incoherent mix of thoughts. I can just make out: 

 

"Have we broken-down?" 

"Have we got caught in traffic?" 

"Has there been an accident?" 

 

That's when the news report begins, and my book drops out of my sweating-palms onto the bus-floor, open to Chapter Eleven where the corner of the page is bent. Eyes-wide, jaws-dropped, heads buried in hands. Conversations are cut off as if they have been sliced by a knife, ending so suddenly. Muffled cries are heard, panicked-voices, bodies wracked with sobs. I search for Skye, knowing he is not there to give me a reassuring smile, to whisper the words, "It's going to be okay", like he did when I was twelve and broke my leg. He was the first to sign my cast - even adding some cartoons to decorate the bare-parts. Even he couldn't comfort me now. The girl beside me, who's name I make-out is Em, is the colour of snow when there are no footsteps. Her hands shake, her eyes brim over with tears and her body becomes wracked with sobs. Apart from that, she is unmoving. I try to find the words I need, but the search is worthless. I have nothing to say that can make a difference. The rumble of the engine is the only thing that can be heard but around me, people refuse to look up, not wanting to see the world when it no longer hides the truth. A women's voice, muffled as she chokes on her tears, begins to speak, but you can't ignore the shouts in the background: 
 

"It has been confirmed that a man in his twenties, who is thought to have been an ex-pupil at Sea View Elementary and High School, entered the school armed, and he is now deceased. It is suspected that he began firing his gun as fourth-period began at the school. There are countless tragedies." 

 

My school. Our school. A shooting. I am too numb to continue to comprehend what else she says. Countless tragedies? Was Skye one of them? A match strikes inside of me as I realise that nobody will be punished for this; that the coward put an end to his own life too. Did he feel guilty? Show any sign of remorse? Any sign of being human? The fire flickers - golden and amber embers burn. Mine and Skye's lives are tied together with pieces of rope; intertwined closely, with several knots that bound our past, and left-over parts waiting for our future. I don't want it to be tethered. There was the summer we spent building a treehouse, where the flowers are still interspersed between the trees. The gnarled branches of powerful oaks reach out, in a competition to see which can grow the tallest. A river flows, leading into a waterfall that reflects the movement of the birds in the sky. That falls into the valley below where fields of roses bloom. 

 

In a desperate spur of energy, a reach for my bag and snatch my phone, buried deep under the mismatch of items inside. I search through the never-ending list of contacts, each letter of the alphabet passing-by, and with each comes a new set of faces that smile up at me. In Skye's picture, he is laughing. I dial the contact immediately. The problem is, it doesn't even ring.  

 

If you're wondering what happens next, Part 2 will be up next week! For now, tell me what you thought in the comments!

 

This piece of writing belongs to Sophie Louise. Please do not copy my hard work without my permission first. Copyright does protect this blog.

 

Wednesday Writing: The Drunken Man(Part 2)

You may remember about a month ago I posted the first part of a short story called 'The Drunken Man' - here you can check out the first part. I've been meaning to post the second and final part to the story for a while now and would love to know what you think of it as a complete and literal thing.

 

***

Bright blue eyes, deep blue like the ocean. If you look too far into them you would drown. The golden ringlets hanging down her back, against the background of flowers coating the countryside in a misshapen rainbow.  

"Isabelle" was called, and the Golden Girl turned around and smiled: 

"Dad" she ran up into his arms, and he swept her off her feet. "How was your day?" 

 

"It was...the usual" he commented, his matching blue eyes shining at the sight of his daughter. The way she had grown since he had gotten back, almost into her teenage years now. Despite this, her face was still chiselled, her cheek bones prominent and she still welcomed her father home with a hug. For anyone watching it was clear this girl was his life. The oxygen in his lungs. The chorus to his song. The melody to his beat.  

 

"I'm glad you're home" she said, picking a Daisy from the grass and handing it to him, "For you" 

An adoring smile, "Thank you, I'm glad I'm home too" a sigh, "Have you seen your mum since you've gotten home?" 

 

"She's inside, she must have seen me when I put my bag inside" The girl sighs, "She's so distant" 

"I know she is Belles, but she's been through a tough time" He bent down to sit in the over-growing grass, squashing down the collect of flowers. "You've had a tough time" 

 

"I know, but you're back now" and she takes a seat beside him, "And you're not going anywhere, right?" 

A flash of pain is shown on the man's face, as if the child doesn't trust him. He promises. But, it would always haunt him that she needed to check. 

 

"When I look in the mirror..." the girl begins, "I feel like I see an imaginary me. I see the person I want to see, the person I want to think I am. Only you see me, only mum see's me for who I really am.  

The father stares at his daughter, spellbound from the words that just came out of her mouth. He tries to speak, but Belles carries on: 

 

"That's why it's important for you to be around. I need you to notice that I'm not okay, that I need a hug. I need you to see I'm happy, and wonder why. To see how much I love you - how much you need to stay here. Don't leave me again, Dad." 

***** 

The week went by like a breeze had blown it from my grasp and the next thing I know, I'm walking down to the Community Centre for another session with Tim. I was unsure about coming along, the bruises finally healing up across my arms although a few nail marks remain. I've been covering them with an assortment of accessories all week, luckily my mum hadn't notice. As I'm clambering the steps, my Leader, Rachel catches up with me.  

 

"I saw what happened with Tim last week" She comments, "How he grabbed your wrist and the gentleman trying to help you" 

 

"Honestly, Tim seemed to have his reasons" I sigh when I see her worried gaze, "He didn't hurt me"

 

"Are you sure?" she says, "You do look on edge" 

 

"I'm not looking forward to being locked away inside for an hour. The smell of alcohol only multiples in there" 

 

"How about, you and Tim, along with some others head out to the park. You've been trained, you know what you're doing. He can tell his story there" 

 

"His story?" I wonder aloud. 

 

"Everyone has a story, Gen, it's just up to them on whether or not they tell the tale" 

*** 

So, twenty minutes later I'm walking beside Tim and a few of the other Teenage Volunteers and their partners to the park. It's a beautiful place, the evening sun lighting illuminating the veranda where you can find children signing in choir groups on the weekend. I lead Tim over to a bench beside the pond and for a few minutes we just sit in silence watching the ducks swim around on the water. I decide, after a week of thinking about what he had meant, to speak up first: 

 

"You said your daughter was beautiful" He looks up, pain in his eyes. I can tell he's been drinking, but it's not  as strong as it was the previous week and his shirt has a severe lack of holes. "Was?" 

 

"She was killed" I stare, startled at what just came out of his mouth. "Car accident" 

 

I don't know what to say to this. Right now, I know I'm so sorry won't do it justice. Nor will the usual, She's in a better place or I can't imagine how you feel. Because I don't. And never want to.  Instead, I do the only thing I can and wait for him to speak next. When he doesn't, I venture out with, 

"Is this what lead to you abusing alcohol?" I say, remembering back to the training I had to get here and how to phrase questions.  

 

"What lead to me abusing alcohol was the fact she died because of me!"He cries, "I should have been there, not inside arguing and allowing her to runaway" 

 

"Tim, please calm down!" I can't help feeling a little out of my depth and know people are starting to stare at us across the park. "Whatever you did, or didn't do, you can't live like this!" 

 

There are tears pouring down my face now and I don't know why. I feel all emotions, raging like a fire at how this man should be living for his daughter and numb as if I'm a block of ice at the thought of the guilt he has been living with.  

 

"I basically killed her myself - why wasn't I there?" He calls out, looking away to a far off point in  the distance, "Why wasn't I there!" 

 

He doesn't ask it the second time around, instead he demands to know. I spend the rest of the evening discussing his daughter, Isabelle and slowly paint a picture of her in my mind. From his descriptions, she truly was beautiful but not just in the way I thought. Intelligent, kind-hearted and generous - all things I fail to be constantly.  

 

Epilogue: Five Years On, Still Going Strong 

 

I finish recounting Tim's tale, our tale and the audience erupts. Finally, I can breathe again. Energy curses through my veins right through to my sweaty-palms. My limbs are numb, just from being up on this stage: looking out across the audience set in darkness - the only light coming from the slideshow that is going on behind me. "Thank you" I say, breathless, and in my hurry to finally get off the stage knowing my cheeks are burning-red, "I'd like to call Tim to the stage" 

 

As I scramble down the steps, almost missing my footing but being steadied by Tim's wife, Lily, who waits for me. "That was brilliant" in tearful sobs she tells me, the speech I gave tonight promised to bring back memories for her. She lost her Daughter, and sometimes I feel she may have got a part of her back through me. Although, I'll never replace her. "Five years on, you're still going" She looks at me, "I'm surprised you've been able to work with him: He's a stubborn man" 

 

"I've realised" I laugh, watching as Tim takes the stage in a smart-suit and tie, with fitted-trousers and polished shoes. He is clean-shaven, with no more yellow ingrained in his finger-nails. He's given  up everything - and you can see it. I've never seen him put so much effort in, although a charity launch is the perfect occasion. 

 

"As Charlie just told you all - I was once a drunken man - a disgusting man, although she would never put it quite in those worlds" He pauses to wink at me, "I'm stronger than I was before, living for today and never tomorrow: Living for the daughter that didn't get this far. But, more than that, I see the passion in Charlie's eyes to support more people like me. As without that girl down there, who I'd like to mention almost fell flat-on-her-face as she left the stage, I can't even comprehend what type of future I would've had"

 

For once, I start to forgive my Dad for telling me that Volunteer Work would look good on a CV.

 

The End

 

I hope you all enjoyed it! Tell me what you thought of the ending below. Also, a huge THANK YOU for helping me reach 30,000 pageviews! This is such an overwhelming amount of people to have read my webpage and I'm so excited to reach it! I'm going to be away at Bath Children's Literature and Cheltenham Literacy Festivals this weekend vlogging and will be doing a more in-depth thanks in that(During the car-journey)

 

All content here belongs to Sophie Louise.