My Most Formidable Opponent

I've been sitting in the same chair for over three hours. I've been staring at the same stack of scarred and bleeding manuscript pages for the same amount of time. My coffee had ran dry nearly an hour ago. I refuse to step away. Yet, nothing is coming to mind. I have an outline, I know where the story goes. I have the edits and I can fix grammar and spelling. 

There is some incredibly debilitating, crushing force that won't let me: the formidable and nearly unstoppable Writer's Block.

So, I'm taking a break. I'm sitting here complaining and writing about my inability to write. But what to write about? Frustration. 

I'm sure we've all felt it before, that need to pull out the perfect word from thin air: a grandiose display of diction and wordsmithing. It never comes though. Fun fact, everyone: there is never a perfect word. There is only the word you choose and the one you didn't. There are times, like Juliet, that I wonder, "what's in a word." All I can come up with is a series of letters pressed together to create meaning. What makes one word better than another? It's context. If you have the most amazing diction ever, but your story/paper/essay/etc. is flat or unappealing, it doesn't matter what you say: it still sucks. The only validation for a word you need is utility. Does the word do what you want it to? Does it convey meaning and progress the plot? Is it too hard to read or discern meaning? Do you need all those syllables or would "said" work better?

Progress. That's what it's all about. If you can't go anywhere, what kind of vehicle you have doesn't matter. If your engine is all gunked up on your hotrod, you can't leave. So clean out the cobwebs. In my case, that's why I complain. To let my creativity flow, I have to get just a little bit pedantic. I have to act like I can write like Stephen King. 

That's another thing. Maybe you don't have writer's block because you can't find the right word, maybe it's a feeling of inferiority. Maybe you think that your writing is no good, so why keep it up. Let me tell you something I saw once: I am the best writer out there. You can never hope to be better than me. Why do I have such a bold and arrogant claim to perfection? Because if I thought my work was no good, how could I possibly expect anyone else to think so? To get anywhere in life you have to be at least a little arrogant. So yes, I am the best writer out there. Until you realize that, you'll never go anywhere. 

Oh. Wait. Do you feel that? That's an idea hatching. It's about to burst out. It seems while you were reading this post about writer's block, I was busy going places. It's time for me to set down this ironic writing about not writing to actually go do some writing. Xzibit would be proud.

Review: After Visiting Friends: A Son's Story by Michael Hainey

Michael Hainey’s After Visiting Friends: A Son’s Story isn’t your traditional memoir. Hainey doesn’t extoll a long list of his personal accomplishments with hackneyed hind-sighted commentary. In fact, there are very few mentions of Hainey’s position as GQ Magazine’s Deputy Editor. After Visiting Friends achieves its (auto)biographical aims by attempting to solve the mystery that had chased Hainey since the fateful day he is told his father, Bob Hainey, died “after visiting friends.” Hainey asks the question no one seems to ask, “who are these friends?” Interviewing old friends and colleagues of his late father, Hainey finds himself traveling through time, several times revisiting scenes of his father’s life.

After Visiting Friends is a singular piece of long-form descriptive journalism with an ever present voice. The language is rife with profound metaphor which keeps the story riveting, beautiful, and unique. After Visiting Friends is immersive, the vibrant landscapes of 1960’s Chicago and Nebraska feel alive. Hainey’s autobiography is also an intimate biography of his mother, and a sons journey to retrieve lost years with his late father by solving the mystery of his untimely death.

Hainey documents his discoveries with vivid descriptions of the many characters and eras he visits, be it the newsroom of the Chicago Sentinel in the 1960s, the Hainey household during Michael’s youth, or Michael’s modern-day travels. Hainey’s memoir is a tale of discovery. His quest to discover his father’s mysterious “friends” is the vehicle to tell his family’s story, not only his own. Hainey’s curiosity and hereditary journalistic talent propel the story forward in at times humorous and always intriguing ways keeping interest high and the book stuck fast in a reader’s hands until its conclusion.

The verdict? Read After Visiting Friends, you'll learn something about yourself along the way.