An architect, he explained, is a writer who crafts in excruciating detail the skeleton of his narrative and the identities of his character. An architect outlines and revises before even putting prose on page.

Contrarily, a gardener is a writer who begins with a seed, an idea planted from their swirling subconscious on to the page, and then tends that idea as it courses on to completion. Martin identified himself, smiling from behind that bushy beard of his, as a gardener. And, my observation of many writers who discuss such things or pen instructional texts on fiction, are these seed planters. They seem to generally regard architect writers as oddities.

Martin’s dichotomy seems apt to me. I suspect there’s a tendency for writers to identify as gardeners, but I certainly don’t. When I try it, I suffer my greatest setbacks as a writer, meandering with decorative, but ultimately aimless prose. I paint myself into corners, and have no idea what I’m after. If I’m a gardener writer, I have a black thumb.

I think to myself, therefore, I must be an architect! A ha! Glorious! All I needed to do was prepare copiously, and then the writing will simply be laying the flesh on the bones I’ve so meticulously crafted. And, that may be so. But, there the tendency is to daydream, to outline or imagine elaborate settings that lack any actual narrative.

The dichotomy, like so many things, is easy to take too far, settling into prescriptive ideas about the process. Obviously, gardeners need to address plotting and planning at some point. And, architects have to inject some spontaneity along the way else they’ll craft wooden tales.

At the very least, it was helpful for me to hear someone like Martin acknowledge that his organic approach wasn’t the only path there is.

For the first time in my adult life I stick with it. There wasn’t anything special about it. Oh, going with my wife to the gym helps, sure. She does look great in workout gear! But, it wasn’t anything different this year.

I still hate doing it. I have sore knees. When I lift a lot, I get stiff and sore. I dread the exertion, but finally did reach a point I feel good after workouts. I haven’t quite hit running 2 miles without resting, but I’m close. And, I’m already lifting more than when I started. It’s progress, as long as I can keep that damn knee of mine in line.

Last week, I sat down on my couch with my laptop and actually wrote more than 500 words of fiction. I did it again last night, though it was fewer than 500 words. It was something. The writing’s not terrible, and I may actually get a short story out of my efforts for once. But it won’t just happen effortlessly. And, as my graduate classes ramp up again, the routine will be tough to keep.

I’ve been at this point before. Over a year ago I wrote a couple thousand words, but never finished. For years, I’ve had starts and stops, but never have much to show for it.

Writing is a lot like working out for me. No amount of reading inspiring books on writing, no amount of knowing all the tricks of the trade changes the fundamental thing. Just like braving cold January days when I don’t have to work out, I also have to set aside time and write. I’ll have sore knees, and I’ll have frustrating sessions of only a couple hundred words.

I accept that it’s exercise. It’s a routine. And, it doesn’t come easy. I know this isn’t news to anyone. It’s not news to me, either. Exercise  is good for me, but I still didn’t always do it. Writing’s the same way. I know what I need to do. Doing it’s another thing.

I take heart in two things. First, that I can actually change my routines in life, whether working out or writing. Second, that those things shows real progress, bit by bit. The trick will be keeping that up.

The exhibit featured artifacts from the Whydah, a slave galley turned pirate ship by “Black Sam” Bellamy in the golden age of piracy. The ship wrecked off the coast of Cape Cod in 1717 during a storm. Barry Clifford located the wreck in the 80s, and it’s now touring the nation in various museums. The exhibit displays the usual stuff — cannonballs, parts of muskets, various tools and utensils, and an impressive display of real pirate treasure in the form of hundreds (thousands?) of silver coins. It also had many interesting insights into the make-up of pirate crews (including many black and Native American sailors, their mentality about going “on the account” (a.k.a. signing on to be a pirate), their almost dandy style, and the cultural mess of the triangular slave trade.

I tried to sketch down some notes about it all, but managed to lose the notes on my smart phone. Still, it was inspiring stuff, and I managed to write down much in my journal later on.

Canada and I decided to cut our trip a bit short and drive back home late Thursday night. She asked about my note taking and what I was up to with this writing thing. I explained it all to her, my idea for a fantastical novel of sky pirates. She knew I had been up to something, and I think is more than a little pleased I’m finally getting around to that writing thing she’s always wanted me to do. She has no idea how I needed to get all that out from the echoes of my head.

I spent a lot of time this weekend doing more research and sketching out more ideas, names, second-world geography. Oh, true, it’s not the first time I’ve dived into a creative project like this, and often those ideas sit idle, or used in ways other than fiction writing. But, I have an inkling — only that so far — that I’m finally getting myself into a strange routine to see this through.

Check out both posts:

Planning Arrangements – here he talks about narrative structure and writing.

Building Secondary Worlds – Mark breaks down the components of imaginary places he writes about, from names of characters to the color of the buildings they inhabit. Fascinating stuff.

So, instead of my usual whining, how about some silver lining?

I’m genuinely astounded at how I, and presumably other readers, approach narratives. When I read a novel, I enter a narrative, however complex, of compelling characters and events. This all feels natural. I’m eager to turn pages and discover the ups and downs of it all.

But, in truth, it requires effort. Let me call it interpretive effort. I get invested into the tale. It doesn’t even mean I must “like” the characters; it holds true even when I find them fascinatingly abhorrent. The point remains; it takes effort to read and appreciate fiction, and certainly to consider its value and meaning as a story.

When I read short fiction in series, that seemingly natural feel fades away, and that interpretive effort becomes obvious. Each story takes that little bit of investment that adds up — for me, at least — to interpretive effort. This is true for me regardless of my fondness for the stories. Brave New Worlds is excellent overall, and yet I’m still plodding along, emotionally worn out, so to speak.

I should add that Brave New Worlds is a collection of dystopian fiction. It seethes with bleak themes and ugly, depressing resolutions. It takes more emotional verve than usual to kick off  reading a second story after just finishing one in which, say, work camp revolutionaries are literally obliterated.

That said, I think the point stands. Again, it’s not complaining. I find it a fascinating thing for both readers and writers.

The first kind of writer’s block is the dreaded blank slate. It’s that intimidating phase of creation where the entire universe of possibility is open before you, and you can’t write one shred of it because you don’t know where to even begin, perhaps even what to write at all.

I don’t often lack for ideas. But, even with some broad-storke notions of what to write, I still have to zero in on something concrete, something compelling.

The second kind of writer’s block is getting stuck in the middle of a story. You’ve got characters in some situation, and you may even have a general idea where you want them to be later in the story. But, as a writer you hit that wall and you’re not sure how to move them into the next step in the story. This kind of block has its own challenges and frustrations as a writer. But, at least  you know you’ve gotten somewhere.

Right now, I’m working on a short story and I’ve hit that second writer’s block. It’s a turning point in the story. I even know where I want the characters to be. But, I can’t yet get them there.

Some writers have great advice about overcoming these problems. Some even publish about the topic. My advice is recognize a couple important things as a writer.

First, it doesn’t much matter if you’re a literary genius or a best seller. Even if you are, you aren’t going to write or sell nothing. Accept living in your own skin. Accept your own ideas as intrinsically worthy to the most important person in your life — you.

Second, don’t try too hard to look outside yourself for solutions. Take a break. Go live. Read and watch other media. Read. Do what you do to rejuvenate. Those things will get your brain working again. Don’t worry if you feel like you’re “stealing ideas” by reading other material. If you’re really into writing, your brain can’t help itself. It will think up ideas in your own way. That is creation.

Third, if you have the option, let someone read what you’ve written so far. Some people don’t like to do this. I’m mixed on it myself. But often, another reader will see exactly the corner you’ve painted yourself into. And, often, they’ll say something obvious that you can’t see, like “Why in the world would this guy say that?” Answer that question, and the dam’s likely to break. You may have to ask questions, and that’s ok. The notion that we are alone in writing our work, and that others don’t contribute to the creation is pretty foolish.

Now, if I can just get myself out of that corner I’ve painted myself into…

I left with a solid education. I knew next to nothing about stories.

When I look back at the last time I actually did creative writing, I cringe at how awful my understanding of stories was. This past week, I’ve been skimming through some of the books I bought for creative writing classes. I’m amazed at how differently I read them now.

Then, it was practically a cargo cult mentality — I nodded when writers wrote about stories being character driven. Then, I’d go try to mimic stories by creating allegorical symbols and the most transparent characters one can imagine.

I would create plots, sometimes elaborate ones, and fail to see that anything I wrote like that was either caricature or motionless prattle.

I was obsessed with prose. I conflated good writing with good prose, and had no idea what a writer actually does, and more importantly what a writer actually says.

Now, years later, I do have a much better understanding of what stories are, how they work, and how to create them. I learned it, oddly enough, in another obscure medium. I hope in ten years I’ll look back on now in amazement how foolish I was writing this very entry.

The trouble now is that the more I learn, the less certain I am of my ability as a writer. It’s the usual nonsense writers allow to trespass in their brains so they can prevent themselves from writing.