On Being Stuck

I am stuck.

There.

I said it.

I am stuck. Stuck. Stuck.

It isn’t for wanting ideas. I absolutely drowning in some (possibly) brilliant ideas right now.

For example: a dystopian situation where a young girl is taken to an orphanage by a stranger, it’s unclear where all the other people are. It’s just her and this man. Her sister and parents have disappeared. At the orphanage two men let her in but then kill the stranger and take is body somewhere else. The next day, a family arrives. The father is dying. The two men let the boy in but turn away the father and mother, who is fine and very sad to let her son go. That’s the build up. But then what happens? Not sure. When I close my eyes, it’s like a twisted Wes Anderson movie.

Or this: A woman gets a call from her younger sister, who is living somewhere in the New Mexican desert with a deadbeat boyfriend. “I need help,” the younger sister says. So the older sister goes out to the desert very reluctantly and man oh man do readers know they are in for something. She finds out her sister’s boyfriend, who is still a dirtbag, has stolen a tremendous amount of money from a dangerous man. There are dead bodies and various shoot-outs and, oh yeah, the sisters share a secret about some past criminal activity that might destroy both their lives.

Or this: A man and a woman go on vacation in Rome to try to save their marriage. Things aren’t great and when they go for a walk the Palatine Hill, the husband disappears. Poof. Gone. With the backpack that had the wife’s wallet and phone. She makes it back to the hotel and is met with either piteous or smug looks by the hotel staff. When they let her into her room. Her phone, wallet, and passport are on the bed. Her husband and his things are gone. Poof. As she retraces the moments, days, months, years leading to his disappearance, she begins to think that she never knew him. Not really.

So I’m stuck. But not really.

All of these projects are started, scrawled out on a notebook that is a hot mess of brilliance (“Two sisters at a laundromat in El Paso with a stolen Mustang and a six pack of beer watching their laundry spin and praying the blood comes out.”) or something else entirely (“Nobody is good. That pointy spoon nobody wants. Maybe that’s the point?!?”)

I’m doing all the things that usually work. Walking. Thinking. Staring at the wall. Talking to literally anybody who will listen. Including Jack, who is my dog. Or my sons, who on good days half-listen to some of what I say.

I have entirely randomly decided that the trouble is thus: I can hold the plot of a short story in my head. From beginning to end. But longer projects? I hold the threads and it’s a little like being a kid and making a friendship bracelet and missing a step. Or holding the string of a kite and then a big wind kicks up and the kite is gone and the thread is snapped.

Do I start over? Do I keep going? Do I rework the bits that I wake up in the middle of the night hating? By the way, is it just me or is this thing that I’m working on the worst thing ever to be written or thought or half-thought? It’s not even good enough to be a full thought.

I do have some strategies. I’ve retreated to poetry. I’m listening to James Lee Burke’s audio books, which are pretty lovely, and watching a lot of little league. I’m working my way through Lori Rader-Day’s complete backlist in preparation for Crime Bake.  And I do sit my butt in that chair everyday and get something out. (Though I make no promises as to the quality.)

I just read Vaughn’s post about rabbit holes and the pomodori approach.  Maybe I’ll try tomorrow?

I’m wondering, if you write – what helps you get unstuck? Is this a normal phase you’ve experienced? Any tricks? For those of you who write novels and short stories – is there some sort of mental gymnastics that helps gear you up for longer pieces?