So You Think We Do ‘Nothing’ All Day
Bettina cantered through the building, checking her wrist watch every few steps. Her styrofoam cup (appropriately labeled “Dunkin Donuts”) decorated one hand and a file of paperwork bound to her chest filled the other. As she stepped through the door to the conference room, she spotted a prepubescent boy leaned back in a chair–her chair–with his feet propped up on the table. He stared out the glass windows, oblivious to her presence. She cleared her throat to announce her arrival. His legs toppled to the ground, then clumsily climbed to his feet.
“You must be Derrick,” she said, stretching for the back of her chair.
The extended arm was ignored. Instead, the boy jumped into a professional performance–one hard to consider seriously with him garbed in baggy jeans and a tee.
“I hear you’re the woman to get me started as a writer.”
“You heard correctly.”
“Okay then. Get me started.”
Blank stare, cue the sound effects. “You know the difficulties of being a writer, yes?”
“Writing is easy,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “You sit around on your computer all day doing nothing.”
Mix in some dynamite, stir till explosion. “There’s more to writing than sitting at a computer all day. You have to produce words.”
Derrick shrugged. “Do that all the time. E-mails, instant chat, message boards.”
Bettina pursed her lips. “Your daily quota must add and relate to an actual story.” She didn’t bother to open the folder. The boy didn’t have a grasp on the hardships of writers; no way could she hire him to the team.
“Not a problem.”
“Oh, really.” She dug out a blank sheet of paper and pencil, placed it in front of him. “Prove it.”
Derrick shrank in his seat. “Prove it?”
She nodded, repeating her command, then plopped into her chair and watched the boy. Her arms crossed over her chest and a smile stretched across her face. “Write me a story.”
Derrick’s eyes darted back and forth as he stared at a void. “About what?”
“You tell me. You’re the one who wants to be a writer.”
“But you’re the Man Behind the Curtain. You’re supposed to provide the inspiration. How can I write without a direction?”
“Guess you’ll have to make something up. According to you, it’s easy.”
The pencil scratched across Derrick’s paper without enthusiasm. Bettina peaked over and saw a hangman stick-figure. The clock read nine-oh-five. Derrick caught her eye and sat straighter. He flipped the sheet over and drew words. A pause, pencil tip against his lip. More words. Scratching became his soundtrack, a steady rhythm. Scratch, scratch. Pause. Scratch, scratch. Pause.
The clock read five-oh-three.
“Day’s over.” Bettina sipped her coffee and lowered her paper just enough to see Derrick’s reaction.
“Over?!” He leapt to his feet, pencil still in hand. “I spent the day writing one page!”
“A page. Impressive.”
“How is that impressive?” His voice squeaked as it reached its high register. “I’ve been sitting here killing my brain and all I got is one lame page.”
Bettina picked up the pages. “There’s two here.”
“No, that one–that’s rubbish. None of it’s really useful. Just a bunch of free-write.”
“A day in the life, Derrick.” His face drooped. “Still want to be a writer?”
He tossed the sheets at Bettina and turned to leave.
“Wait.” She handed them back. “Take this home and read over it.”
“Whatever.” His tone was dry, but he took the sheets and walked out.
“See you tomorrow,” she whispered and leaned back in her chair.
Coffee In An IV, Please
Jaws dropped. My next words stammered from my lips. “I don’t drink coffee.” Several dumb-founded faces stared back at me, generating vibes of discomfort. I reached behind, feeling for the edge of the counter, and stumbled back until I found it. Might as well be an alien, I thought as America runs on Dunkin chanted through my mind.
“Cut!”
Bettina strolled in, waving her hand through the stale air. Smoke trailed from her fingers and a faint glow emanated from the tip of her cigarette. “This is all wrong,” she said, settling into her routine pace of panic.
I huddled near the corner. “Um…” I cleared my scratchy voice and spoke a bit louder. “What’s all wrong?”
“This!” Bettina carried on with her gestural sign-language, as if the answer couldn’t be clearer. “Writers, coffee. Coffee, writers. They go hand-in-hand, 
darling. God sent out the memo years ago.”
I lifted a brow. “God,” I said with heavy emphasis, “insists that writers drink coffee.”
Bettina chuckled. “Insists? No.” She uncrossed one leg from the other and splayed her arms on the conference table. Her head dropped to the marble surface with a tap. “Honey, it’s top priority in the Writers’ Commandments.”
I lowered myself in the seat next to her and grabbed at my bottom lip. A sigh passed over my teeth. Writers’ Commandments. “Bumped ahead of what?”
“Oh, the usual. Punctuation. Style. Routines.” Bettina counted off her fingers, listing anything and everything related to writing. I felt a yawn stretch out and peaked at my watch. 23:47.
A fist pounded down in front of me. My chair wheeled back as I jerked. “You know,” I said, pulling back to the table, “most people are tucked in warm blankets by now. Heads supported by soft, welcoming pillows.” Speech slurred at the thought of sleep. Dreams awaiting my unconscious to fill them with adventure. Eyelids drooped. I tried to lift them, but someone had stuck cement inside, topped with a layer of bricks. I tossed my head, but even that failed to open my eyes.
“Most people have normal jobs. Writing consumes you, rots your organs when you disobey. That’s why we invented coffee. It’s the only poison weapon strong enough to penetrate your bones, meld with your bloodstream for a rush that’s just long enough to MEET YOUR QUOTA!” Bettina pressed a megaphone against my ear.
I leapt to attention, too scared to risk the chair again.
“So what are we going to do now?”
“Plug in a coffee IV, ma’am!”
“Good girl. Now: One more thing, before you go.” Bettina tucked the megaphone under her armpit. “Arms up, like so.” She grabbed my arms and extended them out until they were positioned parallel with the floor, zombie-style. She pulled back and clasped her hands together, admiring her artwork. “Perfect.” A huge grin curled across her lips, reminiscent of the Grinch after his decision to rob Christmas from the Who-villes. Then, in a calm, quiet tone, she whispered: “Dismissed.”
“Must. Have. Coffee,” I said and staggered away in search of motivation.
Repercussions
“Hey, there’s no smoking in my head!”
Bettina shrugs, puffing smoke into my face. “I’m harming no one but myself.”
“No harm?” I grab the cigarette from Bettina. A clump of ash lands on her fingers. She jumps back, shaking her hand against the burn.
“Bloody hell!”
I hide my smirk in my sleeve, then return to the keyboard. No harm, indeed. Except with each inhaled cigarette, Bettina’s smoke trails throughout my brain. It settles on each crevice. A cranial roadblock against creativity. Thoughts muddle. The plot twist developed last week disappears.
No worries. Focus on the avoided scene instead. I lean forward, elbows on the counter, fingers massaging my eyes.
Dani attends the rugby match, although she doesn’t understand the purpose of the sport. Ty and Orson sit next to her, cheering on their team, while she sits back in thought. What are her thoughts? “It made sense the other day!” Crucial information to drive the plot a step further. A memory? Maybe. But where’s the connexion to the game?
Damn.
“Who cares?” Bettina says. Another cigarette now decorates her hand.
Her attitude makes me tremble. Grunts erupt from my lips and I stand up. The chair drops behind me with a clang. “No. Smoking. In. My. Head!”
Bettina holds out her hands, palms facing me. “Easy does it,” she says, but now she’s on edge. She tip-toes to the door, the burning cigarette in one hand and a full pack clutched in the other.
“I don’t care what you think!” She zips through the door without a glance behind her. “I won’t quit!”
Mind-Invasion: The Creative Approach
INT. PRODUCTION ROOM – MORNING
Close-up side-shot of a woman’s face, focused on the cheek and lips. A cigarette rests in her mouth. She inhales. Ashes wither away the white stem as the orange tip burns.
A slow pan-out reveals the woman outfitted in business attire. Clipped to the left side of her chest is a photo ID badge. The name reads “BETTINA.” She pulls the cigarette away from her mouth, releases a puff of smoke. The hand holding the cigarette gestures through the smoky air.
BETTINA
Unacceptable!
Bettina’s voice is hoarse, resembles that of Estelle Leonard, as impersonated by Phoebe Buffay (FRIENDS).
BETTINA (cont.)
It’s been months. What have we got here?
A bunch of nonsense from the mouth of a creative
writer? Psh! Where’s the creativity?
Where’s the originality? The excitement?
The juicy fuel powering the creative mind?
Bettina paces the room, circle a large conference table. Several characters listen from their chairs. A few look human, but most exhibit extraterrestrial features, if corporeal at all.
BETTINA (cont.)
It doesn’t exist!
One thing, and one thing only will remedy
our future. Does anyone know what that
remedy is?
A scrawny young man raises a shaky hand, but Bettina ignores it. She takes another whiff of the cigarette.
BETTINA (cont.)
Mind-invasion! We’re taking over.
Eyes dart around the room, terrified. They know where Bettina’s thought trail ends, but they’re hesitant to agree.
BETTINA (cont.)
I’ve let this dren continue long enough,
but now it’s time to take control.
Spice this place up with what it needs.
What it craves.
What it deserves!
Creative writers have an obligation
to exercise their creativity. Doing so requires
the production of creative writing.
I have three dozen shelves sitting in this mind
full of ideas waiting to be dusted off.
No more! Our decree until we all die–
which, heed, will happen by unnatural
causes–is to toss these ideas into the
blood stream without pause.
Bettina plops into the high-backed leather chair at the head of the table. She crushes her cigarette in the small tray, leans back with a sigh. She grabs the pack on the table, pulls out another cigarette, lights it.
BETTINA
What are you all waiting for?
The group scrambles from the table. Each races down the hall, gathers supplies off the wall’s shelves. They toss files through the filter. No one stops to watch each one seep through the skin.
She’s No Harvey, But She Keeps Me (in)Sane
The title of this post is an inside joke for ‘Scapers and I’d take far longer than necessary to explain it to anyone else. The point is, my head plays home to several voices. But “Don’t Panic!” 
because it’s not a symptom of some psychological disorder, simply another factor separating writers from the rest of society. A few weeks ago, my mind (somewhat) randomly decided that my Inner Editor’s name is Bettina. It’s nice that she has a name, though, because now I have a more personal way to yell at her when she interferes with my ability to get work done.
Some of my writer friends and I have discussed on many occasions the voices that exist in our minds. These voices are different from auditory hallucinations, however. They whisper constantly and never go away, but they’re a writer’s connexion to the unconscious mind. The source of inspiration. The bridge between the mundane of our lives and the fantastic realms we dedicate our time to creating for others. These voices are a branch in the imagination tree I mentioned last month.
And they keep me (in)sane.
Without inner voices conversing throughout my days (and my nights–they never go away, remember?), I don’t know how I’d survive more than five minutes. Bettina et. al. entertain me when I’m bored. Through them, every tiny trivial thing that crosses my path has the potential to become something great.
My favourite example of this is the way J.M. Barrie’s mind is shown in Finding Neverland. There’s a scene where Johnny Depp’s character is shown watching the Llewelyn-Davies children jump up-and-down on their beds. As Barrie/Depp observes, the children rise up and fly out the open window. This, of course, is the cinematic version of Barrie’s thought-process, illustrating how he took events from his reality and hyperbolised a way for his characters to get to Neverland. This is always the first scene that comes to mind when I think of the film because it represents the mindset of creative writers with such accuracy.
Back to Bettina et. al.–>the reason for their existence, I believe, is to help writers stay on that bridge between the conscious and unconscious. Which is probably why I can never manage to shut my mind off. You know that whole meditation thing? Yeah, all that does is allow the voices to get louder as they fight for control over who must be heard above the others. In my case, it’s either story ideas that won’t wait for me to finish my current works-in-progress, or a random song selection from the infinite music I’ve heard throughout my life, which is forever stored in the crevices of my brain.
The voices aren’t always the most intelligent, but they provide good company. As long as they stop keeping me awake at night, they’re welcome to stay.
Cage That Editor!
National Novel Writing Month. A nation-wide global event that encourages writers (novice, expert, published or not) to complete a novel draft within thirty days.
Alas, I discovered it at the end of November, 2006 
but that didn’t deter my enthusiasm. I spent the next year reading up on it. Two years later, I’ve written about 65,000 words for NaNoWriMo, but Bettina still interferes across the other 335 days of the year.
The energy of November is contagious. Everyone taps away at their keyboards, excited to cross the victory line. Each immersed in worlds away from reality. Bills, jobs, non-writely friends disappear (despite their thinking we’ve gone AWOL). Nothing exists but the words on the page, and even those are trivial in meaning. The point is to stash your editor in a dungeon (that’s right–why think small when it’s your imagination?) for a month and focus on quantity rather than quality.
That’s how rough drafts are formed.
Most true writing evolves from re-writing, yet many writers find themselves bogged down by the stress of making everything perfect on the first go.
Bad approach.
Creative freedom only lends itself when the mastermind allows. Let nonsense flow from your fingertips. Let an unrelated scene pour onto your pages. Chances are it won’t make the final cut, but it’s an exploration. That’s how we learn about ourselves. Your novel is the same, learning about itself by testing different possibilities until it finds the one that glues it together.
But how to evade the presence of typical writing problems? Chapter-chronology hasn’t worked, and outlines eat your only free time. So what can you do to ward off the voices until you’re ready for their help?
A different approach birthed for me before midnight struck. A new tactic: The Last Chapter, first.
My golden ticket!
Defeat over writer’s block lies within your method of writing.
I changed it up and now my fingers run on jet fuel. Can I maintain this pace another 27 days? What will happen at December’s sunrise? I want to continue working on my novels because it’s not enough to have ideas floating inside. They must be released to the world–or at least the inside of my filing cabinet–so I can move on and discover new stories.
So how can you fuel this magnitude of progress once November passes its baton?
By keeping NaNoWriMo’s energy in mind. Forget about the quality of initial drafts until you’ve worked through an entire novel. Reward yourself for small victories (every few hundred words, every five pages, every chapter end, etc.) and allow yourself a huuuge prize for the larger victories (laundry and a good night sleep, perhaps?) At the end of a draft, take a week’s holiday–you’ve earned it! Find a peer group–huge help! A buddy-system to keep your discipline in check and assure everyone’s accountable for lack of writing.
Remember: writing is work, like any other job. But it always helps to have a little fun.
