Clearing Away the Smoke

by
Scott D. Parker

When I write short material, I don’t outline. I start with a scene in my head and write it down. From there, the ideas just flow, one after the other, like fireworks on the Fourth. In short stories, as when watching fireworks, there is rarely time to suffer the dud firework (read: idea), the one that merely blooms with a minimal amount of smoke, fire, and sound. It doesn’t matter that it still probably took someone just as long to pack said firework back in China. It’s what happens in the sky (and on the page) that matters and, frankly, some fireworks are just better than others.

Long-form writing is a different animal entirely. As your typical fireworks show presses on, unless there’s a breeze hundreds of feet in the air, the sky gets clogged with smoke. I’ve seen fireworks displays where a brisk wind carries the smokey echo of one firework away while its siblings ignite and make their own afterbirth. Other times, it’s like a smokey morass. Without any wind, the smoke just hangs in the air, refusing to budge an inch. Naturally, all subsequent fireworks must fight to be seen--hearing is never an issue--and the end result can be a muddled mess, especially the well-choreographed ending. What was supposed to be a bright, shining display of patriotic explosives timed to the “1812 Overture” (when did our Independence Day inherit a musical piece written by a Russian during the time of the czars?) turns into something resembling Louisiana gumbo: you know all ingredients are in there, you just can’t see them.

You know the feeling you get when you get the spark of an idea and you can’t wait to get it out of your head and onto paper? It’s a feeling only creative types have, I think. As soon as I have that spark, more often than not, I start wondering about all the specifics. Frankly, I get bogged down in the specifics. Then, I start to doubt. Never a good thing. Basically, my brain is both the colorful explosions that are the fireworks and the smoke that obscures them.

I’ve been in that mode for a month or so now. I’m a planner when it comes to writing a book. It worked right the first time I tried it. Thus, I’ve convinced myself that, for me, outlining is the way to go, especially since going the other way--just write, dude, and see how it turns out--never panned out. It also helps me plan my time. Since I have a limited amount of time to write, I like to spend it writing, not thinking about writing. As such, I spend more time planning to write than I do writing. Often times, as with my current story, there is no breeze wafting in the air to clear the smoke away so I can clearly see what I’m doing. I hear the sounds of various ideas exploding amid the smoke and, every now and then, I see a sparkle or two. But it’s still murky.

What happened this week was blessed: a breeze kicked up. It blew away some of the smoke, clearing the sky for me. I can’t say I’m completely ready to put prose to pixel but I’m close. I’ve been doubting for a long time. Now, I’m excited. I know I’m on to something. That, my friends, is priceless.

Do y’all have those moments, both doubting ones and the sublime ones, that grace us as we live our creative lives? Share some stories. I’d like to hear them.

"Well correct me if I'm wrong, gentlemen, but would you agree that we have been passing through the sea of time?"

This week, I turned thirty. Some of you, you’ll be thinking, God, he’s young. You’ll maybe wonder why this is weird for me. Or maybe you’ll remember that, too. This feeling that suddenly you’re not entirely as young as you think you are.

When I started out writing, the plan was this:

First novel in late teens/early twenties (Looking at some of the rejection letters, I think I actually came pretty damn close).

Steady career by mid twenties, full time writing by maybe twenty seven.

Writing full time (and probably acting on the side – yeah, you didn’t know I almost did the while drama school thing, did ya?*) by thirty. With my own house. And no damn money worries.

Okay, it didn’t quite turn out like that. But I think it’s a pretty modest dream (except for the acting thing, where I was likely to be playing The Doctor by now, not that whippersnapper Matt Smith**). And I think it was closer to achievable than most. So how well did I do?

Well, I was first paid to be published at 24 with my sub to Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. I’m still awe-struck and grateful for the opportunity. And to have been published several times since then, too, is just the icing on that cake. I was published previous to this, but these were unpaid and so in terms of the dream, this is where it first started. But I wasn’t actually published in novel form till late twenties.

28.

This is still a remarkable achievement, and I’d have to say to my teenage self that it was better to have waited. I think the 8 years on the plan gave me a huge advantage because it allowed me to experience life. Now that sounds like a cliché, but the heart of all writing is emotional honesty and I think that when I was a teenager I was too wrapped in figuring who I was to be able to empathise honestly with my characters. So, yeah, I’m glad the plan was held back.

And I’m glad, too, that I got to find other things at uni. Leaving behind English and doing philosophy worked wonders for me. Opened me up to other ways of thinking. And allowed me to interact with people. Which is actually a pretty important part of any writer’s research. More so than anything technical, I’d argue.

Part time and full time retail jobs were always part of the plan in a way. Because I had always instinctively known that a writer needs to be part of the world. And as much socialising as you get in uni, let’s be honest, students don’t live anything close to “real” lives most of the time (or was that just me?).

So things didn’t go according to plan. And I’m 30 and not yet indepently wealthy, still supporting myself with a day job. But you know what, I’ve had a blast, and I’m still having a blast.

And even though I noticed some grey hairs in my beard the other day it’s not that old either. In fact, I think despite my plans as a teenager, I think the really exciting part’s just around the corner…



*The reason I gave it up was twofold: 1) I was always more comfortable with a less in-yer-face creative process and so writing came more naturally to me and 2) I found most drama students irritatingly extroverted.

**Of course, I couldn’t be the doc and have a beard. And anyway Smith owns the part. Mind you, with the beard I could play the Master. I can do evil.