Nov
29
2007
Writer’s Block
Recently I’ve been suffering from some fairly hefty writer’s block. And I know exactly which writer has been blocking me too, it’s that damn Iain Banks again.
Over the last couple of weeks I’ve been reading his latest fiction, ‘The Steep Approach to Garbadale’, and this week it’s been the science fiction ‘Feersum Endjinn’ (say it aloud), which he obviously wrote under the pseudonym of Iain M. Banks; cunningly disguising his identity by the judicial application of an extra letter to his name. As some of you may know, I’m actually a bit of an Iain Banks fan, a geek, a Banks groupie (not like that). At university when we covered him in my Science Fiction module I actually spent more of that seminar talking than the tutor did. I think he was a little embarrassed at constantly being corrected by a student.
So why if I love Banks so much is he giving me writer’s block?
The problem is the sheer damn brilliance of the man. It’s hard when you’re reading one of the best books you’ve ever found to then put it down and get into your own writing. There’s a natural tendency to compare the two that leaves you staring up at a mountainous literary genius from the somewhat soggy foothills of pulp fiction. It’s just not possible to read Banks and then see your own work in a positive light afterwards. You fling pages around the room in despair, you snap your biro in half and jump up and down on it until there’s nothing left but a few shards of inky plastic on the carpet, you scream. Oh, how you scream.
So yes, at the moment I’ve got writer’s block.
Damn you Banks, damn your great big wordy greatness.
Over the last couple of weeks I’ve been reading his latest fiction, ‘The Steep Approach to Garbadale’, and this week it’s been the science fiction ‘Feersum Endjinn’ (say it aloud), which he obviously wrote under the pseudonym of Iain M. Banks; cunningly disguising his identity by the judicial application of an extra letter to his name. As some of you may know, I’m actually a bit of an Iain Banks fan, a geek, a Banks groupie (not like that). At university when we covered him in my Science Fiction module I actually spent more of that seminar talking than the tutor did. I think he was a little embarrassed at constantly being corrected by a student.
So why if I love Banks so much is he giving me writer’s block?
The problem is the sheer damn brilliance of the man. It’s hard when you’re reading one of the best books you’ve ever found to then put it down and get into your own writing. There’s a natural tendency to compare the two that leaves you staring up at a mountainous literary genius from the somewhat soggy foothills of pulp fiction. It’s just not possible to read Banks and then see your own work in a positive light afterwards. You fling pages around the room in despair, you snap your biro in half and jump up and down on it until there’s nothing left but a few shards of inky plastic on the carpet, you scream. Oh, how you scream.
So yes, at the moment I’ve got writer’s block.
Damn you Banks, damn your great big wordy greatness.
[The story I'm currently snagged on is called 'The Rat Princess' and I'll be posting it up on here once it's done for the usual chance for you ppl out there in Blogland to comment, criticise, or more likely, just condemn with silence.]
Who’s got wood? Our favourite chimp in a man suit that’s who’s got wood.
Bushism of the Day:
“I own a timber company? That’s news to me. Need some wood?” –George W. Bush, second presidential debate, St. Louis, Mo., Oct. 8, 2004
