5 Minutes With Blank Screen

Excellent, I'm trying that later.

I think I read this exercise earlier in a book somewhere, but never really gave it any serious thought. But I'm going to try it now.

Exercise

Well, here is what I produced. There were another two paragraphs, but they didn't show up for some reason, and when I turned my black screen back on, the help and support file was up instead of the last two paragraphs. But here are the first two:

My daughter is in the playpen growling. This is what she likes to do: growl. And roar. These are her main modes of communication. She will occasionally speak, but only with her mouth closed. She seems to think all communication should be closed lip.ped. I, however, would prefer to understand a word or two. Mk for milk. Hmgmhm YMhmg mhg for...I don't know what for. Gee, these are some boring reflections. I remember someone saying once that once people have kids, they only talk about their kids. Not true. Sometimes we talk about our kids' Baby Einstein videos.\



Well, this is an interesting exercise that I find difficult to do, because I hate the idea of not editing and allowing glaring errors of all kinds to strut about in public. We shall see what horrors I have produced when I turn back on this screen. I'm just waiting for the sound of that five minute buzzer to relieve me from the drudgery of typing words without substance, plot, character, or rhyme. I suppose I could rhyme. At least zsome of the time. Plot thought. Hot Cot. Drudge Fudge. Yellow Fellow. Tom Mom

I did this for the first time on Sunday and found it an amazing experience. Rather than turning the monitor off, (I use a notebook, don't know how to) I used white text on a white screen.

It was almost like entering dreamstate, and I found my thoughts wandering in all sorts of different directions. I can only assume that normally, the physicality of the words intrudes in some way we're not aware of.

Definitely something I'll be doing again.

Zoe

white dreams

Zoe,
I just tried it! It was so nice. Of course, I just did it as a journaling exercise. I'll continue to do this when I want to just brainstorm an idea for an article.
Thanks, Zoe!

I'm so ready for embarrassment that I cut and pasted it without reading. I hope I don't come off as a freak...



I think I’ll attempt to write at least some sort of story in this five minutes, seeing as how it is too easy tro turn this into a reflective exercise and just babble on and on and on and on nonstop until the sound and sight of your own words will drive you to madness. Madness



The light’s are on but nobodies home, all work and no play make jack a dukll boy, so says King. I wonder just how crazy he has to be to write some of the things he did, and if that level of insanity is a benefit to certain writers.



I think I would gladly accept the burden of insanity, a subtle insanity, as long as it allowed me to produce works of beauty, at least on some level. I think that many of my more recent pieces are much more refined than my early stuff, but I suppose there’s varying degrees of effectiveness to that as well. My early work had a visceralness, an immediacy that I enjoyed. Unfortunately it devolved out of Splatterpunk type stories, so even among horror writers you get a significant ‘yuk’ factor going on hich results in at least some subliminal embarrassment.



It isn’t perhaps even the desire to write works of unsurpassing beauty and significance as the wish to be perceived by ones peers as iat least a journeyman, one capable of holding an intelligent coversation.



That’s another thing that’s tough about being a writer. It seems that so many writers, particularly in the genre level, have no problem becoming fast friends with each other, a degree of intimacy I am unable to execute due to a fair amount of shyness, but moreso a degree of anti-social behavior. WhilIt’s


Okay, freak status confirmed....

I'm going to give this a shot, and I promise to post my results, horrible though they may be. Probably tonight...

Oh, and Mark, I really enjoyed what you wrote. I have a journal entry from a month or so ago that looks almost identical to this. So, we can both be freaks!

Okay, I tried it and as promised, here it is. By the way, this is for the novel that I'm working on. I might use a sentence or two, since it's so dreadful. And I have to say that I work in translation so my typing is decent. I was surprised to see all the typos!!

Was I born before? Were there other lives? Thinking of this turns my attention to the memories that consume my brain that I never experienced. Why am I resigned to have the memories of someone I've never met??? There must have been previous lives, otherwise what else? And how can this one person, this one other person travel through time and history with me?? Is that possible as well. Who are the Gods that designged me to be forever connected with one I haven't met. I have too many questions. I should enjoy my likfe and not think about these deep things, or should I? Isn't this what makes us human? To ponder the things that animals can'nt?

I was by the sea in one memory, he was next to me. He was a philosophers studnet, apprentice you might say. He was telling me the things he was beinngg taught. It was so intetersting. . I miss that time. Life seemed so simple., so easy. But then there weere tribal wars and hardships that we could not imagine. What about the South American identity? When I visited Machu Picchu, and sat in one of the small dwellings, I could feel my blood in that room. I cried for the pain I had when I lived there. I felt the sadness of disease taking my childre, I have no child. I felt the hurt of my people becoming extinct, of the pain one feels when you see your fellow man killed in cold blood. It was harsh, and sad. I cried for a long time in that room.I laked the strength to move my legs and go on to the next site., to the next cluster of archaeologists who wanted to speak to me. .Standking up and leaving that room was quite possibly the hardest thing I've ever had to do. When I touched my hannd to the stone, it was hot, it made me think of home, that this was once my home. Could it have been? And why is this country my home now? , a country that holds true to none of the things that I believe and only promotes wealth and sickness. Is there a ways to know for sure when I lived, where I lived? I question everything, I must.

___________________________________________
Sara, who feels like she's talking to herself.

Okay here goes.

You can call me crazy but then I have never claimed to be sane. However when it comes to ideas and schemes I have a million of them. Who would have thought that being crazy would have its benefits. In that once I had a stalker that always followed me around and he did dumb things. He would take my picture and block my path when I was walking so finally I got tired of him and had him arrested. So the lawyer that was representing him got up before the judge and insinuated that I was a mental case because at the time I had to have a lot of surgery for cancer and I was definetly on medication but had not taken my medication for my nerves that day. So the judge dismissed the case and said that I needed help. To wit that only made his act up more but then I told him since he had given the excuse for my insanity plea that I could kill him and there was not a thing that could be done because he had said that I needed help. So then he said that if I killed him that I would have to go to the jail. But I said who is going to find your dumbass and besides I already had the perfect excuse because it was his idea to drive me crazy in the first place. To which he said that you are crazy and I said point taken sucker. He fled in terror and has not bothered me since and I wonder why.

Ok, let me try this one!

I pulled the Probe up to the starting line and looked at the man with the green flag. He gave anod. I tensed for a minute and hit the accelerator, taking off as hard as I dared push the worn out clutch. The Kumho tires hazed and howled in protest as the turbocharged coupe left the starting line.

Right out of the gate was the first slalom. A slow one, with the cones spaced only 50 feet apart. I gradually accelerated through the slalom until the tail started to slide out slightly on each cone.

The next turn was a tight 180. A bolt of panic hit me as I realized I was going too fast. I made the mistake of slamming on the brakes as I was cranking the wheel.

The rear tires came completely unstuck. What was that advice I'd heard? "In a spin, both feet in." Nail the clutch and the brake.

The Probe came to rest with its nose pointed more or less toward the exit of the turn. Looks like I had blown my chances of setting a good time on this run, so I would use the rest of this one to learn the course and continue learning the car's limits.

I got back on the gas an released the clutch. With a whistle from its turbochraged engine, the Probe took off.

I’m writing to wilco right now. Misunderstood. I identiy with this song, though I’m not allowed to smoke anymore. There’s a fortune inside your head, but everything you touch turns to lead. Yeah, that’s how I’m feeling right now. This song could be whiny or annoying, but somehow, he pulls it off. And it makes me wonder what the story is. Is it based on an actual event? Did he write it as the events unfolfed? I know it’s not wise to assume the narrator is the same person as the writer, but I can’t but think that there’s something more here. On this whole album really. He goes back to his neighborhood, and instead of the great success he thought he would be, he’s still basically the same old loser. I understand. When I went home this summer, I was basically the same old loser. Oh, I had my minor successes. But minor isn’t what really counts in this world. Wilco does inspire me though. I want to write the story to all their songs, but at the same time, I recognize that the songs are story enough. You know you’re just a momma’s boy, that part doesn’t reaplly apply to me, though I understand the gist. More of a ddaddy’s girl than anything, but that doesn’t really count now. I want to go home with novels. I want everybody to know my name, and why does it even matter? You think you might just crawl back in bed, the fortune instide your head. How many times have I felt like that? A million? A billion? Last week I almost gave up completely, but am I really misunderstood? I think some of my work is. That’s annoying. Why can’t people see it the way I see it? Love it the way I love it? There’s a reason that home-town boy mmakes good is such a cliché. It’s because it’s effective. It’s a shame that the best clichés are, well, clichés, because they really are effective. It’s a shame that most of Shakespeare’s greatest lines would be considered “cliché” now. That makes me sad. It also makes me sad that if I decided to name a child “Cressid” or “Portia” most people would assume that I really liked the cars. And now my five minuts have wound down and disappeared, and all I have is some random lines on the page. I might try to write a story this way.

*Deep breath in*

So I'm thinking of Charlie Sheen in Platoon and McDonalds.
I suppose it's why I love war films, it fascinates me that there is no escape, unless you either get sent home or die, but right then and there, in the heat of a battle or when stranded in some alien environment, you can't just think 'Sod it, I'm off.' then hail a cab, go home, have a bath and watch some TV.
It's a form of prison, like terminal illness. Your body is your prison and although you might get the odd day out, a short time where the inevitable it shoved to the back of your mind, you will still be spending the night in your death row cell, alone with you ever approaching end. Sure, we're all dying, but having a rough date for it is very different, and unescapable.
And what if there is some kind of 'hell', an afterlife place for the bad people?
to me it would have to bve about permanence, never being able to escape the situation. Burning in fires might not be the most effective way to break a spirit, imagine a MacDonald's shift that never ended. Permanently serving and cleaning, with no hope ever, never. It won't end.
Even the worst marriage can be ended, if you hate your family you can remove yourself from them. No job can ever be truly permanent, as although you may feel trapped, they can still get rid of you, and there are always options tucked away somewhere.

That's funny, somehow I wound up writing a narrative when most people were writing something more introspective. I wonder why I did that... it seems that it just came to mind to write about a previous experience and just got rolling.

Hmmmm. Well here is my, ahem, thing?

Hmmmm, ok this came out extremely strange, especially the second paragraph.

But here it is... (be nice).



Little brothers are the most frustrating creatures to ever roam the planet. Mine has me late to… well… everywhere, in trouble with everyone and crazy because with him around concentration on anything just picks up and dances out the door. He is sitting in his room right now reading a COMIC BOOK AND OCCASIONALLY, IF HE FEELS LIKE IT, and GETTING UP TO LOOK OUT THE WINDOW. He is singing at the top of his voice right now purely to distract me from any kind of academic progression at all, so when I fail the state exams in June I guess I can just say He did it. Well he is constantly blaming his own shortcomings on me, so do I get my own back or what?? I think I do. Yes, so I can’t remember most of what I’ve been saying for the past while but I have this niggling feeling that it’s turning into a rant. But I’m mad!! So give me some space people… deep breath… and out again… Ok calm down here. Right, what else…


Oh yeah my dog is such a klutz!!! Ha ha, she just makes me laugh! She likes to hide under our kitchen table for some unfathomable doggy reason. So every now and again she will venture out underneath the chairs to mope or (probably) mutter to herself in doggy language about how stupid her owner is. And here it is, every time she goes underneath, she bangs her head off the wooden piece that goes across the bottom of the chairs. Every time!! Honestly don’t you think she might learn? Dear Lord… And another few things. She eats cat food and won’t touch dog food. She enjoys attempting to dig holes in impenetrable substances such as…the floor. She humps her lead. To put it bluntly… Yes I think this would have to be the most truly disturbing trait of hers… Oh damn times up, few more seconds. (Just to let you know that I am fair;ly crazy but not in the same way as my “unique” mutt).

Hey! This is an exercise in Outwitting Writer's Block and Other Problems of the Pen. I heard the writer is some cool chick...

Here; I've fixed some typos cuz I was really flailing at those keys. This is my first try, a couple of days ago. Since then they're more personal.

And where is John Ravenscroft, anyway?

VVVVVVV

Ready set go. Time to type and and not see what is typed. This is mystifying to larissa who is reading along. For one thing, she can't read. For another thing, she sees there are no letters. I have turned my font to white on the whte page. at the suggestion of an earlier poster. It's working well, but Larissa is not supposed to be watching. She likes me to sit with her while she goes to sleep. It's torture for me to sit in the dark room with her. When I finally got a laptop that I could bring in to read while she slept, it was such and improvement. I guess trying to type whele she is sleeping is not really playing the game.

I'm tempted to acknowlege at this point how selfish I have been lately wanting only to be on the computer all the time. I haven't been writing a lot, but I have had the sense that I am building up to it. Which is a more optimistic sense than I have had for a while. This is making my fingers quite not exactly tired, but aware of themslves. Somewhate uncomfortable.

Interesting to note that many of my initiatives in the past few years have run aground of my physical sinsations. sensations. Like doing the dishes makes mmy legs feel like they ar filled with mercury. Walking is too often constrained by heat. Plus, I hate this neighborhood where no leaf is apllowed to trail onto the sidewalk. Not an enjoyable place to walk, really at all.

I was wondering how I will know when it has been five minuts. Forgot that there is of course a computer right here on this clock. Ha ha. Strike that . Reverse it, as willy wonka would say.

I'm rather immersed in the moving fantasy. Rather repelled by the moving reality. Not comfortable to sell the house until we have righted all that I sense as the wrongs here. Specifically the electricity. Chris doesn't see that as necessary. I don't want to have to force the issue. But I don't want to even let someone come in here and look at the way we are living with those damn extension cords. My god, I don't think I should ever look at my words. IT is so easy to just type and write and let the stuff come poring out. I need to send an email to Elisa. And one to Chuck. And one to Linda. My fingers are actually tingling. I think I should swtich now to a quieter activity so this poor child can sleep.

-pkpk

JennaGlatzer said:

Hey! This is an exercise in Outwitting Writer's Block and Other Problems of the Pen. I heard the writer is some cool chick...

Click to expand...

Ahhh, a reminder of yet another book I need to buy!

I miss her. I kinda wish I didn't, but I do. A year, ago, or more, I lost t - no. I stopped speaking with a girl I loved. And I mean really loved. or that's what I thoought, at least. Just for those who doin't/ know, yeah, I'm a girl too. See my problem? I don't hate her because I never let myself, but gods above, did I want to sometimes. She was cruel to me, she hurt me more than I can possibly say. Not while we were together - this happened after, the hurting.
So now I'm kinda stuck, y'know? I like girls, but I never really knew how to flirt with guys, let alone girls. I have no odea how t act when I do see a girl I rather like. Because even though I'm pretty good at knowing who's queer, I'm not perfect. I don't want to - I'dn't know. it's weird. My parents don't know, most of my friends have no idea.
There's a girl I'm fomnd of. Her nae's Cassandra. She's small, like me but a little taller. Heh. Right. Um... Her hair is short and brwn-ish, or reddish, depending. Her eyes are blue; her lip is pierced on the left side, just recently. I like her eyes and the way she smiles.
She knows my name and what I like to do .She's been in at least one calss with me since freshmen year. But she'll be gradutaing this year. She's older than me.
All I'll ever do is watch her, and I know it. But she's ....
My time's up. Hang on...

right. that was a bit more personal than i really intended. oh well...

JennaGlatzer said:

Hey! This is an exercise in Outwitting Writer's Block and Other Problems of the Pen. I heard the writer is some cool chick...

Click to expand...

Yeah, she is; and funny, too!

Blank screen, nothing but void yawning out before me. Is it time to create or destroy? Shall I reach inside and break free those demons that I keep locked within, or let them continue to hollow out my heart and soul. Yes, my screen is my venue to allow them to make their mark on this world, yet keep you far from the real me. My fingers scream out words in vivid rendition of tales to be rendered, yet you can not hear what I am truly saying. My computer, an extension of my mind and just as intricate is fully one with my thoughts. If not for these entities crying to be released, my connection to this blank screen would have no meaning. From the depths of the human spirit springs forth the chronicles of life, spun into the miracle of fascinating tales to woo the passion-hungry throngs.

Five minutes with a blank screen..tough...

Well, nothing ever embarrases me (other than my poor spelling, so here it goes)


I came home today from work, bu decided tos tart doign some geocaching. you know, geocaching. That thing where you have a GPS and go to find higdden boxes or whatever with things in them. Pretty fun if you like walking through muddy areas. I did this instead of going with my wife to some company walk out at therace track. Iwas sick yesterday and told her I didn't hink I'd be up to walking today. But istead I go walking a few miles loking for stupid boxes in the middle of no where. What kind of crazy stuff is that? and now I feel worse, my coughing is up and I can just here a "I told you so" from myself. What kind fo crazy fool am i>

Im' sitting in this basement that is the worst ckind of pit you can imagine. It's pathetic. I have more junk in this basement than those crzy guys you hear about that when they die - you go into their housees and find tons of junk just piled to the celiing. Stuff everywhere. My brother in law - when his grandfather died,t hey found that kind fo thing in the basement. there was so much stuff in the basement that they didn't find the [piano for 3 days ! Can you imagine that much junk? If you can't, feel free to come to my basement. Just watch out, it could crash you .

I think that's five minutes. I need a stopwatch.