On Writing Processes

by David Marcus Karp


          This is a journal I wrote about half a year or so ago and, even though I have learned more about writing and processes since, I still think this stands out for me! Enjoy!:

            I believe that the writing processes of one’s pieces are as important as the pieces themselves. This is a strong belief of mine, as it can add a lot to the plot and the characters in general.

            To admit it, the thing that made me really realize this and make me want to write about it is the play Red, which I got to see this month at the Goodman. In the play, Rothko had a process to the particular pieces that made the theme of the show. He knew that they represented something inside him that not only fascinated him, but scared him. Yet, there comes the bravery, beauty, and tragedy of art. Depending on the situation, pushing yourself to another level is part of the art. I could go on with this for hours, but I will try to condense this as much as I can.

            Here are some examples from my own work: For the first poetry series I’m writing about the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict and my travels to the Middle East, I set up my kitchen to look very urban looking, with a single fluorescent light illuminating the place, and the table being my work place set up in the middle of the kitchen. I set up the kitchen this way as it makes me feel like I am actually in a bit more of an urban (and I mean middle east urban, or even European urban) environment and I can feel the atmosphere around me as I work, inspiring me and rubbing off of me onto my work. I want my work to have somewhat of a raw, urban, “graffiti like” feeling to it, and I believe having myself in an atmosphere that mimics it is very helpful to put me into the writing.

            Another example, for my novel, my character is going on a journey of sorts (I won’t say much), so to write it, I have come up with a plan where I will also travel around the city with my laptop and write in a different place every day, as my character is going, so I can, in a way, see through the eyes of the character. In many cases, my work will have different processes or mindsets when then they are created.

            So in other words, I believe that sometimes it’s appropriate to put yourself into the mind and the world of your stories. If you surround yourself with whatever inspires you and the story, whether it be music, environment, place, time, I say put yourself in there! Let the world take you for a bit as you go on your own journey, because I believe you can learn a lot that way.

            The writing process doesn’t only make the artwork, it is part of the artwork, and it should illuminate on the work. As for me, I want to feel what the character does, where the character goes, and why he is the way he is. Of course, it is different with everything that is written, but I believe there is a beauty there when you can feel so connected to your artwork. It is your world, take advantage of it.

I Tried To Write...

I sat down to start writing-not this entry you are reading-but to work on one of the many books I have either started or had an idea to make onto paper as the next great novel in mankind’s history. I have started many books, and a few that I decided to make into screenplays and vice versa, how much have I finished? Well I feel like Franz Kafka the German speaking Jewish Czech writer, who never finishing a piece of work to his complete satisfaction (aside from maybe Metamorphosis). But I live in the age of distractions, the age of overloading of knowledge: books upon books, plays, movies, television, magazines, short stories, poetry, music-oh don’t forget the abundance of music!-I know friends that are distracted by sports, and yet complain about government. See and feel the pain of driving inefficient transportation, and yet are forced to do so for a job to get food on the table and water to continue running. Just as my soul, life, and body feel incomplete without love, it feels incomplete without my work being finished, my friends family and my world-our world-being incomplete without a genuine and virtuous reason to continue getting up each day. Our reason is not fame or fortune, at least not for everyone. But then what is it, to live life like a party? a game? a risk to take?...let me ask you: what’s at risk? Who would that affect? What would you gain? Is it worth it?

            Welcome to my “non-fictionalized” world. It feels so much like a fantasy horror-like that of a Kafka story-that no wonder I wished for film to be a “career”. I guess I wished to no longer see me and everyone go through the motions unhappily doing what society dictated because no one can no longer tolerate, observe, understand-we just disagree. And what a piece of non-fiction this is! All I said was I sat down: I sat at my desk with a chair and wheels that roll on the carpet of my room. However, now I have my feet up on my bed and my computer on my lap-warming it. I stopped writing about midway through the last paragraph as I was distracted (not by any media or cultural thing) but because I seriously thought my nails could use a trim. They have been looking worse lately. Possibly due to my “nasty habit” which I agree-it is quite bad. Some of my nails are bumpy and yes a little yellow at the tips of the nails. The skin on my fingers is soft, as I haven’t practiced the guitar in some time. All the work at my dead-end part-time job is preventing me, however I need the job in order to pay off student loans, and so what is preventing me is my debt, but I wished for an education in the field of film, and now I have one-whatever that is-but can’t get a good job unless I go into further debt or unless I sell out and care little of the world and environment around me. I could say: if not me, then someone else will. True, perhaps, but I wouldn’t be able to live with myself, I’m barely able to now, especially when this affected by the world.

            People say the world isn’t fair. Okay I’ll take that for a fact then. But fair or not, how can one justify war and killing people, or a single person? The person can be a terrorist. Then jail is perfectly fine to lock up a psychopath, a sociopath, or just keep the irresponsible idiots out of the decision making processes. Right now, locking up so many citizens in a country claiming to be free, it’s not just ironic-it’s plain stupidity. The prison system, the judicial system, the police, the education system, our world: it’s being run like a business…one that’s too big to fail?

            Alright, I’m sorry for typing at my computer and spewing crap all about in the form of language and words. The trees outside are starting to grow green again and for me, that’s hope. Of life continuing to cycle, to continue on. Change is all about me, even if I’m twenty-three and still live in my parent’s house…(sigh) c’est la vie.

Justin Vaisnor

At The Lake: A Journal Entry

By David Marcus Karp

As we walked through the marble stone gate, we were presented by a small pathway for runners and, next to it, a wall that went to about our chest. We quickly climbed over the wall and, revealed to us, were large concrete steps that led down to the lakefront.

            We made our way down briskly (or jumped our way down rather, since the steps were more built for giants) and stood right over the water. It swayed with a calmness that was almost silent and the waves were nowhere near menacing. Out in the distance, you saw the sky, almost absent of all sunlight, meet the water. It was a perfect meeting of the abyss and the unknown, as both seemed to continue on forever in peaceful coexistence.

            We turned around to an equally pleasant scene. On the right side of the steps we had  just made our way down, there were three kids, all dressed in black, and one of them playing an acoustic guitar. You couldn’t make out exactly what he was playing, but they seemed content and the notes went well with the surprisingly warm breeze that haunted the moment. In front of us, on top of the wall, the couple that was making out were cuddled together in each other’s arms, watching the same silent water that we had come to notice. Their hands were locked together and they smiled with the content of each other’s company. To the left, a few friends were just hanging out, talking, and enjoying the warm night.

            There weren’t too many people around besides them and us, except for a few people that still walked the path behind the wall, their upper body bobbing up and down like puppets on an oversized stage, their lower half cut off from view by concrete. It had just reached the end of any sunlight that shined on the day, and would be totally dark in just a few minutes.

            Watching…no…feeling the scene around me, I took a few deep breaths and realized that I had no worries at that moment. I had no fears, I didn’t feel anything bad, I felt content, I felt like nothing could hurt me. I had good company in a peaceful home-away-from-home setting.

            I turned to T.J., one of my best friends, and we talked about life after college and the future ahead. Unlike me, he is graduating on time and hoping to go off to Northern Ireland for a year for a service project. As for me, I have an extra semester here, which I can’t complain about, and walk next year. It’s going to be nice staying in Chicago though and see where life takes me. But, at the moment, life took me to the lake after a crazy weekend, and every ounce of me was happy with that.

            You see, T.J. and I spent the whole weekend on close to no sleep. It was maybe a total of seven hours of sleep in 72 hours.  Thanks to a bout of insomnia, I didn’t sleep at all Friday night and instead, went to my favorite café when they opened at 5:30 am and had breakfast, then went home, took a little 3 hour nap, and went off for another day of adventures with T.J. The next night, I feel sleep around 3:00am (which was really 4:00am because of daylight savings time…damn it) and woke up about 5 hours later to start the busy day. T.J. stayed up until about 5:00 a.m. Friday night, but still didn’t get much sleep. The next night, though I didn’t ask him, we were still out pretty late together so I’m sure he was up awhile.

            I’m not sure if this was the contributing factor to the peace that surrounded me at that moment on the lake, but there was also another feeling. In addition to the calm night that surrounded me, there was also a looming air of something beginning or even ending. It felt like being home but, at the same time, being lost. Lost in something unfamiliar yet unthreatening.

            I climbed the small ladder that lead down to the water to see how cold it was and as I hung off the yellow metallic ladder and stuck my hand in the water, the sensation of the softest fabric you could ever touch warmed my skin, silently and motherly. It held my hand and greeted me with confidence. I slowly took my hand out, climbed up the ladder slowly, and told T.J. that it wasn’t too cold.

            We talked and joked for a few minutes as a few stars appeared in the darkness above us like very distant headlights, and as we watched them, I listened to my breath and let that same unknown feeling of happiness, content, and unknown flow through my mind and my body. It did feel like a beginning or an end. It’s silence was the loudest poem to echo in my ears. I turned to T.J.

            “Doesn’t this kind of feel like the ending of something. Like a movie, or something.”