Category Archives: writer’s block

You-Know-What or That-Which-Must-Not-Be-Named (Ahem…Writer’s Block)

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By: Michael James Greenwald

So, I’ve made a regular habit of watching “Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader?” with my mother.  For those of you who do not know, “Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader?” is a game show on Fox hosted by Jeff Foxworthy where an adult must answer a series of questions, supposedly extracted from 1st through 5th grade textbooks, to win $250,000.  I watch this show with my mother because she enjoys it immensely and I find myself drawn to the spectacle of watching adults struggle with questions that any normal fifth grader would have no trouble with, and to make matters worse, the show actually casts three fifth grade students, who help the adults answer the questions.  It fascinates me to watch these adults hemming and hawing over, let’s say, the capital of Wyoming

while the fifth graders lock in their answers in seconds.  I mentioned that one time to my mother.  I said, “Mom, how do these kids know the answer so fast?”  And she, not taking her eyes off of her favorite program, responded, “They’re children, dear, they don’t yet fear failure.”

This scene led me to mull over my childhood, and I’ll fully admit, here and now, I was just as obedient perfectionist as a fifth grader as I am as a thirty year old “adult.”  But I can remember, sprawled on the floor of my room, with my construction paper and scissors and crayons spread around me, writing and drawing picture books, that I’d present to the whole family come dinner time.  I probably wrote a book a day for a whole year, prolificacy even Stephen King couldn’t snuff at.  I’d scoop my Apple Jacks into my face as quickly as I could to get to my floor, so I could write books about dogs or lizards or gila monsters (I was really into Gila Monsters Meet You At the Airport, which I’d seen on “Reading Rainbow”, my favorite show).

My favorite book for a while.

I remember being a fifth grader and Miss Foley, my English teacher, had us writing our own stories, which we’d read on Fridays and I created this pulp, noire private-I series (before I’d even read Chandler) about a gum-chewing (Miss Foley was very conservative, so cigarettes and whiskey wouldn’t have been proper) P.I. who solved the crime and got the buxom babe, though each installment ended just as my detective was going in for the kiss with a “RIIIIIIINNNNNNNNGGGGGGG!!!!!!”, of which the source of this ending sound I never revealed to a soul, even as much as the cutest girls in the class tried to flirt it out of me, or Jimmy Sessions, the biggest kid in fifth grade used to push me down as I walked down the hall and demand, “Greenwald!  Tell me what the stupid ring is at the end of your stupid stories!”

With my PI series, I wrote maybe twenty installments in a semester, about ten to twelve pages each.  You can do the math.

So, how as a fifth grader, was I able to be at least twice as prolific as I am now as a professional writer?

That question can be easily answered by returning to my mother’s favorite television quiz show.  The reason I was prolific is twofold: I was a child, so I didn’t fear failure and I didn’t understand the stakes.

Let’s talk about failure for a second.  When I was sprawled on the floor of my room making my Gila monster picture books I didn’t think about what my parents would like when I crafted the story-lines, I created characters who made me laugh, did things I thought were cool, expressed feelings I had inside myself.  In fifth grade, when I created these big-breasted, beautiful women who entered my PI’s office at the beginning of the story who’d had their dogs run-away on them or had their trillion dollar necklaces stolen, I was relating a fantasy that I had as a fifth grade boy.  I wanted to be this laid-back, cool as Zach Morris detective, and have mature woman beg for my help.  And I knew that the boys in my grade wanted that too (most of them, at least) and the girls were riveted maybe because they wanted to have a man of my PI’s suaveness dote on them.  My point is, as a child, I never thought that a literary agent would find my damsels in distress stereotypical, or my gila monster characters flat and un-evolving by stories end, or my “surprise” “RRRIIINNNNNNGGGGG!!!!!” endings of my PI stories to be cliche.

Bird By Bird, Anne Lamott

In the introduction to one of my favorite writing books, Bird By Bird, Anne Lamott relates to her students about how it is for her at her writing desk every morning “with a few ideas and a lot of blank paper, with hideous conceit and low self-esteem in equal measure, fingers poised on the keyboard.”

And that’s exactly where I find myself every day, as I assume if you are a writer of any prolificacy, you also find yourself in the same position, hunched over your keys, hating the sight of your opened Word file, eyes flicking to the toolbar where you know Mozila is only two clicks away, and you’ll be on the Internet, where life is surfing and reading and fun, but afterward…

The Afterward is what you need to focus on.  The Afterward is The Truth for me.  If you want to be uncouth, the Afterward is waking up, still-drunk, next to a body you know you shouldn’t have slept with.  For me, writing is a relationship partner, someone who makes you feel just as amazing after you’ve slept together as during.  Or a different analogy, writing is cooking a fresh meal, with produce I’d gotten from the farmer’s market, maybe I walked down their with a person I love the most in this world, and we browsed the aisles, hand in hand, sipping that mornings coffee, and selected organic green peppers from a sweet lady from Bloomington and carrots from a nice farmer named John from Springfield, and then my baby and I spent all day in the kitchen, cleaning and chopping and steaming and preparing jambalaya, with turkey sausage and rice, and we ate it that evening, so slowly, bite by savory bite, illuminated by only candlelight, sipping merlot.  And after all the dishes are washed, and all the leftovers are put away, we’re lying together on the couch, reading, with the dinner we’d prepared from scratch digesting in our bellies.

To me, that’s writing.  It’s a lot of work, lot of preparation, cooking, preparing.  But afterward, you feel amazing.

If I close my Word file and click over to Mozilla and IM on Facebook, or leave my office all-together to watch Jerry Springer, when I’m supposed to be writing, it might feel good while I’m doing it, like scarfing a McDouble and a large fry or sleeping with the girl who eats McDoubles and large fries, but afterward, the Afterward, my body feels horrible.

Anne Lamott says about her students, “When they are working on their books or stories, their heads will spin with ideas and invention.  They’ll see the world through new eyes.  Everything they see and hear and learn will become grist for the mill.  At cocktail parties or in line at the post office, they will be gleaning small moments and overheard expressions: they’ll sneak away to scribble these things down.  They will have days at the desk of frantic boredom, of angry hopelessness, of wanting to quit forever, and there will be days when it feels like they have caught and are riding a wave.”

So, my last words are this: There are no short cuts, no easy solutions, no carpool lane to getting published, no literary steroids you can take to speed up the construction of writing muscles.  There is only work.  But let me tell you, once you brush aside expectation and ignore the high-pitched voice of Fear of Failure, and face each day with the mindset to reach your word count or dedicate a block of time to your art, you’ll find, as the days turn into weeks, weeks into months, and your project develops in front of your eyes, your whole life condenses to one feeling: delicious accomplishment.

I’ll leave you with my anthem…

No Sympathy For Writer’s Block

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By S. C. Green

S. C. Green

What exactly is writer’s block? Let’s be honest here. I’ve stared at this page for at least twenty minutes before typing something out. Is that writer’s block?

No.

Not being able to put into words what you want to write. Is that writer’s block?

No.

A term used to scare the bejesus out of inexperienced writers?

Now we’re getting close.

Writer’s block is a feeble excuse to get out of working on the creative project you set out for yourself. It’s the crutch used to avoid dealing with the real problem at hand. “Did you finish that story you were working on?” “No, I’ve got writer’s block.” “How’s that article coming?” “Writer’s block.” “Finish that dissertation?” “No, writer’s block.”

Get over yourself. It’s a load of crap. And if you buy into it, it’s your own fault. There is no such thing as writer’s block.  If there was, don’t you think the pharmaceutical companies would be all over that?

Okay, so what now? I still can’t write.

Now that we’ve kicked the WB theory out the window, we can dive into the heart of the matter. The Amys already covered some of the aspects commonly associated with “writer’s block”.

Fear is a biggie. Ms. McLane tackled that on Monday. Ms. Nichols explained why it’s more like getting stuck. Both posts are incredibly insightful. If you haven’t already, check them out.

You now have some idea what’s causing the real troubles. What do you do about it?

Tough love.

First things first. Sit your ass down and start typing. I don’t care what it is. It could be that story you’re working on, a letter to a prison pen pal, or hate mail in response to my post. It doesn’t matter as long as you’re writing.

Set a goal to write at least 500 words a day. It doesn’t matter what you write about. Stream of conscience writing is fine. Doing this keeps you in the practice of writing. You should be so accustomed to writing that if you miss a day, you become less tolerable than a smoker having a nic-fit. In all honesty, if you’re not already like that, why are you writing?

Let’s address your current project. How’s that going for you? Did it fizzle out? Stop dead in its tracks? This might be hard to hear, so brace yourself.

You’re not ready yet.

I emphasize yet. Maybe your mind just hasn’t grasped the full spectrum of what it is you’re trying to create. It happens. Or maybe your craft isn’t that good yet. That’s something nobody wants to hear.

Am I being mean? Yes. Do you need to hear it? A resounding yes.

Think about it. If you can’t grasp your story yet, you risk doing it an injustice by portraying it poorly. And if your craft isn’t up to par, don’t thrash a good idea by taking it on before you’re ready. That’s writing suicide.

But whatever you do, don’t scrap the idea or project. As long as you’re writing daily, your craft will get better. You’ll eventually understand what you’re trying to say and be able to convey it clearly.  File it away for future dalliances. Why not work on more than one project? If one comes to a stand still, jump to the other one. Neil Gaiman does this.

There’s another kind of writer’s block that I won’t get too far into today. I call it avoidance. This is where I suffer the greatest. I had this preconceived notion that to write well, I had to devote a solid block of time everyday. If I couldn’t have that, then I couldn’t write at all and wouldn’t. Stupid, I know. Next week I, along with my fellow PLCers, will tell you how we deal with avoidance.

It all comes down to this. Writer’s block is nothing but you, the writer, blocking yourself. So get over yourself, and write the stories I’m dying to read.

Three Kinds of Stuck

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By Amy K. Nichols

Amy K. Nichols

I don’t like the term ‘writer’s block’. I think that name turns a manageable thing into something mythic and dramatic that keeps writers from writing.

I find it much more productive to call writer’s block what it is: being stuck.

It’s a hiccup. A pothole. It’s not a busted transmission. It’s not the wheels falling off. It’s just being stuck.

From my experience, there are three ways of getting stuck. Here’s what I learned about them and how I learned to get unstuck.

Fear

The first kind of stuck is fear. Amy McLane wrote a great post about this on Monday. If you haven’t read it yet, do.

Sometimes we get a great idea for a story or scene, and the thought of writing it makes us sick to our stomachs. We’re sure our mothers will disown us if we write it; or we’ll have to show our critique group and they’ll tear it apart. Fear gets the best of us and we’ll do anything not to write. Remodel this and rearrange that. Balance the checkbook. Clean the crumbs out of the toaster. We tell ourselves we have the terrible and mysterious writer’s block. But the truth is, we’re just afraid.

Here’s one way of getting over fear: write. You don’t have to write the big thing that is scaring you. Write something else. Write anything else. Just write. Get your fingers on the keyboard or get that pen in your hand and get words down. Don’t worry if they’re the wrong words. Get into the movement of writing. Doing this eases you toward writing the thing you really want to be writing.

There’s a great tool to help get the words out. It’s called Write or Die. Check it out. It rocks.

Wrong Choices

The second kind of stuck is triggered from making the wrong choices for your story. I touched on this in my “Be the sensitive type” post at Amy Writes.

You’re writing along, and you come to a decision point. Does your character go down this road, or that one? You make your choice and keep going. But the next thing you know, the energy is draining out of your story. Your once-enthusiastic fingers stutter over the keys. You lose interest. You stop typing. You look around and wonder what happened. You question whether your story idea is any good. You start thinking of all the other stories you want to write, and consider writing one of them instead.

Before you give up on your story, try rereading what you wrote right before you felt the energy drain. Try to see with an objective eye. Find where you went off track. Listen to what your story wants and rewrite it. Then watch your story spring back to life.

Navigational Troubles

The third kind of stuck happens when you know the next big thing in your story, you’re not sure how to get there. You sit at the keyboard, fingers poised…waiting…but the answer doesn’t come. Frustrating. Maybe you can see the next scene or the ending or another part of the story, but you can’t see what’s next. You’re stuck.

I’ve found two options for getting out of this one.

The first is to write the scenes you can see. Even if it means writing the ending first. Write out everything you know, and trust that the parts you don’t know will come to you as you write.

The second is to get up from your desk (shhh, don’t tell Ron Carlson I wrote that), and do some kind of work with your hands. For me, this frees the subconscious. I do the dishes, dry my hair, garden, scrub the bathtub, vacuum, take a shower. I don’t make myself think about writing. I let my mind relax. And sure enough, something in my subconscious shifts and the answers appear. If you find yourself stuck this way, try scrubbing the toilet. Seriously. Then when you get the answer, abandon your brushes and get back to your real work.

I’m sure there are more ways of getting stuck. But you’ll notice the remedy is always the same. Writing. The antidote to any writing difficulty is writing. Don’t entertain writer’s block. Don’t give it undue power. Just call your kind of stuck by its name and do whatever it takes to get over it, around it, through it. Then keep going. Keep writing. And don’t stop.

Beating the Demon: Depressive Writer’s Block

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By Amy McLane

Writer’s block is fear. Fear of inadequacy, fear of ineptitude, fear of ridicule. It is entropy, and it whispers “you can’t” in your ear until you listen.

I find my own writer’s block can manifest in a couple of different forms.  I experience it most frequently as procrastination. I fiddle away my time on gossip sites, play Minesweeper or Solitaire, reorganize my desk. Usually I am avoiding writing a difficult scene or doing some heavy editing. For me, this block can be defeated by a little gumption. Some commitment is necessary, like an egg timer, a prompt, a word count, a deadline, or my personal favorite: making a cup of coffee, shutting the office door, and disabling the internet connection.

That kind of writer’s block is annoying, like a dripping faucet when you are trying to sleep. But sometimes procrastination can root, and grow into something much uglier. Days turn into weeks, weeks into months. Suddenly you realize how long it’s been since you wrote, and despair fills you. You are strangled, mute. You have nothing to say, no story to tell, and even if you did it would not be worth telling. You always thought the point of your life was to write, and you’re not doing it. You’re in a creative black hole. Welcome to Depressive Writer’s Block.

Like any other form of depression, you need to get active, get help. Here’s how you can start.

First off, look around you. Is your environment contributing to your writer’s block? More specifically, is your job crushing your soul? Is someone in your life, friend or lover, sucking up every moment of time and thought and energy you have? Is your home life unstable?

Make a change. Make a break. Brush off your resume, and in the meantime defy The Man by writing on lunch breaks. Dump your toxic friends and lovers. Move out of your unstable home as quickly as you can. And in the midst of this, identify who is good for you, who helps stabilize your life, and confide in them, even if that person is just yourself. There’s nothing wrong with walking alone. It means you’re in total control of the situation.

But, you can’t stay an island. Writing is an isolating activity, and isolation breeds depressive thoughts. Join a writer’s group. If meeting other writers feels too scary (we are a rather weird bunch), try an online writer’s group like Critters or OWWSF&F. If you are like me and need face to face contact to feel like you’re part of a writing community, go down to your local community college and sign up for a class. It shouldn’t be too expensive, and it’ll get the ball rolling. You can always Google an instructor to make sure they are a fit for you before joining.

If you’re too young to take a college class, try to work one into your school schedule, or see if there isn’t an after-school writer’s group you can join. If you can’t find one maybe you can start one with a friend. Alternatively, your local bookstore probably hosts writer’s groups, and they may be open to new people. Your local coffee shop is another good place to scout for a group.  Joining a group means you are surrounding yourself with other people who share the same dream as you. They may be on a different part of the path than you, but that’s okay, if you leave your ego at the door. After all, the instructor isn’t the only one who can teach you things.

Now try this: reread old stories with a gentle eye. Pick the one you think the best and submit it somewhere. Tell yourself it’s just a lark, and that you’re starting a form rejection letter collection. Expect nothing else, and if you get something else, even if it’s just a hand scribbled note on your form rejection, you’ll be pleased instead of disappointed. Stephen King got so many rejections the nail he impaled them on eventually fell off the wall, overwhelmed by sheer volume. See if you can’t beat that. Even though you’re being lighthearted about it, each submission is another step to professional publication.

If that makes you want to hide under the bed, try this: You keep telling yourself you’re lousy. So give yourself permission to be as lousy as you can be. Try to write the worst story in the world. Pretend you’re entering the Bulwer-Lytton Contest. Trick yourself into having fun. After a few paragraphs you might find you’ve warmed up enough to keep going.

Ultimately the key is this: You are NOT your writing. If critiques bruise you, if rejections crush you, if an unreceptive reader makes you rage or cry, remember, you are NOT your writing. The ego is a nasty beast and likes to get tangled up in your art. Create, then disengage. Honor your work by opening yourself to feedback. Be willing to change. It’s the only way you can grow, improve, and realize your dreams.

If none of this is remotely helpful to you, and you’re having some other problems too, read through this checklist and see if it isn’t time to seek professional help. It’s a popular myth that writers have to be miserable to write. It’s popular because it’s romantic- yes, it looks like I’m just sitting on my butt with a moleskine in front of me, but what I’m really doing is suffering. It’s not just a lie, it’s a silly lie. Some of us can write despite our misery, but very few of us write because of our misery.

If anyone has any other tips for beating the demon, or have anything else you’d like to add, please drop a note in the confession box.