Remember Mark Twain’s wry comment, “The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” Apply that to reports of writer’s block. It’s a boogey man. Seduce him, kick him in the closet, or strike up a relationship. One way or another, get him out of your unique creative space.
Yes, yes, okay, writer’s block happens. It’s usually caused by depression or despair so severe that it may make someone unable to write, or do anything enjoyable, for years. This happens, just as sometimes there really is something scary hiding in your closet. But it’s rare.
We use the term “writer’s block” as loosely as we use “depressed.” We say “I’m depressed” when we just mean we’re feeling sad or glum. Likewise, we say we have writer’s block when we’re just stuck for an idea or we look at the blank page and get scared that we’re really not good enough. This happens to every writer. A lot.
So let’s start by getting rid of the expression “writer’s block.” Then it won’t be such a demon.
What is the problem, really? It’s your Inner Critic.
This little guy (or woman) sits way at the back corner of the back your head and speaks with an insidious voice, one you can’t help listening to. “You’re a fraud,” he says. Or, “Go ahead and write. Show the world what an idiot you are.” Or, “You, a writer? Don’t be stupid. Crawl back in the hole you came out of.”
This Inner Critic was installed early, by your mother or father, or by a grade school teacher or two, and tightened his hold on you via every slight anyone ever gave you, real or imagined.
He’s not going away. Get used to it. But you can learn to ignore him. You can do what every professional writer does. We’re all scared of him, plain and simple. And we write anyway. Gradually, writing begins to feel good, and then damned good. We sail along until one day we wake up feeling not so hot and hear that cursed voice again.
How to kick the Inner Critic to the curb:
• Laugh at him. Laughter can reduce any enemy to a wimp.
• Stick your tongue out at him. That’ll make you feel good.
• Seduce him. And when he’s weak, say, “Be gone! You have no power here!”
• Tell him you’re going to have fun writing, so he can go for a walk and come back later. Then you’ll have a drink with him later and listen to whatever he has to say. (Hah!)
If these quick quips don’t do the trick, well, I’ve developed a lot of tricks over the years. Try some of these:
• Say to yourself, okay so I’m scared. So I’ll be like a kid on a diving board for the first time. I’ll jump in anyway. Usually, when you hit the water, you’ll start having fun swimming.
• Write every day. No matter how lousy it feels, how stinky you think your work is, write every day. Here’s a certain truth. You can’t write well unless you write. Sometimes write quite a lot. A lot of terrific writers have said they’re good because they keep a wastebasket close at hand.
• Set aside a time to write daily and stick to it. Pros don’t wait to be in the mood, they show up every day. Examples of three friends, famous writers: One writes from five a.m. until the family wakes up. Another writes all night, every night. Another writes from the time the family goes to bed until two or three a.m. Myself, I prefer a normal work day, all day, six days a week.
• Find a way to let your family know, Don’t talk to me, I’m writing. Sometimes I’ve let the grandkids know this with a simple bit of fun—I put on a silly hat. I wear a Shriners’ hat for that purpose, or a Chinese coolie hat with pigtail attached, or a dumb-looking knit cap with a mop of red hair. Any hat will do. Making the hat silly reminds me that writing is a form of play, a time to have fun.
• Don’t answer the phone when you’re writing. You’re on the planet Whatchamacallit getting seduced by a six-legged seal, or in the back chambers of the Supreme Court listening to judges argue about the issue of the day, or anywhere your imagination has taken you away from the present. The phone isn’t in that world.
What if you’re not in a general funk about your writing but are just stuck for an idea for the moment?
The first step is to tell yourself what you’re looking for. You want a slam-dunk sentence to open your essay? You want something surprising to happen in your story? You want to describe a character in a way that’s brief but memorable? You need a snappy line of dialogue? Whatever it is, tell yourself what you want to know. Then put a complete stop to thinking about it and:
• Go for a walk. This is my favorite trick. In one of my homes, I created a good nine-minute walk around the block. I’d say to myself, Okay, this guy’s father was a college professor and his mother was an Indian woman who married the prof, so what would be a good name for him? Then I’d set that question down and walk around the block, looking at everything.
My neighbor is on his riding mower again. Damned if he doesn’t cut that lawn every day. The Desmonds have got their plastic pool out already. Is it really warm enough for those kids to play in it? Oh, look at that magpie. I love those black-white wings. Etc. Somehow, when I sat down at the computer ten minutes later, an idea popped into my head like magi—every time. In a decade of living there, the walk-trick never once failed.
• Dance. Call up U2 or whoever you like on your computer’s iTunes and jig away. Or grab your guitar and sing a Beatles song.
• Play pool for fifteen minutes, if you or your building has a table. Or do the dishes (mmmm, nice warm water), or play fetch with the dog.
It doesn’t matter what kind of short break you take as long as:
• You start by telling yourself what kind of idea you want the muses to toss into your head.
• You don’t work on the idea while you do it.
• The activity is physical, not intellectual, and especially not verbal.
A Last Biggie:
Decades ago a producer came to me with a movie idea that was mouth-gapingly dumb. He wanted a writer to put a painting worth millions of bucks, a Rembrandt or the like, on top of Mont Blanc and be held there from New Year’s Eve until at least one minute after midnight on New Year’s Day.
His idea was that an ultra-rich Swiss guy owned the painting. If it was in Switzerland on December 31, he would have to pay hundreds of thousands of francs on it in taxes. If it wasn’t in the country, then not. And the top of Mont Blanc is in three countries, Switzerland, Italy, and France, so in a whisk the painting could be held in Switzerland or out.
The trouble was, explained the producer, one team of climbers was guarding the painting and another was sneaking up the mountain to steal it. The excitement of the movie would be the battle between the two teams on the vertiginous slopes.
I could barely look the man in the eye.
But, hey, I was a climber. I’d stood on the summit of Mont Blanc, and knew the territory. Mainly, I was a young screenwriter who needed the work. I said yes and promised to come back with a treatment in a couple of weeks.
Quick-quick I hustled down the hall to the office of a close friend, a psychotherapist who loved to read crazy adventure novels and had a mind for wild ideas. I explained my dilemma.
He said, “Close your eyes.”
I did.
“Win, what do you want to know?”
“I want whatever is on that mountain to be way more valuable than somebody’s tax deduction.”
“Good. Do not think about this story at all for a week. Within that week you will have a dream that will give you what you want.” Pause. “Now open your eyes so you can see to drive home.”
At the last dawn of that week, dreaming, I saw the summit of a high, snow-covered peak. Something began to move in the pre-dawn shadows. It was coming out of a snow cave. It was… a woman. She was wearing thick snow gear and carrying a pair of skis. She looked down into Italy and put the skis on.
Eureka! WAY easier to interest an audience in a woman hidden on the top of that great mountain than some painting.
The producer bought the idea. I got paid. Then a Clint Eastwood mountaineering movie made only mediocre money, and they decided not to risk dollars. So goes screenwriting.
But I had learned a trick you can use. When you’re really stuck in a book, tell yourself clearly what you need to know. Write it down. Then, when you go to bed, read the words yourself, go to sleep, and let your subconscious do the work. It likes that kind of work.
Conclusion — When you feel stuck, remember these basics:
• Your goal today is not to win a Pulitzer Prize. It’s to turn out some good pages, the way a pro does.
• Writing is fun. Shaping fine sentences feels good. Imagining is a rip-roaring blast.
• You can do it. You have done it.
Now go play.
You have all the tools you need, all the tools anyone needs, to get rid of that non-existent creep in your closet, The Boogeyman. Adios! (And find a few fun hats.)
Best — Win
About Meredith and Win Blevins
I give myself permission to write badly. But at least I write. Sometimes I throw the stuff out. But more often, it’s like pumping a muddy well until the water comes clean. You can revise or pitch out the muddy stuff. However, the best cure for writer’s block is to be nearly broke. If you are down to pocket change, you will be inspired. In my old age I have a worse problem than blockage. I don’t have an idea in my head.
Personally, I just give that Boogey-gal a lollipop (she’s not that old, you know, to keep repeating the same stuff over and over again and think herself intimidating). The sweet stuff keeps her mouth busy, and let’s me write in peace. Sometimes she even gets an idea and chimes in before she realizes what she’s doing. We’re all good.
;)