Smarty Pants
Not so long ago, I responded to a general author question on Goodreads asking for my thoughts on writer’s block. Thinking myself smart, I immediately declared that I no longer believe it exists. I scoffed at the very suggestion that a writer could be blocked.
A few months have passed since then. If given a chance to change my response, I’d say something softer and less self-righteous. I mean, seriously. Talk about tempting the fates. Talk about hubris.
Mistaken Identity
When I began writing fiction twenty-some years ago, I took the commonly held wisdom that my main job was to churn out a requisite number of words each day with monk-like seriousness. I showed up in my robe at 4:00 a.m., ready to supplicate for the betterment of the world or at least myself. In our stilled living room with the picture window turned to black and every other person in the house sleeping, I opened my laptop and placed my fingertips on the keyboard.
I had a full-time job and three kids. There was little other choice in the context of my life. If I was going to become a real writer, I would need to do it early in the day. Some mornings I’d be so bleary eyed and exhausted, I’d have to knock my knees together, bone-to-bone with a good hard smack—all this merely to keep my eyelids open.
Needless to say, some mornings I did not produce a single word, and that’s when the real suffering began. I’d berate myself for lack of conviction. Reaching for perfection with one hand, slapping my face with the other, I’d ask myself who I thought I was fooling. Was there any point in getting up so early only to doze off in the overstuffed chair?
Slowly Waking Up
I’m not sure when this changed. It certainly wasn’t during the twelve years that I hammered away at a failed novel. More likely than not, it was a gradual awakening that slowly unfolded over the eight years it took to finish my recently published short story collection. I’d begun working from home, thereby eliminating the daily commute, freeing up more time to write and giving me an extra hour of sleep.
Aided by the ability to shift from one story to the next, I was less entangled in daily quotas. Some stories took three years to research. Others took twice that to revise. One came out fully formed in less than a month. None of this seems within my control. Why not accept that? It’s a radical idea, no doubt. But that is what I have done.
Slowly, I’ve started to understand that the pauses, those mornings when I do not add words to a story, are not barriers. They are openings. When that happens, I need to turn my back on the production of words and instead choose uncertainty. I need to step boldly into the unknown and wait there patiently for the questions and their answers to arrive. Gosh, I wish someone had warned me of what took over a decade to realize. For me, writing involves equal parts thinking and communicating. There are no shortcuts. The best ideas, the most heart-wrenching scenes, come from sitting quietly with an open mind and exploring.
A Bit of Kind Advice None Too Soon
If I could talk to my earlier self, I’d tell her to open to the process, to approach with love instead of judgment, to trust that the creative urge will take the story where it needs to go. My job as a writer of fiction is simple. I’d been doing it all along without recognizing my success. Show up! Do that day after day; nothing more is required. Or, as I sometimes tell myself, suffering is optional.
For some people, showing up means fingers on the keyboard. I respect that and celebrate their good fortune. But for me, showing up means being still and letting go and above all waiting. One thing I do know is the story will not vanish if I set it aside for months or even years. Pushing is not the same as persistence. What’s required, at least for me, is presence not pressure. Is that my life’s karma? To learn patience? Oh my. Thank you please, I guess.
Returning to the Question
So, I ask myself once again. Do I believe in writer’s block? —Not so much.
Even after reflection, it seems like a mistaken metaphor. I’d rather think of those moments when the words do not come as a gate I may choose to open. Only then, can I discover what’s on the other side. It’s as likely to be a cliff, as it is to be a meadow, but the only way to find out is to open the gate and step through.
What’s your experience? Do you believe in writer’s block? If you enjoyed this blog, please consider subscribing. In any case, keep reading, thinking, and writing. What else is life for?
Debbie Bateman 