The Death of Writer's Block
Writer’s block is an interesting beast. It would be something like a stone mason suddenly being unable to lift a rock, or move a trowel. I understand that writer’s block is a real thing. I’ve talked with people who’ve had it and read essays by bestsellers who’ve been trumped by it. However, when asked if I get writer’s block, my answer is, “no, never.” That’s a bold claim, but it’s true.
My immunity was given to me by an infamous, local high school teacher named Robert Baldwin. He was an “against-the-grain” kind of guy. Every day he violated the school dress code with sandals and jeans. He added to this a tan suit-coat with leather elbow patches. While that attire brought him close to a stereotype, day after day he broke down our assumptions of him. Once, a linebacker from the football team—an intelligent young man—argued his case as to why an assignment wasn’t worth his time. Baldwin heard him out and then offered a deal. They would arm wrestle for it; if the student won, he didn’t have to do the paper. If he lost, he’d have to double the word content. We learned two things that day: One, Baldwin used to be a logger; two, if you want to keep your dignity, do not arm wrestle a logger.
While that’s a great story, Baldwin gave me much more than fun stories to tell; he gave me the single most important wrench in my writing toolbox: freewriting. One of the requirements of his class was to write in a spiral notebook every day. There were no content guidelines, only quantity. If we hit a certain number of pages at the end of the term, we’d receive an ‘A’ on the notebook.
When I opened that spiral notebook and inked the first word, I had no idea of the impact it would have. That first freewrite flowed into thousands of hand-written and typed pages, and over the next twenty years, it would permanently destroy writer’s block.
One of my rituals as I begin writing for the day is to freewrite: a one-page, single-spaced brain-dump. When I’m done, I open the documents I am currently working on, be they editing or rough drafting, and begin work. I’m in no way saying I don’t get stuck, because I do. It’s what I do the moment I feel stuck that saves me from the dreaded block. I leave my journal open as I work, and when I find myself at a dead end, I go back and freewrite. I’ll write a short story about the character’s past, or imagine what’s happening in the room adjacent to the scene I’m working on—ANYTHING related to the story. There are no right or wrong answers. Invariably I find my characters opening up to me with long forgotten secrets that send my plots off in unexpected directions.
Over the past twenty years I’ve spend hundreds of hours freewriting. Today, I can type at 100+ wpm and essentially record what I’m day-dreaming in real time. Freewriting has allowed me to open the gateway to that well of creative dark matter that is so difficult to access during a spell of writer’s block, and for that I will be forever in Robert Baldwin’s debt.
So what good is, “Do this for twenty years,” for new writers who want to write well today? Here’s the reality: When starting out, there is no way to write well today. That doesn’t mean you should shut the laptop and move on. The following applies to any pursuit in life: You should work today for where you can be next year and the year after that. What can you do today and every day from here to the New Year? What effect would daily work have on the desired skill if you did this for the next decade? Is putting forth that level of dedicated effort worth it?
You damn well better believe it is.
My immunity was given to me by an infamous, local high school teacher named Robert Baldwin. He was an “against-the-grain” kind of guy. Every day he violated the school dress code with sandals and jeans. He added to this a tan suit-coat with leather elbow patches. While that attire brought him close to a stereotype, day after day he broke down our assumptions of him. Once, a linebacker from the football team—an intelligent young man—argued his case as to why an assignment wasn’t worth his time. Baldwin heard him out and then offered a deal. They would arm wrestle for it; if the student won, he didn’t have to do the paper. If he lost, he’d have to double the word content. We learned two things that day: One, Baldwin used to be a logger; two, if you want to keep your dignity, do not arm wrestle a logger.
While that’s a great story, Baldwin gave me much more than fun stories to tell; he gave me the single most important wrench in my writing toolbox: freewriting. One of the requirements of his class was to write in a spiral notebook every day. There were no content guidelines, only quantity. If we hit a certain number of pages at the end of the term, we’d receive an ‘A’ on the notebook.
When I opened that spiral notebook and inked the first word, I had no idea of the impact it would have. That first freewrite flowed into thousands of hand-written and typed pages, and over the next twenty years, it would permanently destroy writer’s block.
One of my rituals as I begin writing for the day is to freewrite: a one-page, single-spaced brain-dump. When I’m done, I open the documents I am currently working on, be they editing or rough drafting, and begin work. I’m in no way saying I don’t get stuck, because I do. It’s what I do the moment I feel stuck that saves me from the dreaded block. I leave my journal open as I work, and when I find myself at a dead end, I go back and freewrite. I’ll write a short story about the character’s past, or imagine what’s happening in the room adjacent to the scene I’m working on—ANYTHING related to the story. There are no right or wrong answers. Invariably I find my characters opening up to me with long forgotten secrets that send my plots off in unexpected directions.
Over the past twenty years I’ve spend hundreds of hours freewriting. Today, I can type at 100+ wpm and essentially record what I’m day-dreaming in real time. Freewriting has allowed me to open the gateway to that well of creative dark matter that is so difficult to access during a spell of writer’s block, and for that I will be forever in Robert Baldwin’s debt.
So what good is, “Do this for twenty years,” for new writers who want to write well today? Here’s the reality: When starting out, there is no way to write well today. That doesn’t mean you should shut the laptop and move on. The following applies to any pursuit in life: You should work today for where you can be next year and the year after that. What can you do today and every day from here to the New Year? What effect would daily work have on the desired skill if you did this for the next decade? Is putting forth that level of dedicated effort worth it?
You damn well better believe it is.
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