What Not to Do with Writer's Block
So I said, back in July, that writer’s block probably deserved a post of its own. And since I’m having no luck coming up with a better topic for September (self-reflexively, I am experiencing a kind of writer’s block), let’s just run with it and see where we get.
The first thing not to do with writer’s block is reify it.
“Reify” is a fancy litcrit word, from the Latin res, and what it means is taking something–a social custom or an institutional practice or a way of thinking–and letting it turn into the black monolith from 2001. It becomes something you can’t change–can’t even think about changing–because you’re forgetting that it has origins and purposes and all those other things that human artifacts, whether material or mental, have. Writer’s block isn’t an unfathomable object. It’s kind of mysterious, because it’s a conflict between the conscious mind and what I tend to call the underconscious, but giving into the mystification angle, letting it become a reified thing, merely makes it harder to deal with. Eventually, it leads to pulling an Ernest Hemingway and blowing your head off.
Bad idea.
The second thing not to do with writer’s block is to use it as an excuse.
There is a perfectly legitimate point in the process of moving from unblocked to blocked to unblocked again where trying to write is only going to make things worse, and you do have to recognize and respect that, but it’s all too easy to start saying I have writer’s block, when the real problem is that you’re struggling with a craft issue, or you’ve made some horrible mistake that you don’t know how to fix, or you’re bored with the story you’ve been working on, or, hell, you just feel lazy today and don’t want to work. Or all of the above. “Writer’s block” sounds a lot better than any of those things, and there’s always the possibility that it can be milked for drama and sympathy.
… Another bad idea.
Writing is hard work, and I don’t think there’s a writer on the face of the planet–or beneath the face of the planet, if there are Morlocks down there writing poems and stories and recipes for baked Eloi–who doesn’t have days when she just wants to QUIT already and go dig ditches for a living or something. At least, if there is a writer out there who never has that sort of day, I’m not sure I want to meet him. But any human endeavor is like that, unromantic and sweaty and hard damn work, and if you don’t want to do the work, it’s better to just admit you don’t want to do the work, whether that’s for a day or a week or whether really you ARE quitting and where’s the nearest ditch-digger school? Prettying it up by calling it writer’s block doesn’t do anyone any favors in the long run.
And the third thing not to do with writer’s block is to give into it.
No, Virginia, it isn’t going to go away on its own.
One of the hardest steps in going from a dilettante writer to a serious writer, and then to a professional writer is learning to generate inspiration. The lightning bolt from the blue is all very well, but it isn’t reliable, and if you want to make a career out of writing, you cannot sit around waiting for the lightning to find you. You have to get behind the mule in the morning, as the Tom Waits song says, and you have to do it whether you’re inspired or not. When you’re blocked, that means you have to go look at what’s blocking you, see if you can crawl under it, or climb over it, or squeeze around it on the left, or hack a chunk out of it on the right. And if it throws you off, you have to jump right back in. You have to make the block explain itself to you, and then you have to take it apart and keep walking.
Writer’s block can stop you from writing, but you cannot let it stop you from working. And that’s the most important thing not to do with writer’s block.
