‘Writer’s block’ is a term that never quite seems to convey the severity of the frustration it brings. ‘Writer’s misery’ however... well, that sounds far more accurate, doesn’t it? What could be more miserable for a writer than struggling to write three words together that you’re convinced even a toddler could write with a crayon in its sticky fist?
Last year, I was in a bit of a... fog – not quite there, deep in writer’s misery, but a fog, where finding word after word felt like rooting around, shoulder deep, in a tissue-stuffed fairground lucky dip, being grateful for absolutely anything I could get my hands on – and in my desperation, I turned to Google. After a few clicks, I found a rant by Ray Bradbury, and one line jumped out at me immediately: ‘You’re being warned, aren’t you? Your subconscious is saying “I don’t like you anymore. You’re writing about things I don’t give a damn for.”’
Until that moment, I used to think that writer’s block wasn’t anything to do with me or my work – it just happened (and I still think it does sometimes, without a rhyme or a reason), but since reading those words, I’ve learned to try and look at writer’s block with a very suspicious eye. Because as devilishly and desperately frustrating it can be, for me, nine times out of ten, writer’s block rears its head for a reason and carries with it a message. Now, when I’m there, with the kink in the hose, face to face with my creativity who just shrugs, stares back and says, ‘Don’t look at me. I’ve got nothing,’ I try to calm the flames coming out of my head and instead go through a mental checklist of questions before I declare it a ‘no rhyme, no reason’ incident and bury my head into the nearest chocolate gateaux.
Am I excited about what I’m writing?
When you’re excited, the writing comes. In fact, there’s no stopping it. But sitting down at your desk unexcited about what you’re about to write almost beckons the fog. You’re unmotivated before you’ve even begun, and any task in the world feels as if you're walking against the wind without motivation. I often talk of Anne Rice, I know, but I always try to remember her words about this: that when your project becomes boring and unexciting for you, go back, retrace your steps and ask yourself, ‘What do I have to do to make this exciting for me?’, and do just that. Nothing in your project has to be written as a drab, boring box to be ticked so you can get to the next, far more exciting bit, but if you feel the part you’re writing is necessary but it isn’t doing it for you right now, write a part that you know will, and come back to it. For me, when the excitement dwindles for too long, usually, so do the words...
Do I know where I’m going?
I’m a planner. I know some writers don’t like to, but I find the writing fog is less likely to cloud my brain when I am following one, even if it’s very basic. If I know what I am going to be sitting down to write, even if it’s pretty vague, I find that most of the time, the fog stays at bay. And even if I am having a totally uninspired day (you know the ones... where every word feels as though it’s a strain to get out and nothing but rigid, awful sentences like ‘There is a cat on the mat. The mat is red. The cat is furry’ comes out) at least you can write a really bad version of that scene which can then be rewritten and reworked later on. If you have no idea what you’re supposed to be writing and you’re having one of those days... well, then that’s usually when you just want to give up, learn carpentry and never write anything again other than the odd Christmas card.
Are my goals/expectations too high?
Nothing kills creativity more than feeling as though you’ve failed. Setting too high a word count goal, expecting a certain scene or chapter to be done in too short a time frame, and committing the sin of reading back something still in its first draft form and expecting it to, miraculously, read like it’s polished are just some of my high expectations. Set small achievable goals, so you can reach them, sometimes surpass them, and feel great about yourself and your writing. Ann Lamott says she tells her ‘blocked’ students to aim to write 300 words per day of anything just to keep the fingers going. ‘Then, on bad days and weeks, let things go at that… Your unconscious can’t work when you are breathing down its neck.’
Am I doubting my ability and doing that really annoying thing where I compare myself to every prize winning novel ever written and want to lie down and take a five year nap?
I always talk about self-doubt in blog posts, and that’s because it’s something I battle a lot with, and something I always under-estimate the power of as a creativity-squasher. A dose of self-doubt is normal and probably healthy, or we’d all be writing first drafts and turning up with it in hand on the doorstep of Man Booker Prize Headquarters, shouting “Stop the search, I’ve arrived!” through the letterbox. But a smidge is all we need; any more, and it strangles our creativity and knots the hose. Who can blame our minds for sulking and refusing to give us words after we’ve just told it it’s not good enough? Never indulge the doubtful voice in your head, never entertain the idea that you aren’t a writer, and never (double never, in fact) have a bad day with your novel, and for no reason other than to make yourself feel worse, sign off, pick up that award winning novelist’s debut that is the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever read and compare. Know that you are a writer, know that you are the only one that can write your story, and know that the doubtful voice is just that, a voice, and never a fact.
Lia is a mum-of-one, working as a copywriter and studying for a BA in English Literature and Creative Writing. Her first novel, Bubbles, is in the submission process and she is currently writing her second novel. She lives at home, in Hertfordshire, with her boyfriend, three year old, and stacks of clothes and books. Find her on Twitter here.
Comments