I’ve been experiencing a rather nasty bout of writer’s block lately. The kind of writer’s block that makes me think of Meg Ryan in French Kiss: “Fester, fester, fester. Rot, rot, rot.” In my desperation, I’ve even taken to Googling writer’s block, hoping Google will spit something intelligent at me. Ha, good luck, right? This time, I got lucky. I found THIS article, “Blocked” by Joan Acocella, from a 2004 New Yorker (old, but hey, writer’s block doesn’t age… or does it?).
Apparently, Samuel Taylor Coleridge was the first case of hitting the block, not writing much “serious poetry” after his twenties. Acocella argues that writer’s block is a contemporary invention, starting with the Romantics who felt that true art could not be forced into being. The article also points out, however, that while Coleridge didn’t write gobs of poetry after his initial burst, he was very active in the journalistic community throughout his life… so perhaps at least this blog will do me good?
Or, take this guy (in Acocella’s words):
Every day for years, [Anthony] Trollope reported in his ‘Autobiography,’ he woke in darkness and wrote from 5:30 a.m. to 8:30 a.m., with his watch in front of him. He required of himself two hundred and fifty words every quarter of an hour. If he finished one novel before eight-thirty, he took out a fresh piece of paper and started the next. The writing session was followed, for a long stretch of time, by a day job with the postal service. Plus, he said, he always hunted at least twice a week. Under this regimen, he produced forty-nine novels in thirty-five years.
People like Trollope make me sick. But honestly, I suppose we could all use a teaspoon of that self-discipline. A teaspoon, mind you, not the full measure of crazy. Allow for some spontaneity, pretty please.
On the other end of the spectrum, psychoanalyst Edmund Bergler even went so far as to blame the cause of writer’s block on the writer’s mothers who denied them milk to the point of starvation as babies. Not surprisingly, he also thought all writers were mentally unstable. I’ve always disliked psychoanalysts…
Somewhere in the middle of all these concepts and psychological explanations of writer’s block, lies something closer to my approach. I do need a bit o’ self-discipline. It’s a good thing that I have this blog, to start conversations with other writers about road blocks, writing prompts, favorite authors and books. And I am still technically writing every day, between this blog, my day job, and my sporadic creative writing. I’ve resolved not to let myself get to this level of desperation in the future. If I hit a wall again, my plan is to keep writing, and not stress myself out about the quality. Hey, if Sammy Coleridge can do it, so can I.
Honestly, what most often works for me is to go sit out in a park and watch some kids stick rocks up their noses, or go back to my parents’ farm and watch my mother’s chickens talk to each other. Anything outdoors to let my mind wander, take the pressure off. I also re-read my favorite authors and poets, reminding myself of what good writing sounds like. Finally, Hazel and I are fond of silly word games, which can always spark a good poem idea. My go-to game? Think of as many words that start with the letter [fill in the blank here] in four minutes, starting NOW! Sounds simple (and it is), but it usually gets the juices flowing.
Think I’m boring, and want to read someone else on the subject? Go to MN Playlist (where I found the link to the New Yorker article) and read Matt Geachy’s very insightful spin on the block.
Tell me, dear reader, what do you do to drive the smelly demon of writer’s block away? Any sage tricks up your sleeve? Pray, do tell.
