How do
you beat writer's block?
Submitted by
marvel is my pen name
.
I'm not really sure I
believe in Writer's Block. There is "I don't really feel like writing, but
admitting that doesn't sound as dramatic and serious as 'I'm suffering from
writer's block.'" And there's "I really want to write. In fact,
that's all I want to do. I don't want to go outside or do a damned thing worth
writing about, and unfortunately - for the moment - I've run out of things to
say, so that every drop of ink wrung from my pen looks like something the cat
barfed up while walking across the keyboard. In fact, the cat wrote a whole
novel last night and is currently tying up the phone line, talking to his
agent. I wonder if Fluffy needs a manager?" There are other manifestations,
of course, but most are variations on a theme. Some involve intense fear: Fear
of failure, or fear of success. A good walk to clear the head, or time spent on
an unrelated hobby (photography, drawing, playing a sport, building model ships
and shoving them into bottles - whatever floats your boat) may help. Some
involve a lack of skill or talent that can only be cured, really, through
training and practice. Apply butt to chair. Write. Repeat. Enroll in a class,
if necessary. Or find other things to do with your time. Maybe you don't really
want to write, but someone's sold you on the notion that you must, in order to
be a true citizen of the new Millennium. And if you just really feel a need to
wear a beret and a turtleneck and sip black coffee in a coffee shop and
scribble notes on napkins so as to be mistaken for a writer, go ahead; I won't
tell.
You're not a
failure in life if you're not a writer.
Some of us can't really
do anything else competently, and rely on our words to support us and help
build our retirement funds. But we have days when we don't feel like writing,
too. We have days when we feel we've run out of things to say - or rather,
things we think anyone cares to read. Amazingly, I earn a pretty decent
income writing things I know only about three people on the planet want to
read. Product manuals. Technical documentation. Next time you sneer and curse
at the nameless author of a user's guide, you'll have a face to imagine behind
it. Mind you, if it sucks eggs, I didn't write it; I don't do tech support, so
don't call me when your toaster starts speaking in tongues and turns your bread
into oatmeal.
It's hard to be
"blocked" when writing instructions for using a piece of equipment.
But that's my day job. By night, I'm an intrepid storyteller and poet (when I'm
not cooking dinner for five; helping my 5th Grader with his homework,
refereeing fights between him and his sister, or getting into one myself;
writing in my blog; or walking, taking photos, engaging in other creative
pursuits, and telling myself I don't believe in writer's block).
We Have Met the Enemy, and He is Us*
I do believe in the
evil inner critic. Sometimes, she masquerades as my evil inner Muse. Sometimes,
giving her a good, swift kick in the teeth will jump-start a stalled brain,
spur my itchy fingers into action, and result in a pretty decent yarn.
Sometimes, it just results in my throwing myself across the living room couch,
popcorn in hand, with no more resolve or strength of will than what's required
to flip through channels and see what's on the telly.
Never mind all that.
Facing down the evil inner critic - nay, making him or her the object of
ridicule and creatively imagined torment - is a great way to forcibly shove
aside this thing called "writer's block," because nine times out of
ten, either you just don't want to write for whatever reason, or you're falling
victim to the voice of the evil inner critic. She says, "You're not good
enough. What do you think you're doing, mucking around with this 'writing' thing?"
Or he berates you, "What a load of insipid tripe! You're really going to
commit that to paper and let the world know what a fool you are?" Hogwash,
all of it.
Well all have one.
Perhaps you're due for a little chat with yours. If nothing else, it's great
practice in creating characters and writing dialogue, so some good ought to
come of it. Here's a flashback from 2004, my fourth attempt at that Marathon
novel-writing session known as "National Novel Writing Month," or
"NaNoWriMo" (which still sounds a lot like something a tired novelist
says on November 29th: "Naaaah, no wri' mo'...me sleep now").
Ironically, the only novel I ever attempted and completed was my first, in
2001. Doesn't matter...I had a lot more fun with this one.
Prologue
I seriously thought
about quitting.
Then I recaptured the
true spirit of NaNoWriMo. I remembered what it was all about: to write a truly
hideous novel of 50,000 words in 30 days.
"Nobody said
nothin' about 'publishable.' Nobody ever suggested that a 30-day novel should
be 'great lit-rah-chure' (Gesundheit!)" my Muse snickered.
"What was I
thinking, to put such expectations on myself at a time like this, when all the
world's gone mad around me?" I cried, throwing a forearm dramatically over
my forehead and letting out a piteous wail.
"That's the
spirit."
My Inner Editor foamed
at the mouth. Only, the foam came out the bitch's nose, since my Muse had had
the foresight to bind up her mouth with duct tape.
"Look, you're an
overachiever, but you're a burnt-out overachiever seriously in danger of
looking like she's got a bug up her ass. So write this one just for fun. And if
you must compete, consider it your entry into the Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest
next year." The Muse shrugged.
"That's just
supposed to be one sentence," I said. I was pouting. I had my heart set on
writing great lit-rah-chure.
"So write a novel
that gives you nothing but hard choices as to which sentence you should
enter."
"There are
multiple categories," I said, warming to the idea. "I could have 'em
all covered, by the time I'm done."
"There you go.
Enter in every category. Just be sure to win a 'Dishonorable Mention' for
me."
"I'll do it!"
I sprang to my feet, energized. It took less than a NaNoSecond for reality to
sink in. "Oh, God, I'm so far behind. All I have so far is three death
scenes and an aborted suicide."
You can imagine the
withering look my Muse gave me.
"I know that,
Dear. It's pretty fucking pathetic, if you ask me." She picked up my
daughter's TI-83 calculator and pushed some buttons at random. "Don't
think of it as 'behind.' Think of it as an adjustment, from 1667 words a day to
2800 words a day. You can do that, can't you? I mean...if you're enjoying
yourself."
"Can I use this
conversation?" I asked. I was reluctant to admit it; it seemed
so...puerile. But I was beginning to enjoy myself. Guilty pleasures are always
the best kind.
"No."
"Will you take
that thing away?" I asked, pointing at the Inner Editor. The IE growled
and struggled against the ropes that bound her to her ergonomically-correct
office chair. Gleefully, I smacked her over the head with an ergonomic
keyboard, breaking the device in two. I dumped it into her lap.
"Absolutely."
My Muse poured two glasses of cheap cream sherry and we raised them in a toast.
"To fingering Bulwer-Lytton's proboscis in April!"
"Here, here."
"Isn't that 'hear,
hear'?" squeaked the Inner Editor, who had managed to bite through the
duct tape with her jagged fangs.
"Good God. Does
'anal-retentive' have a hyphen?" sneered my Muse. Grabbing
She-Who-Inspires-Writers-to-Write-Heinous-Scenes-of-Gruesome-Torture by the
neck, my Muse saluted me and disappeared. The Evil One vanished, too, and I
could breathe again.
I sat down to
write...and this is what my pen barfed up.
Excerpt: The Muse and the Critic
Bob grabbed his laptop
from the back room, and plugged it in. He settled into a comfy armchair and
began to cogitate. The harder he thought, the fewer ideas occurred to him.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” Bob looked up
from the laptop. “Hey! Your hair’s on fire!” He started to jump up from his
chair, but she pushed him back into it. “Lady, your hair is on fire!”
“It’s always like this,
Bob.” She laughed.
Bob looked around
frantically. Some crazy woman had set her hair on fire. With a little bad luck,
she’d take Rayne’s shop with her - probably burning Rayne and Bob in the
process. And yet, she was alarmingly calm about her flaming hair. Where the
hell was Rayne?
“Relax, Bob. She can’t
see or hear me. Only you can.”
The woman was insane.
Either that, or Bob was insane. Had to be one or the other, he mused. Had to
be. And that’s when he noticed that the hot-headed, almond-eyed stranger was a
cross between Angelina Jolie and Pele, Goddess of Fire, dressed in a sleek
black, skin-tight, flame-retardant bodysuit. Bob couldn’t help but lick his
lips. She was the woman of his adolescent fantasies. She laughed. Bob concluded
that he was the one losing his marbles. The woman didn’t exist. “Damn,” he muttered.
“Who are you?”
“You know who I am!”
said the woman, laughing. “I’m your so-called Muse. I’ve been looking over your
shoulder since you were fourteen.”
“You’ve been what?” Bob
looked up in horror. When he was fourteen, he’d figured out an easy way to
forestall the urges that threatened to overcome him each time he laid eyes on a
girl. It was a solitary pleasure, one he knew better than to do where others
could watch. The thought of this creature looking over his shoulder…” He
shuddered.
“Oh, Christ, Bob… I’m
talking about your writing, idiot.” She ruffled his hair.
Bob groaned. She may
not have watched over his shoulder constantly, but she could read his mind.
That was just as bad.
“You created me,
remember?” Her voice sounded smooth as silk and burned like whiskey. Bob felt
dizzy.
Bob vaguely remembered
doodling sketches of this woman - his supposed Muse - on his History spiral
back in high school. Implausibly large boobs, curvaceous hips, a dancer’s legs,
stiletto heels…but he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember flames for hair.
Took some getting used to, but the warmth her tresses gave off was helping to
dispel the tremors in his hands.
“Bob, you’re shaking
like you’ve got the DTs.”
“I’m, um, wow. Yeah.
Yeah,” Bob looked stupidly at his hands. The tremors spread up his shoulders
and down his spine. He was ice-cold, and yet his skin burned.
“Bob, get a grip.”
Bob did just that. He
gripped the armrests of the chair in which he was sitting. He gripped the faux
hide of nauga until his knuckles turned a ghastly shade of white. “Could you -
not - do that?” he asked, prying one hand loose long enough to point at the
Muse’s hair.
“Whatever floats your
boat, Bob.” Suddenly, an auburn-haired Angelina Jolie sat in the chair opposite
Bob, and looked far less threatening than the incandescent goddess who’d stood
before him a moment earlier. “Is this better?”
Bob nodded. “What’s
your name?” It felt bizarre, having a conversation with what had to be a
hallucination, albeit a gorgeous one.
“Fred.”
“Fred?”
“You named me Fred,
Bob. It’s not my job to explain why you named me Fred.”
Given the thoughts Bob
was having about the illusory Fred, this was disconcerting news, to say the
least. He scratched his head, trying to remember why in the name of God he
would have named this woman “Fred.”
“Frederica?” he asked,
voice full of hope.
“No, Bob. Fred. Just
plain Fred.”
“Sorry. You don’t look
like a Fred.”
“Never did, Bob.”
Bob cringed. “And I was
fourteen, you say?”
“That’s right, Bob.
Fourteen.” Fred shook her head and looked down at her well-endowed chest.
“Gads, I wish you’d learned to write when you were ten, or waited until you
were twenty-something.”
“Why?”
“Isn’t that obvious?”
Fred hefted her breasts with both hands. “Only a fourteen-year-old boy would
endow his Muse with such…gifts.”
Fred’s hair burst into
flame, sending Bob burrowing deeper into his armchair. “I’m sorry?”
“No, I can see that
you’re not,” said Fred, her hair still smoldering. “So let’s cut the crap, Bob.
You have a novel to write.”
“I do?”
“You see the problem
with being a Muse created by a fourteen-year-old boy? It’s distracting, Bob.
It’s keeping me from being all I’m meant to be.” Fred looked mildly annoyed,
but at least her hair didn’t burst into flames. Bob was relieved.
“I see.”
“No, you don’t see.
You’re just all fascinated because you can actually see me, and I look like
some prepubescent fantasy doll…”
“No, no - I understand
how that could be a hindrance. I’m sorry. I - I think I’ve matured since then.”
“No you haven’t.”
“Have to!” Bob was not
about to sit here and be insulted by his own Muse. “Why, I--“
“Bob, get real. That
deal you made with the cops, earlier? That was real mature.” Fred rolled her
eyes.
“Oh, Rayne’s a good
sport, she’ll--“
“Bob, do you have any
idea how many guys are on the force? Rayne won’t be able to walk for a week if
she makes good on her end of the deal.”
Bob snickered. Fred’s
hair began to crackle and spark. He quickly tried to look contrite.
“Sir? Sir!”
Bob woke with a start.
A little old lady was leaning over him, smelling of lavender and potato chips.
“Wha--?”
“Your laptop’s about to
slip off your lap. I think you dozed off. Didn’t want it to fall on the floor,
you know.”
Bob grabbed his laptop
computer just in time to save it sliding off his thighs and onto the ceramic
tile floor, where it would surely have broken into tiny bits. Although that
might have saved Bob considerable trouble, it was an expensive toy he could
hardly afford to replace, given his and Rayne’s recently precarious financial
position. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Very kind of you.” He blinked a few times
and rubbed the sleep sand from his eyes with his knuckles.
“No problem, son. No
problem at all. Say, I couldn’t help but wonder what you were working on that
put you so soundly to sleep. I suffer insomnia, you see. I’d love to learn your
secret.” The old biddy chuckled.
Bob yawned. With his
hands firmly grasping his prized possession, Bob was unable to stifle himself.
His mouth opened wide. The only difference between Bob and a yawning cat was
the cat’s needle-sharp fangs. And claws. And tail. But the yawn was similar,
and from the look on the old lady’s face, she was a cat fancier. “Sorry. I was
working on my, er, book. I’m a writer. Sort of a writer. I’m working on a
novel. In my spare time, you know.”
“Ahhh. Yes, a writer.
How nice for you, dear. And what do you do with the rest of your time?”
“I, uh, my wife and I,
we run this shop.”
“Looks to me like she’s
doing all the running. I’m Edna, by the way. And you would be…?”
“Bob. Very nice to meet
you, Edna.”
“Really? That’s a
first. Most people aren’t pleased. Not pleased at all.” Edna sat down in the
chair across from Bob, a chair warmed, just moments before, by the enigmatic
Fred.
“I can’t imagine that,
Edna. You seem like such a kind soul.”
“Not at all, Bob,” said
Edna. Her expression hardened as she pulled out her knitting. Her fingers moved
deftly as the needles clicked and clacked. Knit and perl, perl and knit…Edna
seemed hell-bent to burn her name into the Guinness Book of World Records by
knitting what appeared to be a dingy gray and red woolen scarf in under three
point two seconds.
“Why’s that, Edna?”
“Don’t you recognize
me?”
“Should I?” Bob
squinted to get a better look at Edna. Five foot two, maybe one hundred thirty
pounds, Edna looked like somebody’s grandmother. A third grade teacher,
perhaps, with her tightly-curled indigo hair. Bob had never understood why
elderly schoolmarms insisted on dying perfectly good white or gray hair a
hideous shade of blue that never would have occurred to Mother Nature to create
from scratch. That’s it! Third grade teacher… Of course! Edna must have been
one of Bob’s teachers.
“Oh, worse than that,
Bob,” said Edna, as if reading his mind. “Your third grade teacher was a dear,
sweet old woman. She didn’t have the heart to give you the D you deserved on
that science report, so she gave you a C and package of crayons to soften the
blow.”
Bob swallowed hard.
“Who are you?”
“Edna Jacobi
Pringleheimer-Smith. I’m your worst nightmare,” hissed Edna. Her eyes were dark
and beady, but they smoldered with hate. “I’m your inner critic, Bob. I am a
part of you.”
Bob suddenly had an
urge to hum, but he felt his blood run cold. “Can Rayne see you?”
“Only if I want her to,
Bob. You wouldn’t like that, would you? You’d like for her to think that you
were a capable, talented man…”
“I suppose,” said Bob,
trying to stifle another yawn. “What the hell is that?” Bob reached for the
woolen scarf that was growing, in faster, tighter rows.
“It’s an afghan, Bob.”
“It looks like--oh,
Good Christ, woman! That’s my third-grade report card.”
“Tsk, tsk. Says here
you got a big fat F in English. Bob, English is your native language. You’d
have to be dumb as a rock to flunk English.”
“Mrs. Denhameyer didn’t
like me.”
“Didn’t like you?
Didn’t like you? What sort of asinine excuse is that, Bob? Ranks right up there
with ‘my mother beat me and my father drank,’ in my opinion. Cut the crap.”
“It’s true! She hated
me.”
“No one hates a third
grader, Bob. You’re delusional, to boot. But never mind that. Why aren’t you
working on that stupid novel of yours? I mean, it’s not like you’re helping
your wife out, there.”
* Walt Kelly, in the
comic strip Pogo (1971).
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