As I sit here, a little excited, a little lost, I am caught in the middle of a familiar conflict of desire and resistance. I just read somewhere that a ‘writer’s block’ is a form of procrastination that can be used as a time for rehearsal, where you can map out in your mind what you want to write, and segment it into neat sections. But I can’t imagine coming up with an entire story plot, when I’m still struggling with selecting a simple topic.
I just spent twenty minutes looking through a book called the ‘idea catcher’ to find a subject that appeals to me, that will bring a rush of excitement and eagerness for me to embark upon my next piece of creative prose, but alas, I have nothing.
Then I decided to simply write from intuition. Hang out on the page, let my fingers do the typing, and see what happens. Fifteen long minutes into tapping the keyboard and staring at the blank screen, I accepted that this technique was also not working. So I decided that in order to get over my feeling of being ‘stuck’, maybe it’s exactly what I should write about. Try to get it on paper, so I can better understand it, and hopefully get rid of it.
Even after a number of years of pursuing the craft through various professions, I still feel like I have only attempted to write, and not yet done the real thing. You are only as good as your last piece of work, and the itch to create something outstanding keeps returning. One of my creative directors at an ad agency amusingly related to this and said that a young writer usually dreads that they are not good enough, and they fear that that the world has just not picked up on it yet, but that they will one day ‘get caught’. I am told it is this very fear that makes them stretch and reach for more, and what eventually accounts for excellent writing.
A few minutes ago, I closed my eyes and took myself to my moments of high as a writer; working on a college essay, a client brief, a conference speech, and a poem for a loved one. I recalled during the experience of writing these, how engrossed and absorbed I had been, how I’d relished the thrill of the creative process; especially as the drafts would come together after much deliberation and shaping.
I’ve had my little accomplishments, but I realize most of them were deadline driven, and pending the approval of someone else. Could I not muster up that energy and drive to create something just as good for myself, or just for the experience? Was I so dependent on an anxious audience, sweaty palms and a little adrenalin flow to help me write?
After deeper introspection, I wondered if it was my desire to create to the high standards I felt I was capable of, that was choking me up. I’d be eager and excited to start a new piece, but I’d go numb and blank just before I could start. Was I choosing to be a harsh critic over a fluid writer? So I became conscious of, and reasoned with the monkey on my back. But even after it had promised to behave and not interfere with my creative process, it was hard to get that wrist moving.
Could it be that I just had nothing to write about? I was sure that wasn’t it, because I bet if a friend told me they were stuck and didn’t know what to write about, I could fill a few pages of ideas and suggestions for them. Why then was I unable to just pick one and flow with it myself?
During my initial research, there were a couple of topics that made me pause and consider, but nothing brought that fire in the belly. I hadn’t found anything I felt compelled enough to write about. I required an intimate and inspiring subject, something precious and close to heart, that would get my pen racing across the page.
I hadn’t started writing yet because I wanted so much more from the occasion. I didn’t want to endeavor a formulaic piece of prose. I wanted to find that story within, wanting to be written with a sense of urgency. I longed to be briskly swept into its exciting and sensual journey. The writing experience I sought was to overflow, spilling colorful characters, vibrant images and intense emotions onto the page, instead of having to force them out from somewhere within me.
Exhaling deeply, having expressed this overwhelming desire, I flicked open the book in front of me to a random page, where I happened upon the following Zen-like wisdom: ‘The writer must not write in order to write. To write quickly, you must write slowly.’ Feeling right on track and right on time, I smiled satisfactorily at my ‘perfect ending’ and excused myself for my first coffee break.
Recent Comments