There are thousands of articles explaining writer’s block and how to overcome it (and I’ve read about half of them).
I’ve taken 10+ workshops. I spent three years getting an MFA in creative writing. And I know I’m not the only one who stops writing as soon as the workshop ends, but some sense of taboo or embarrassment keeps us from talking about it. But I I think we need to talk about this.
Historically, I’ve only written when people have asked me to, which is why I went to an MFA program. It worked — I had to write for my teachers, for my workshops, for my thesis. The problem is that the MFA ended, and after I graduated, I rarely wrote. Granted, there were lessons to plan, emails to send, lockdowns to weather — life and work got in the way.
But once I got laid off and had all the time in the world, I still didn’t write. That’s when I knew there was something else going on. And the advice of “write every day no matter what” was of little use. Actually, it’s never helped me. Not because it’s untrue — of course we should consistently practice crafts we want to improve on — but because it’s simplistic.
I find that, unless you’re also powered by some chemical need to write, a deeply ingrained need to prove yourself in this specific way, or don’t carry the fears and blocks I’m describing, grit and willpower only last a week. There are deeper reasons why we don’t write than our writing time isn’t on the schedule, and unless we find out why they’re there, they’ll always win.
I find habits stick when you know what’s psychologically holding you back. Why it’s so hard to leave your comfort zone.
To solve a problem, we need to name it. From reflections and talks with friends, here are some of the deeper reasons why some of us writers aren’t writing:
No one is asking you to write. No one needs a finished poem by 5 pm. Clients, friends, plants, animals, loved ones need a laundry list of other things.
When you’re helpful, you feel valued. When you’re valued, you’re safe. And when you write, you’re alone.
If you’re used to being talked over, it may feel like no one cares what you have to say. So why bother putting so much effort into saying it?
You feel some things are never meant to be spoken or shared even with your closest friend, much less a stranger. Writing is one step towards making the private public.
You’re a perfectionist. And a first draft is never perfect. When you write, you feel frustrated that what you write doesn’t meet your standards for yourself in this activity you care so much about. It’s easier not to write at all.
You’re terrified of being alone with yourself. There are boxes you’re too nervous to open. Problems you don’t know how to fix, feelings you wish would fade, an endless list of ways you think you’ve fallen short. Writing comes too close to opening the boxes.
The last one is mine.
The world offers a million distractions so we don’t have to be alone with ourselves — chasing success at work, caring for others, watching your phone or television, buying something.
For those of us who will do anything to avoid being alone with ourselves (this is why the house gets so clean before I meditate and why I make hot breakfasts on Saturday mornings during my prime writing time), it’s very easy to stay distracted from our anxieties, griefs, and frustrations. We can easily convince ourselves those distractions are a way to fix them.
The truth is, writing can bring us into contact with, can require us to face, the dark and messy parts of ourselves. The thought of this makes me squirm.
So, we stay distracted, we don’t write, and we feel both afraid of being alone with ourselves and guilty for not doing the thing we want to do. (Staying busy brings a host of other problems too. As Pascal said, “All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit still in an empty room.”)
My solution is to find reasons to write that outweigh the blocks. Here are mine:
Writing helps me make sense of the world. It forces me to clarify and externalize my thoughts. Virginia Woolf said, “I make it real by putting it into words. It is only by putting it into words that I make it whole; this wholeness means it has lost its power to hurt me; it gives me, perhaps because by doing so I take away the pain, a great delight to put the severed parts together. Perhaps this is the strongest pleasure known to me.”
Writing helps me make sense of myself. It asks me to define my experience of the world and understand how my brain and heart work. I look back on my writing from years past and understand who I’ve been.
Writing helps me share knowledge that helps others. What I know — what I have to say — matters. What I think is common knowledge is unique to my specific set of perspectives and experiences. I’m good at making the complex, blurry, and uncomfortable into concrete and simple.
I’m good at it, and I enjoy it. Shouldn’t we do what we enjoy, what we’re good at, because our talents are part of who we are, so by doing them, we’re simply being ourselves?
Writing asks me to be vulnerable with myself. The thing that keeps me from writing is exactly why I need to write. To lead a rich, meaningful life, I have to learn to be alone with myself and like it.
Writing asks me to be vulnerable with others. Again, what scares me is sometimes that’s important to go towards. It’s important to me to make the private public. It releases shame, it creates connection.
And the act of writing, of making my private world public and the personal generic, helps me. When I invite people in to see spaces that feel empty, I release shame. When I write, I learn I can be successful, appropriate, and helpful by being myself.