Classic Michael Scott from The Office
You’re staring at the blank screen, your fingers poised on ASDF JKL; you had what felt like a great idea at one point, but now it seems like garbage. Or the next step in your story is utterly beyond you. Or you’ve written yourself into a corner, and your characters aren’t behaving. Minutes go by, and the temptation to click over to Twitter or anything besides the stupid white space staring at you feels unbearable. What do you do?
I rely on ritual. In his modern classic The War of Art, Steven Pressfield presents solutions to exactly the above problem, which plagues every serious writer I’ve ever met or heard of. Pressfield emphasizes the importance of ritual when invoking “the Muse,” his name for inspiration, or flow, or whatever it is that happens when ideas and scenes and stories start pouring forth from your brain through your fingers and onto the page.
Pressfield is quick to caution the aspiring writer that even when the Muse is present, art is hard work. But when she’s not, it can feel impossible. The wannabe writer stops at that point. The pro calls on the power of routine.
I’ve felt blocked many times over my years writing, and because I’m determined to beat those blocks, I’ve assembled daily and weekly rituals that help me get through the hard times. (Though, as my grandmother would be quick to point out, it’s not like I’m digging a ditch.) Like a baseball player who refuses to change his socks when he’s on a streak, I tap into the power of belief.
First, I remind myself that I’m a writer. I’ve written before; I’ll write again. I say a quiet prayer. You might meditate or read a poem or a passage from a favorite book that inspires you. Read a page or two of The War of Art, and see if it doesn’t give you a swift kick in the pants. However you summon faith in yourself and your work, put that first in your routine.
Next, I put on my lucky talisman. It’s not fancy, but it has immense personal value. It’s a necklace that belonged to my father, featuring a stainless steel pendant in the shape of a shield, with a coat of arms enameled on it. In heraldic terms, the field is party per bend, with a sable lion rampant sinister on argent, and a Gothic capital R dexter on azure. On the back is engraved my father’s first name. I have no idea where he got it or what it represented to him (and I’d give just about anything to ask him), but it’s one of the few things I own of his. Why has this become my talisman?
My father was an amazing artist and photographer, but for various reasons (all Resistance-based, as Pressfield would say), he never did much with his gifts. I think of him as a cautionary tale whenever I’m tempted to procrastinate or throw in the towel altogether — and I’m sure that, wherever he is now, he wouldn’t mind that at all. With his necklace on, I’m determined to make the best art I can. Find something you can wear that makes you feel invincible.
After the necklace comes some lotion. Don’t laugh. Studies have shown the power of smell to evoke strong feelings and powerful memories. Every year or so, my mother-in-law gives me this expensive, gorgeous-smelling French hand cream, so I put a little on my hands, bring them up to my face, and inhale, thinking, “This is the smell of creativity.” Through repetition, I now associate the aromas of gardenia, lemon, and ginger with the process of writing the best story I can.
Recently, my necklace and hand cream weren’t quite enough to get me through a bad patch, so I added another element to my ritual: I started writing longhand. Science has demonstrated how the brain processes reading on a screen differently than reading on paper. I have to assume that the same is true of writing. Until a couple of weeks, I hadn’t done my creative writing on paper since I was fourteen; typing is faster and puts much less strain on my hand.
But I’ve now found that writing on paper can, indeed, unleash the Muse, perhaps precisely because it’s slower and more tactile. I got out a Wonder Woman notebook my husband had given me, filled up my inexpensive-but-trusty fountain pen, and set at it. I was amazed at what resulted.
I’m currently working on a contemporary fantasy heist novel set in Paris, and I’d been wrestling with a thorny magic problem for weeks. After a couple of days of exploring the issue while writing by hand, I suddenly had that coveted flash, and I saw exactly how the magic should work in my story. The moment itself felt magic.
I outlined and drafted this very post longhand, and I expect I’ll be using this effective tool a lot in the future.
When it comes to routine, don’t discount accountability — to yourself and perhaps to a partner. I’ve been writing with an accountability partner for nearly a decade, and I credit her with a ton of my success. (I dedicated my most recent novel to her.) She and I check in every day, stating our intentions and then reporting on them as we realize them. Or we can encourage each other when we don’t make our goals. Sometimes we sprint together for an hour or so. Knowing someone else is slaving away at putting out words — even though she’s a thousand miles and a time zone away — keeps me going sometimes when little else will. But as powerful as partners are, self-accountability is even more essential.
Think of it this way. You and a friend make a plan to do a project together, but at the last minute, he calls and tells you he can’t make it, because he’d rather binge watch the latest Netflix series, or he just feels like surfing the internet for a while. After this happened a few times, would your trust in your friend lessen? Mine would.
You are your own best friend. Don’t flake out on you. Instead, learn to keep your promises to yourself. Look at your day realistically. Can you write for two hours? Then find a way to do it. For me, sooner tends to be better.
Another piece of accountability is tracking. I have a page in my bullet journal on which I record the days I write. It’s mighty satisfying to look back over a month and see all those writing days exed out. Even when I don’t feel like I have a lot of pages to show for the work, I know I’ve been consistent, and consistency is one hallmark of a pro.
My daily minimum writing requirement is ten minutes per day. I set it that low on purpose. My goal is two hours per weekday (I’m a full-time mother and a part-time teacher), with every Tuesday being my five-hour day. But sometimes a kid is sick or the plumbing backs up or a neighbor needs help, and I just can’t find two hours to write. But I can always find ten minutes.
Think ten minutes is too little time to get anything done? I beg to differ. Using a handy tool called Write or Die, I can write 500 words in ten minutes. Ten minutes times a month’s worth of weekdays is 10,000 words. If you kept that up for five months, you’d have a novel drafted. (Not finished, mind you, but for me, the first draft is the hardest part.)
Try it. Come back to me at the end of January and tell me about the book you just wrote. January is coming whether you write ten minutes per day or not.
Even when you’re on a roll, though, remember to clock out. My sister is a fitness and nutrition coach, and she says one of the most important parts of training is recovery time. It’s no different with writing. Once you’ve put your time in, set your work down and do something restorative. Go on a hike with the dog. Bake some cookies. Most importantly, read.
Stephen King says (and are you really going to argue with the man who’s published over 75 bestsellers?) that if you don’t have time to read, you don’t have time to write. He recommends that you carve out as much time to read as you write. He writes four hours and reads four hours every day. I write two hours and read two hours every day. (I can’t read for five hours on Tuesdays, but I make up for it on the weekends.)
Track your reading, too. I’ve been keeping a list of every book I’ve finished every year since 2007. My lowest was 67, the year I had our sixth child. My highest was 130, the first year of my MFA. I average around 100 per year. That may seem impossible to you, but again, don’t discount the power of consistent, small efforts. Have a book downloaded on your phone via the Kindle or Overdrive or Libby apps so that you can read instead of scrolling through Facebook while in line at the supermarket or in your dentist’s waiting room. Have a library book on your nightstand and another next to your living room couch. Surround yourself with options, and it’ll be easier to find time to read.
Every advisor in my MFA program emphasized the importance of reading quality books, reading in your genre, reading out of your genre…reading. If you need a reading suggestion, a less commercial algorithm than the big A can give you great ideas at whatshouldIreadnext.com. Just type in the name of a book you like and see what pops up! Or ask a clerk at your local bookstore. When I worked at a bookstore, I got paid a couple of hours every week just to read, so that I could give good suggestions to customers. Ask a librarian; they are delighted when people ask them for help. I’ve even written some posts with reading ideas.
Look, your mileage my vary, but trust me when I say that some variation or combination of the above ideas can help you through your block. Summon faith in yourself, your ideas, and your purpose. Put on some armor, whether it’s a pin, some cologne, or a lucky hat. Try writing longhand. Keep an account of your efforts. Don’t be tempted to work overtime; stay sane and avoid burnout through recovery strategies. My favorites are fresh air, delicious food, and reading — always and forever, reading.
The more tools we writers share, the better off we all are. So if you have any tried-and-true strategies for beating writer’s block, please let me know in a comment. And then go write!