Writer's Block
Perhaps you noticed last week that I posted only one column in this space, rather than my usual two. This was because I was struck with a bout of writer’s block when I woke up Thursday, which put a stop to everything. Yes, I was frustrated, but at the same time I am entirely fascinated by the sudden arrival of this occasional affliction. And having only just reemerged from paralysis yesterday, I feel compelled to write about it in the way that some people feel compelled to record their dreams in a notebook upon waking, only not as ridiculous. (Tangent: I’m of the same opinion about dreams in life as I am in fiction, which is that they’re not interesting, and I don’t want to read about them).
First, the term “Writer’s Block” is a mischaracterization. A more accurate description of what I felt is “Writer’s Disinterest.” A blockage connotes something far more serious—a blocked artery, a blocked memory—than the listlessness that besieged me all weekend. There wasn’t an obstruction preventing me from working in the way I’m accustomed; rather, when I sat down at my computer I felt the way I imagine a person who has no inclination to write would feel if I dragged them to a desk and told them to start typing. I sat and stared at the story I’ve been working on for months, the story I’ve nearly finished, and I could not summon the resolve to make it better. Now, I knew what I was reading was not finished, and I did make myself do some writing, but I had lost the urge to work that normally seizes me.
To explain this more completely, I feel I need to address what it is that makes me write. For me, it’s an uncontrollable compulsion. This has not been the case my entire life, but for at least the last few years, I can’t do anything for more than a few minutes without thinking, ‘I should be writing.’ Now, that feeling shouldn’t be confused with a desire to write. Rarely is my thought, ‘I’m really looking forward to writing’ or ‘I can’t wait to get home and revise that story’. I get a feeling of satisfaction from it, but writing is still work for me. (Tangent: I’m skeptical of anyone who says they enjoy their job so much that it doesn’t feel like work, especially an artist. I believe that if creating your art doesn’t feel like work, then you aren’t striving very hard, and you probably aren’t very good). Often, in fact, I dread sitting down to work, but when I finally do, the compulsion always kicks in. As soon as I open whatever I’m working on and read a sentence that could be better, I can’t help but start rewriting it.
That compulsion is what I lose when writer’s block sets in. I’m still constantly thinking that I should be writing, but when I sit down to get started, I can look at a poor sentence for half an hour with apathy. Of course, I was reminded this weekend that my compulsion can run to the opposite extreme as well while reading about the recently published posthumous novel by Ralph Ellison, Three Days Before the Shooting, which he worked on for forty years but could never finish. Part of my development as a writer has been learning to control the urge to revise and revise without end, which is, too, a form of writer’s block. See, whether one has no desire to put in the work needed to perfect a piece of fiction or that desire is so strong they can never let a piece go, the result is the same. And I am glad to have stumbled across this article about Ellison while blocked; it made me realize things could still be worse.
