I soon learned that she is no more immune than the rest of us from the ins and outs of starting and stopping, trying and failing, hoping and despairing. She was just curious about my opinion.

Of course I offered it.

The easiest kind of writer’s block to define is just that—a block. That moment of sitting down to page or screen without a shred of an idea about where to start or what to say. The block makes its presence known in front of a deadline, when you have no choice but to sit. The “block” soon turns to agony. I’m not good enough to write this article, goes the voice in the head, or my editor will hate whatever I do, I’m going to be fired (or my article rejected), I am a fraud! I am headed for disaster and humiliation.

Some forms of writer’s block, though, mask themselves. Like procrastination. It sounds like just a bad habit—“I could write if I just put my mind to it, but I let myself wait till the last minute.” The thing is, if procrastination is motivated by fear—if it is the agony of writer’s block that you are putting off—it is writer’s block.

The worst kind of writer’s block is even more specious. This is the kind I suffer from. I often take on minor projects instead of the major ones I really want to do. Or I pitch safe stories over those that excite me but expose me to some risk. Or I write another language book—the book my editor wants—instead of the historical narrative that really makes my heart jump.

So, what do you do when your creative juices freeze up? I like the advice Mark Morris gives, mentioned in the previous post. Just start working, thinking about why you love writing rather than the fearsome task ahead. Just do the thing that reconnects you to the passion for your art.

I have some rituals that help me get started, that get me past those moments of resistance or fear. First, I start my mornings by sweeping my studio floor, or the patio outside my door. I put on some wonderful music—I’m partial to Hawaiian slack key guitar, Mozart, or Keith Jarrett’s Köln Concert—and I putter. I give my imagination some room to roam. It needs to be awakened. When it kicks in, starting to write feels like fun rather than a chore.

For some projects I keep a journal, and I write there—some freewriting, or just random thoughts—before I formally begin the assignment at hand. Again, it’s about letting the juices start to flow. And sometimes  a few lines from the journal, or a metaphor, are so good they qualify for the finished piece.

Finally, I recognize that I can’t just be left brain all the time, focusing on projects I’ve been assigned, or work I know I can sell. I have a practice I call “risk writing” (see “Total Risk, Freedom, Discipline”). Every few pieces, I let myself write something that I want to write, and I write it the way I want to write it, and the length I want to write it in. Some of my favorite all-time pieces have emerged from the risk writing. (“Souvenirs” traces a complex of relationships between me, my mother, and Paris; “Cutouts” came when I remembered a vision from the past.)

These risky pieces allow me to develop new muscles—maybe a new voice, or the ability to handle certain kinds of material. And in writing them, I am warming up for that other book in me, the one that makes my heart jump. When the time comes to start, I’ll be more confident that I can carry it off.

Related posts:

1. The answer to writers block: big courage
2. Constance Hale on Risk, Freedom, Discipline

My ears perked up when a dance teacher asked the choreographer whether he ever feared being blocked, and what he did when he “dried up.” Morris described being creatively blocked as a kind of occupational hazard: “Successful artists always have this certain fear of being discovered to be a true charlatan,” he said.

Morris’s advice to those who find themselves blocked: “Just make up a dance a day. Change it. Then make its opposite. Then throw them both away. Watch something else. Make another dance. Read more books and learn more music.

“My courage is bigger than my fear,” Morris added. “But I have big courage.”

We can’t all have courage as big as Morris’s, but we can cultivate it. There are two other important kernels in his advice: First, don’t let your inner critic stop you from making more art. Just keep making things. Second, don’t stop reading and learning—connect with the things about your art that you love, and that set you on fire.

Related posts:

1. Mozart, Morris, and strange metaphors

Nearly every writing book on my shelf suggests the same somewhat mysterious daily practice. It has many names: “morning pages” in Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way; “first thoughts” in Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones; and “early morning writing” in Becoming a Writer, by Dorothea Brande. Peter Elbow, author of Writing Without Teachers, prefers the somewhat ungainly but increasingly popular “freewriting.”

According to these gurus, beginning writers as well as seasoned ones freewrite for many reasons. Sometimes, as Cameron writes, it empties your mind of the garbage that would needle at you anyway. I find it a useful channel for my ever-churning, over-active brain. It’s efficient therapy—cheap and fast.

Of course, as Peter Elbow reminds me in Writing Without Teachers, “Freewriting isn’t just therapeutic garbage. It’s also a way to produce bits of writing that are genuinely better than usual: less random.” It might not happen always, or even frequently, but better bits will happen eventually. I sift through a lot of garbage and sometimes get lucky and discover a buried gem or two. Often it is in a digression or an unlikely place. It could be a new way to think about something—an opening, a shining light.

Often writers freewrite to get their creative juices flowing. “It is the bottom line, the most primitive, essential beginning of writing,” suggests Goldberg. And, it can eliminate the need to toss those first few paragraphs, and a bit of the ego, when you finally do sit down at the computer.

If you’re aching from transitionitis or seized up with writer’s block, a freewrite, like a deep-tissue massage, might limber you up.  Brande recommends, “…whenever you are in danger of the spiritual drought that comes to the most facile writer from time to time, put the pencil and paper back on your bedside table, and wake to write in the morning.” In freewriting, thoughts often get worked out, unleashed. And, more often than not, the muse will appear. In my freewriting, I sometimes find that a choice, uncensored bit of honesty percolates up. It’s a time for my inner editor, that ever-present critic—who can be found staring over my shoulder whispering, “boring” or “Come on Sarah, can’t you find a better verb?”—to go on sabbatical.

Freewriting admits no judgment, no criticism, only freedom. Cameron says these lines “are not meant to be art, or even writing. Nothing is too petty, too silly, too stupid, or too weird, to write down.” No one will see this. And if they do, the writing will probably be illegible. Mine looks like my doctor’s signature on a prescription. I can barely decipher the words when I reread them. If you tend to write your deepest, darkest secrets when you freewrite, and write legibly, and are prone to leaving things around, then do yourself a favor. Lock the freewriting up. Or, shred it. Unless, secretly you want it to be discovered.

The writer Martha McPhee is a friend, and she once recommended when I was searching for a subject, “Write what’s raw.” There’s no better place for rawness then a freewrite. Find the words that hold the most power and write about them. You might just stumble onto your next topic.

Many writers recommend freewriting first thing—pre-caffeine, pre-good breath, pre-newspaper, pre-chats with humans.  Brande suggests writing when you are in this dream-like state. I often leave my notebook, pen, and timer next to my bed for just such mornings, but my 7-year-old seems to set his internal clock just ahead of mine, arriving bedside moments before my alarm beeps. Until he becomes a teenager and sleeps till noon, my early morning freewrite is fantasy. Until then, I write freely when I can.

And so should you. It works.

—Sarah Baker

◊

So How Do You Do It?

Freewriting is a powerful technique for both beginning and seasoned writers. It can help quiet your mind, warm you up, let loose uncensored thoughts, and even banish writer’s block. Every writer discovers what works best for his or her needs, but here are some general guidelines:

1. Write longhand with a pen or pencil in a notebook. No typing.
2. Write for 10 minutes (initially.) Set a timer. Some people like to write first thing, when they are still in a dreamlike state, to capture unconscious thoughts.
3. Keep your hand moving the whole time, and I mean writing, not scratching your nose.
4. Don’t edit or cross out. Don’t worry about punctuation, spelling, grammar, or handwriting. Don’t ever look back and never judge.
5. If you get stuck write, “I’m stuck.” Or, in my case, “My lower back aches,” or “My shoulders hurt.” Sometimes I just write, “dumb, dumb, dumb” because that’s the way I’m feeling. Once, “platitudes, platitudes, platitudes” emerged when I sensed I was holding back from the truth.
6. Don’t think. Don’t get rational. Go for the raw.
7. Do it every day even if your dog needs walking, a letter needs mailing, or you have an unexpected urge to cook chili.
8. Take risks. Go deep. Be free. This is for your eyes only.

Enjoy.

—Sarah Baker

{Formerly a book editor at Viking/Penguin and Simon & Schuster in New York City, Sarah Baker is now a freelance writer and an independent producer for Word of Mouth on New Hampshire Public Radio. She lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts with her husband and two children.}

Related posts:

1. Sarah Baker on do-it-yourself books
2. Sarah Baker with an E to Z on e-books

An old deodorant commercial once proclaimed, ‘If you’re not a little nervous, you’re really not alive.’

Pretty sage advice, even though the only thing at stake was staying dry and odor-free. But there is something to be said for accepting—and learning to navigate—the minor turbulences of life. I’m talking here about common, everyday anxiety. The jitters. Butterflies.

This is particularly true for writers, whose very feelings are the raw materials of their craft. No matter how mundane, the small anxieties can swarm like bees, making work difficult; distractions, like an impending visit from the in-laws, money worries, or that funny noise the Honda’s been making.

Then there are the more virulent writer’s anxieties, shared by few in other lines of work: Your agent hasn’t returned your phone calls. You are three weeks past deadline. You have Act Two problems.

In other words, you’re becoming a clone of the Charlie Kaufman character in Adaptation—bleary-eyed, unshaven, sleep-deprived, staring pathetically at the empty computer screen, hoping for inspiration and yearning for another cup of coffee, and maybe a nice banana-nut muffin. A dozen nagging, self-mocking thoughts echo in your head: You’re untalented, a fraud. You’re getting old and fat. No woman (or man) will ever want to sleep with you again. Your life is over.

These kinds of feelings require work, to be sure, if only to be validated (and then gently challenged) by a supportive therapist, mate, good friend, or fellow writer. These deeply embedded, childhood-derived, seemingly inescapable Dark-Night-of-the-Soul feelings can, in fact, be crippling, regardless of your level of craft or years of experience. When it comes to these writer demons, none of us escapes.

And, as I’ve said countless times to the writer clients in my practice, struggling with these doubts and fears doesn’t say anything about you as a writer. Other than that you are a writer.

Frankly, this difficult emotional terrain is where a writer lives much of the time—in a matrix of triumphs and defeats, optimism and despair, impassioned beliefs and crushing deflations.

And, believe me, this is equally true for both beginning writers and accomplished, battle-hardened veterans.

But there’s another kind of anxiety that emerges occasionally in a writer’s life: the kind of gut-wrenching, dizzying upheaval from within that throws everything you think you know into doubt and that scares you to the very core. A shattering divorce. The death of a family member. A spate of sudden, inexplicable panic attacks. Terrorism. War.

Then, what balm is there to offer—or to receive—that doesn’t seem trivial or woefully inadequate? Catharsis and validation, the foundation of most psychotherapeutic work, feel like mere word games. Medication, while often clinically appropriate, seems at best an armoring against something primal that’s working within you.

What is a writer to do with that level of anxiety?

Use it.

Because when all that’s left is writing, writing’s all that’s left.

What kind of writing? It may be numbed-out and shapeless at first; chaotic and unsatisfying. It may be dark and ugly, or self-pitying and shameless. It may be a blind, angry clawing at the air with words and images.

The important thing to acknowledge, to accept and to make use of is the fact of the anxiety—its weight, its size, and its implacability at this time in your life. It’s there, as immoveable as a brick wall; as deep and fathomless as a sea.

So you must ask yourself this question: Is there a character in the story I’m working on who feels such anxiety; who feels as overwhelmed, as out of control, as terrified as I? 
Is there a way I can funnel my passion into the story I’m writing, searching for the words and rhythms that will give my article new power?

If so, plunge headlong into writing the hell out of whatever you are working on: give that fictional character your voice, your fears, your dreads. Use these anxieties to create dramatic scenes, to animate your language. Use your power of empathy to bring voice to the voiceless.

Play with rants, vitriol, strong words to turn your passions into words on the page. Write furiously. If you are writing fiction, imagine fiery exchanges between characters, letting passions and behaviors emerge that may astound or alarm you; that stretch or distort or even demolish the narrative you’ve been working with. If you are writing nonfiction, put the passion on the page. These explosive sentences can all be edited later—softened, deleted, made more nuanced, or woven artfully into the story tomorrow, or the next day, when you have some kind of perspective.

To be truly in the eye of the emotional storm, to create from a state of anxiety, is to surrender any fantasy of perspective. In fact, in the purest sense, it’s the ultimate act of creative surrender from which, out of the crucible of your deepest pain, you might discover a joyful, wonderful surprise.

If, however, you feel so impotent in the face of your anxiety that you can’t even imagine utilizing it in this way, then write about that feeling, create metaphors, find analogies. Even if you have no characters whose voices you can appropriate, even if you are writing nonfiction, even if your fingers tremble at the thought of making narrative sense out of the inchoate feelings inside you.

Do this: put those trembling fingers on a keyboard, and start stringing words together that reflect how you feel … without context, or narrative, or character. Just raw feeling, in as many vivid, living words as you can call forth.

Then look at what you’ve written. Feel whatever it is you’re feeling. And write some more. Soon, I believe, you’ll have a sense of the logjam cracking. You’ll feel the urgency of creative expression, the palpable release of banked anxiety. Without judging what comes, without needing it to be anything, I think you’ll find yourself writing, even if that’s just defined, for the moment, as putting words down on a page.

Does the idea of this exercise itself make you anxious? Doesn’t surprise me. We’re all pretty scared of writing out of the very emotional space we’d most like to avoid or deny. It’s human nature.

But for those artists who have the courage to embrace their own fears, to stay emotionally connected in what seems like an ever more dangerous world, to co-exist with potentially crippling anxiety and write anyway, the rewards can be significant.

Moreover, when all that’s left is writing… 
Writing’s all that’s left. 
So trust it. Trust yourself.

And write.

—Dennis Palumbo

{Formerly a Hollywood screenwriter (My Favorite Year; Welcome Back, Kotter), Dennis Palumbo is now a psychotherapist, specializing in creative issues. He’s the author of Writing From the Inside Out (John Wiley), as well as a collection of mystery short stories, From Crime to Crime (Tallfellow Press). His first crime novel, Mirror Image, is due out in August 2010 from Poisoned Pen Press.}

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