The 7 Secrets of the Prolific Writer's Block (25 page)

Also, note how many of the above positive qualities represent freedom and/or a threat to authority. Is it any wonder that authoritarian regimes—or authoritarians on the home front—target writers?

Our lack of “props” is also confounding, and can cause naïve people to think that what we do is easy. As John Gardner put it in his foreword to Dorothea Brande’s
Becoming a Writer
:

Writers, more than other artists, have no visible proof of their specialness once they’ve achieved it. Visual artists, carrying around their leather-enclosed portfolios, and musicians, bringing complicated and persuasive noise out of tubing or pieces of string and wood, have cumbersome physical evidence that they are not like other mortals. Writers only use words, as even parrots do.

I like to use the word “shaman” to describe the writer’s complex role in society. We are repositories of wisdom, but also danger. We stand apart, but also participate, at least as observers and analysts. We have power and influence, but often of a weird and elusive kind, and we can also be vulnerable. And, like traditional shamans, we have the power to bridge worlds. As John Gardner put it
,
“When writers are very good at what they do they seem to know more than a decent person ought to know.”

Shamanism isn’t always the easiest role to live with, but it does have its perks. One night, years ago, I was writing in my peaky attic apartment in a 200-year-old Beacon Hill brownstone. It was a tiny space filled with windows and skylights through which gusty winds poured in; especially at night, I always felt like I was on a ship in the middle of the ocean.

On the night in question, I was sitting and reading, and the dogs were also peaceful. I could hear, along with the wind, the faint music from a party my landlord, Dave, was throwing in his apartment three floors down. Suddenly, I heard the unlikely sound of people climbing the stairs outside my apartment, and after they had stopped, I heard Dave whisper, with a kind of reverence, “A
writer
lives in there.”

He had been showing off his building, I guess, and I was one of the things he wanted to show off. I listened while they descended, and even through he was the rich dude who owned the building and I was the broke writer who inhabited the garret, I felt special.

O
thers may be ambivalent about your writing, but you cannot be. To be fully productive, you need to be clear on what you are doing and why. Writing is hard enough, and procrastination a tenacious enough foe, that even the slightest bit of ambivalence can jeopardize your success. In fact,
the most “stuck” people I meet are those trapped between conflicting values systems or goals
. If a part of you wants to write, but another part thinks writing is trivial, ridiculous, childish, futile, etc., you’re unlikely to make much progress.

A major source of ambivalence for many writers is money, because for the overwhelming number of people who choose to write seriously, that choice will make them poorer. Maybe you will work part-time, or maybe at an easy-ish full-time job that leaves you more time and energy for writing than a demanding job would, but that also pays less. Or maybe you will sacrifice salary for a short commute (Section 4.4). Or maybe your household will survive on just your partner’s salary. In any case, unless you are very lucky, you are going to be poorer than family members, friends, and others who haven’t made similar choices.

In
On Becoming a Novelist
, John Gardner wrote, “If the writer wants everything he sees on TV, he’d better quit writing and get serious about money or else give away his TV to the poor in spirit.” (And that was in 1983, when the culture was arguably less materialistic!) See also the quotation from Stephen King in Section 4.4 for other reasons why getting rid of your TV supports your writing.

Along with exploring how many of the canards in Sections 6.2 and 6.2 you’ve internalized, revisit the other parts of this book and think deeply about how perfectionism, deprivation, and traumatic rejection may be influencing your view of yourself and your work. You’ve got to get very clear on your mission and the investments and sacrifices that that mission entails (Section 2.2), AND on your willingness and ability to make those investments and sacrifices, because even the tiniest bit of ambivalence can hold you back.

If after doing this work you are still ambivalent (meaning you can’t decide whether you want to write, or how much time and energy and money to devote to your writing), then it might make sense to take a sabbatical from writing. Follow your other interests for a while and see where they lead. You may discover another creative outlet, or you may—and this is the likely outcome—wind up back with your writing, only with a fresher outlook and more motivation.

Many writers, when I suggest a taking a sabbatical, freak out, which is a probable sign of over-identification with the work (Section 2.6) and also of “stalling out” (Section 1.10). Writing may enrich our lives, but we shouldn’t be afraid to give it up temporarily—and, in fact, many prolific writers plan sabbaticals or hiatuses between books or at other times. A sabbatical is a time to rest and recharge and gain a fresh perspective.

One reason underproductive writers have trouble taking sabbaticals is that, in many cases, they’re not giving up actual writing—because they’re not actually writing—but only the idea of being a writer, or the illusion of productivity. Painful as that situation is, it’s far better to face up to it than deny it, not just because denial is a dead end, but because “facing up” offers a good chance of actually eventually resolving the issues and winding up a prolific writer.

The key to a successful sabbatical is to find something meaningful to replace the writing with. It doesn’t have to be something creative: I know one artist who, fed up after decades of struggle and poverty, took an office job in desperation and wound up reveling in the regular salary, medical benefits, regular schedule, decent coworkers, and easy-ish work. And she didn’t give up her art, either—just the illusions that (a) she was going to be able to support herself comfortably by it, and (b) she didn’t mind the ongoing poverty that resulted from her failure to do so.

In my own case, I took an “enforced sabbatical” in my early forties after a business failure, giving up my dream of being a mogul and instead working as a humble business teacher and coach for a nonprofit organization. At the time, it felt like a huge failure, and I remember pooh-poohing people’s congratulations. The job, however, turned out to be one of the best breaks of my whole life. Not only did it turn out that I was an excellent teacher and coach, but I also got to witness at close range the many ways talented and hard-working people fail to attain their goals. It was an incredible lesson, and it led to my most meaningful life’s work, including this book.

It helps
a lot,
when trying to find your way as a happy, productive, unambivalent writer, to have role models, and you’ll find them at your compassionately objective writers’ community or group (Sections 3.9–3.11). True, you’ll probably see others who are ambivalent and underproductive, but they are probably beset by perfectionism, internalized oppression, and other problems. Model compassionate objectivity and proper pride, and you’ll help not only them but yourself.

T
he process of coming out as a writer is similar to that of “coming out” as a queer person—so similar, in fact, that you can read books on coming out sexually and apply most of the principles to your writing. There are lots of books and other resources on this topic, and you may wish to consult some. (I recommend Michelangelo Signorile’s classic
Outing Yourself
.)

The cardinal rule is to
stay safe
. Of course, most writers don’t have to worry about violence or harsh discrimination the way many queer people still do, but we still have to worry about being labeled, judged, rejected, and ostracized. So come out a little at a time, and at first just to people (e.g., compassionately objective writers, a supportive relative) whom you trust.

The first person you come out to, of course, is yourself—meaning that you embrace your identity and mission as a writer, in full awareness of that mission’s complexity, including both its joys and drawbacks. (For most compassionately objective/nonperfectionist writers, of course, the joys far outweigh the drawbacks.)

Your coming-out process could involve these stages:

1. You come out to the point where you can enjoyably and productively write.

2. You come out to the point where you can actively and joyfully participate in writing communities.

3. You come out to the point where you can be an out and proud writer among friendly and/or sympathetic non-writers. And,

4. You come out to the point where you can be an out and proud writer among clueless or unsympathetic non-writers.

I was once fortunate enough to hear best-selling romance author Jennifer Crusie give a speech to a group of romance writers, editors, and fans, and she showed how it’s done. “I’m Jennifer Crusie and I have no shame,” she began, speaking in a bold voice, with bold gestures to accompany it. “I tell people I write romance and they just have to deal with it.” Later, she said, “I always found those who tried to shame me odd,” and exhorted us to not “give away so much of our power just to belong.”

You come out via statements (to self and others) and actions. Here are some
Coming-Out Statements
. Speak them in whatever order, and to whichever audiences, feels safe:

• “I am a writer.”

• “I write [type of writing or genre].”

• “I love my genre because of these reasons: _____.”

• “I have this writing goal: SPECIFY.”

• “This is what my process is like: SPECIFY. ” (Most empowering to be able to discuss both the strong
and
weak aspects of your process.)

• “Can you help me reach my goal by ___________?” (Highly empowering to ask for help!)

• “Even though it’s not perfect, I’m so pleased with what I wrote today.” (Double points for being compassionately objective!)

• “I love to write because _____.”

• “I feel writing is important because ________.” (Bonus points for: “I feel MY writing is important because _____.”)

Here are some
Coming-Out Actions
. Do them in whatever order, and in whatever context, feels safe:

• Research a class or workshop or group.

• Take a class or workshop, or join a group.

• Procure resources for your writing (Chapter 3).

• Reorganize your schedule around your writing (Chapter 4).

• Change your voicemail message to be more professional.

• Get a business card.

• Start building your professional Web and social-networking presence.

• Research writing careers, markets, etc.

Write something (even a little bit, and even something informal).

• Submit something.

• Mentor someone.

• Do some research.

Attend a conference.

• Publish—in any forum (even informal venues count!).

There are two main risks to coming out. One is that you get rejected, which I discuss in Chapter 7. The other is that you get asked difficult questions, which I discuss in Section 6.8. I want you to be cautious about coming out, but not too cautious, because coming out is one of the profoundest acts of self-liberation you can commit—and it doesn’t just liberate you, but those around you.

As I discuss in Sections 3.8 and 4.11, many writers get more support and encouragement after coming out than they had anticipated. That’s no surprise when you consider that sharing your truth and dreams with someone is a kind of gift that connects them with something beautiful not only in your own psyche, but in theirs.