When I first began writing in earnest, I didn’t believe in writer’s block. You know how it is. When you’re completely lacking in self-consciousness about your works, it’s much easier to get things done. Doubt hasn’t entered the picture then, nor a dozen other ever-present concerns, experience-driven instincts, and mild phobias that you develop with time. These things are internal-process barnacles that form as an outer crust on the hull of your creativity. They weigh you down a bit, but when the wind is right, you sail straight enough despite them. The sailing is smooth and easy at first without them, but you probably have no real destination in mind, and the sailing is so smooth that it’s downright boring to any passengers along for the ride.
Since my days of proto-writerhood, about 8 years ago, I’ve discovered that writer’s block is real enough, and not only that, it comes from a variety of causes. Because writing is a damned boring thing to talk about literally, I’m going to flog this naval metaphor as I explore the forms of block I have encountered in my years at sea. (The irony of me relying on this—me, the kid who didn’t see the ocean for the first time until he was 19—is not lost.)
No
wind
The most common block to my writing is a lack of wind in my sails. The driving force behind my work goes away, and leaves me in the Sargasso Sea of the blank page. Why does the wind abandon me? Why does the wind do anything? The factors are too complex to pick apart. The wind of my inspiration can come from a lot of different places, mostly deep internal aspects of my self that I don’t really feel comfortable examining too closely. It feels like fragile machinery that would be too easy to disturb when it’s working right, and when it’s not, I never want to risk tinkering for fear of breaking something completely.
When faced with a lack of inspiration, I shut down almost entirely as a writer. I sit in mySargasso Sea and pass the time as best I can. Read, watch TV. Sometimes, I draw.
When I’m clever, I remember the goddamned boat has oars, and I heave to as best I can.
Right now, I can’t even find where I put the oars, but that’s another story entirely.
Wrecked on the rocks
Oops, steered this one wrong. Now I’m stuck in the muck, marooned on the rocks. I write myself into a corner often, especially when I don’t have a clear idea of where I’m headed—when I’m writing for the fun of the journey and not the destination.
The best way for me to avoid this is to know where I’m going ahead of time. For a while there, after conceiving of a story, the very next thing I attempted to do was envision the point or the finale. What would it build to? With that in mind, I could set sail. And if I saw a better destination along the way, there was no reason I couldn’t change course! My plans or outlines are never set in stone. They’re there just to keep me from the rocks.
There’s a leak
Sometimes you set sail with a story made of little more than a vague idea and a half-sketched out character concept. And it isn’t until you’re in deep waters that you discover your initial concept is full of holes (made by the wormrot of the implausibilitus, inconsistentia, or been-there-done-that-allia species). Now you find yourself sinking, maybe bailing for your life with a little hand waving, but the boat’s taking on the waters of disbelief and some of your passengers aren’t going to see the journey to the end. “No thanks,” they say as they dive off and swim back to shore. “We’ll take the next one.”
I scuttle a lot of story boats this way deliberately. The initial rush of an idea, those hard fast winds that come early; too often, I would set sail immediately without any planning at all, buoyed by the excitement of the freshness of it in my mind. More often than not, when I discover the flaws in my half-assed idea, I would sink the whole thing and move on. I’ve probably abandoned five times as many story ideas as I’ve ever finished. I was a strong swimmer in those days, but now I would just as soon arrive in a leaky boat and start work on patching.
I try to never patch-edit while I’m working on the first draft. That’s a sure fire way to end up completely bogged down.
Listening to the Crew
When things aren’t going well, the crew, made up of internal-editors, voices of self-doubt, and so on, they tend to get rowdy. Sometimes, even when things are going well, they’re a noisy bunch, and it’s tempting to give in and listen to the nasty bunch of swine.
If I had my way, I’d make them all walk to plank at the start of a voyage, but they’re not completely worthless. Best to gag them, tie them up, and throw them into the hull until you’re done with your maiden voyage, I say.
NOT Listening to the 1st Mate
My friend Jay Lake calls his subconscious Bob, but I tend to call my subconcious “Potatohead,” because he’s really not too bright. Sure, he’s creative and all, but he doesn’t have any concept of the realities of being a human being. Impractical, is what I’m saying.
But when it comes to sailing, Commander Potatohead was born into a life at sea. He may not know how to balance a checkbook or even earn a decent living, but the bastard knows how to sail better than I ever will.
I don’t always give him his due. Me, Captain Ego, I want to be right all the time, want to be in charge. I don’t like listening to the seasoned advice of Mr. Potatohead who really knows these waters better than anyone. When you fail to listen, you often end up with a mutiny on your hands, marooned, or stuck in a Sargasso Sea. Again.
That’s not even taking into consideration the difficulty of communication! While I speak the Queen’s English, Commander Potatohead speaks some patois that I’ve never even heard of before. I’m pretty sure he originates from somewhere in Polynesia—some obscure island nobody has ever heard of. So we can’t really talk. We resort to drawing vague pictures, gesturing wildly in some ridiculous game of conscious/subconscious Charades. And worse, we don’t keep the same sleep schedules, so we have to leave messages for one another on scraps of paper, rope, whatever we can find.
Frankly, it’s amazing we have ever completed a voyage together at all.
* * *
But we have. And I’ll be damned if I am going to let any of these things get in my way to completing my journeys in the future. I don’t care if I make it to the other side leaking like a sieve, tied up and held hostage by the crew, being slowly inched over the edge by a Commander Potatohead wearing an eye-patch—I’m going to make it.
When I look at creative block in the abstract, it’s much more intimidating. Abstract concepts aren’t easily defeated, but when I concretize the idea into a giant tuber wearing an eye-patch, it suddenly seems so much easier to overcome.
Maybe that will work for you too. Yarr.
Writing is a Sail Boat, And I’m Stuck on the Reefs