How to deal with “writer’s block”
A student of mine just said she has “writer’s block.” It got me thinking about something I rarely consider.
I’m not sure how to say this without sounding smug or arrogant, so I’ll just say it: I have never had an issue with writer’s block, nor will I ever. If you have dealt with creative blocks, I don’t mean to be offensive or condescending. It’s just that I believe that writer’s block is a myth and that once we believe in the myth, it can take us over and drive our creativity into the ground, becoming real to us. I don’t believe in it; therefore, I render it impotent. Consider this the reverse of that scene in Peter Pan where the kids clap for Tinkerbelle to show they believe. Together, we can kill the mythical creature that is writer’s block by simply not clapping.
Here are some principles that allow me to stay block-free as a writer and as a composer; I think they can work for anyone in the creative arts:
Principle 1: Fear leads to paralysis.
Once, I found myself reading Charlton Heston’s autobiography. (I have no idea why . . . I like Planet of the Apes well enough . . . but . . . geez.) In the book, he responded to someone who asked him how he avoids forgetting lines. He said the key is to not be afraid of forgetting. Wise advice, if you ask me. Pick up the brush; the chisel; the pen or flip up the keyboard cover like Achilles swaggering into battle. Heel, schmeel — believe that you cannot be stopped.
Principle 2: That vast brain of yours cannot possibly be empty.
Your mind is like a grander version of Dr. Who’s Tardis — the phone booth time-machine that is bigger on the inside than it is on the outside. Your mind is a universe in and of itself. Rummage through the old infinite attic. Something in there has to yield a work of art. Never say that you have no ideas; rather, deal with the fact that you are having trouble retrieving them during a given moment. If you get hung up, go to a model — an artistic work you like — and use imitation as a starting off point (as a starting point only, of course). Stuff will roll out.
Principle 3: “Bad” art is not the same as “no” art.
While I have never suffered writer’s block, I can say that I certainly have had bad creative sessions. But that is not the same as being “blocked” — producing nothing. You must refuse to accept that damaging and nauseatingly Romantic idea Peter Shaffer threw at us with his 97% fictitious play (and film) Amadeus — that Mozart wrote precisely and perfectly, “as if he were taking dictation from God.” That’s crap. Manuscripts will show Mozart scribbled out and revised as much as you or I do. In fact, in 2008, Tom Service, in discussing a recently discovered unfinished piece by Mozart, says:
. . . it joins the hundred or so strong catalogue of unfinished drafts by Mozart. Unlike the legend, the real Wolfgang didn’t always take musical dictation from God. Instead, he tried out ideas, rejecting some along the way, experimenting with his material until he found the right notes that would make the composition flow. Much of this working, there’s no doubt, was done in his head or at the piano, so what makes this document so precious is that it is a physical reminder of Mozart’s compositional humanity. . . it’s a reminder that even musical genius needs a reject pile.
Unrealistic expectations for “first drafts” can only lead to fear paralysis. Let it come out how it comes out and fix it up later, I say.
Principle 4: Be like a child.
You need to let go of your dignity — your adultish composure. (Yes, I know “adultish” isn’t a word. Consider that, Grasshopper.) Ever see a kid pretend? Do you remember doing it? I have seen my little sons play with a simple object for an hour. My youngest boy likes to play with my drum keys (little metal, T-shaped tools for tuning drum heads). He creates epic adventures lying on his back on the couch on Saturday afternoons. The key becomes a spaceship; a man; a dragon; a spinning drill to dig to the center of the Earth; a laser gun; a shark’s fin. He narrates whole adventures, complete with multi-character dialogue and music score. All by himself and without embarrassment.
Kids know how to open the imagination’s flood-gates. Find that again. It’s in you — it’s just buried under years of sitting up straight and not having picked your nose even when you really, really needed to. Try wearing a cape while you work, if needed.
Principle 5: There is no “creative process.”
Ever hear people refer to “the creative process”? This is also a myth. Each artist works differently. Lyrics don’t necessarily come before music. You don’t have to write the beginning of a story before the end. There is no right way to sketch before you paint. Your creative process is your own and you can change it on days when the need arises. You are not required to write at a desk or even within a room. Never feel as if you are “doing it wrong.” If art comes out, you did it right. Don’t shackle yourself to procedures. Find ones that you like, but be flexible.
Principle 6: Craft is more important than inspiration.
Yeah, inspiration is the greatest thing, ever, and it fuels great masterpieces, but, two things: First, inspiration makes a nice, glowing artistic mess; craft neatens it up (like Wordsworth’s “spontaneous overflow of emotion recollected in tranquility”). Second, the sad truth is that sometimes inspiration just decides not to show up for the party. Maybe this is what some people call “writer’s block.” Pure craft can overcome this.
As an artist, you have to be able to create on demand. I can write you a song about a pencil, right now, if you want me to. Will it be great? Meh — it will be a carefully-crafted song, at the least. In short, if the sail isn’t filling up, you’ll need to man the oars.
Principle 7: Learn to work among distractions.
The world isn’t the way we all would like it to be — we can’t all live as artistic bohemian recluses among idyllic settings, wandering the hills with a sketchbook or a notepad, working late and sleeping late. (Most of us have day-gigs.)
I used to flip out if my kids interrupted me while I was working or practicing. Then, realizing this wasn’t going to change and that I could only ask so much of toddlers, I started to supplement my practice/creative sessions in my little studio with “training” — practicing in the living room while the kids played or writing in the same room while they were watching TV. I still relish the silent stretches of time that life hands me on occasion, but I can now also concentrate (especially on revisions or play-throughs) with Spongebob cackling in the background or a video game bleeping and blinking on the edge of my consciousness.
Often, while writing this column, I feel the need to conclude by emphasizing the obvious: I’m essentially nobody. I’m not famous; I’m not rich; I haven’t won a Pulitzer or a Grammy. But ask anyone who knows me: I produce art every single day. You can decide, someday (I hope) whether or not my work stinks, but stinky or rose-sweet, nothing’s going to stop me, least of all some hokey, bogeyman of a Loch Ness/Sasquatch, fairytale-faced, mother-grabbing bully like “writer’s block.”
Chris Matarazzo’s ARTISTIC UNKNOWNS appears every Tuesday
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That’s what I’m talking about! :)
Excellent article, pure good sense.
Thanks, to you both.
Agreed. I’ve told people for years that it doesn’t exist. What does exist is “Writer’s Choice” It’s okay to choose not to write, but if you want to write, then write.
Wow, Tom – a really cool way to reframe it.: “Writer’s Choice.” Excellent.