It’s Not ‘Writer’s Block’ — It’s Emptiness.
By: Christina Hope
Tags: Creative Process, Mental Health, Creative Writing, Creativity, Writing

The phrase ‘Writer’s Block’ looms over all of us who dare to pick up a pen or tap out sentences on our computers. It suggests that we, the writer, have hit an impasse — we’ve strained too hard, or squeezed out every inch of creativity we had, with nothing left. Well, I have a confession to make…

I don’t think writer’s block exists.

Recently, I read the fantastic Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. In it, she talks about so-called ‘writer’s block’, and describes it like this —

“If your wife locks you out of the house, you don’t have a problem with your door. The word ‘block’ suggests that you are constipated or stuck, when the truth is that you’re empty…”

In the classic The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron also describes it not as a ‘block’ but as a ‘drought’ —

“In any creative life there are dry seasons. These droughts appear from nowhere and stretch to the horizon… our work feels mechanical, empty, forced.”

There it is again: emptiness.

It’s time to refuel.

Acceptance first, action second

The issue, much of the time, is that we are taught that all creative people — truly talented or capable writers — must always be writing. This ridiculous notion ensures we place pressure on ourselves to always be producing something (and normally not just ‘something’ but ‘something good’). The reality is, nobody is like this.

Back to Lamott, and her wise words:

“The problem is acceptance, which is something we’re taught not to do. We’re taught to improve uncomfortable situations, to change things… but if you accept the reality that you have been given — that you are not in a productive creative period — you free yourself to begin filling up again.”

As creatives, there is the notion that the act of creation is essential to our being. That means demanding creativity at any and all moments from ourselves, in order to keep proving (to ourselves or others) that we are, in fact, the ‘real deal’.

The notion of acceptance, as Lamott describes it, doesn’t generally factor in. Gentleness isn’t really a trait associated with ‘genius’ and if we’re honest, that is what many of us aspire to be. The entire concept of ‘genius’ comes round to hurt us, more than help.

Freeing ourselves to simply be who we are — creatives, yes, but also many other things — acknowledges the fact that we will require more than our creativity to keep us going. We might need to nurture other parts of ourselves. Because while our creativity is important and is likely essential to many of us, it cannot be everything. Some people enjoy being workaholics, or are very dedicated to one aspect of their lives. But that doesn’t have to be you, and your creativity will likely benefit from a little diversity, a little gentleness, and a little openness.

It starts with acceptance: you might not be in your most creative phase right now. That’s okay. Free yourself by acknowledging this honestly and openly. Give yourself the chance to address it.

Read widely, and embrace your uniqueness

Part of the problem with the idea of ‘writer’s block’ is that it suggests you have moved as far as you can, and now your path is being obstructed. If only you could jump the hurdle and continue moving forward in that unendingly direct and efficient forward momentum! It says we should be moving in that linear motion at all times. What does this even mean in the context of creativity?

When we hear stories about famous writers who did supposedly work in this mythically perfect fashion, it can create a blank in us. For me, it was the story I heard about Tolkien. As a young woman who adored Lord of the Rings, I had heard that Tolkien simply sat down at his typewriter and churned out the epic, all of it coming clear and easy to his fingers.

I doubt that this story is at all true. But it didn’t matter: I was influenced. If I can’t also sit down and execute a string of perfect sentences, plot and character emerging naturally at first attempt, then I must not be a ‘real’ writer. I must be a fraud.

In Francine Prose’s essential Reading Like A Writer, she says:

“Some writers stop you dead in your tracks by making you see your own work in the most unflattering light. Each of us will meet a different harbinger of personal failure, some innocent genius chosen by us for reasons having to do with what we see as our own inadequacies. The only remedy to this I have found is to read a writer whose work is entirely different from another, though not necessarily more like your own — a difference that will remind you of how many rooms there are in the house of art.”

Creativity isn’t linear. It isn’t ‘efficient’. There is no one way to ‘do’ creativity. Obviously, there isn’t just one kind of writing. You could read any number of books, different and wonderful in equal measure. And you probably already do! Returning to the love of reading here is important — if we are empty, we need to refuel. We can refuel by finding inspiration. We can find inspiration through admiration. It might be time to try new books, to try new forms of writing, new writers, to listen to new voices.

And Prose’s final sentiments are the ones I try to remind myself of: there are many, many rooms in the house of art. Perhaps my room will be a little different.

Honing in on the one method to acquire the status of genius is so entirely problematic and narrow-minded as to disqualify all other attempts at creation, all of which are likely valid and helpful. Don’t try to get into Tolkien’s room. Go out and discover, then return to your unique place in the vast landscape of creativity.

No perfectionism, just play

In a period of emptiness, releasing perfectionism is going to be top priority in allowing you to find that unique place that is yours alone. Feeling empty, you are likely not going to do your absolute best work in these times. So, it’s time to just shake things loose, and see what happens.

One reason we believe we get ‘blocked’ is due to perfectionism having the final word over everything we try to create. It helps to kill off any of those burgeoning ideas we might well have to struggle with, incubate, and toss around for a while, before they make any sense to us on the page.

Back to Julia Cameron, who says —

During a drought, the mere act of showing up on the page, like the act of walking through a tackless desert, requires one footfall after another to no apparent point… What do we do? We stumble on.

Cameron of course pioneered the idea of the Morning Pages — three pages written first thing every morning, with no clear purpose or intention. Just whatever comes to mind. Personally, I’ve tried, and I find it incredibly wearying. Instead, I write down dreams and random things that come to me in the night, and then leave it. If it’s not three whole pages, that’s fine. But it still serves the purpose of starting me off — of getting my brain going, and accepting that I don’t need to be writing pure prize winning glory first thing in the morning. Or indeed any time of day.

Cameron’s idea here is the important thing. We stumble on. Just get to the page, and try to see what happens. Even if it’s stream of consciousness, drivel, boring, or whatever other negative word your brain can conjure up.

And for good measure —

The time in the desert brings us clarity and charity. When you are in a drought, know that it is to a purpose… To write is to right things… A path will emerge.

I like this a lot. To write is to right things — we have to work through it. Throw something onto the page and see what sticks. Forget about declaring anything your magnum opus.

Jeff Vandermeer’s very colourful and fun Wonderbook adds —

“Different forces are at work today with regard to the imagination. Modern ideals of functionality and the trend towards seamless design in our technology have taken the very human striving for perfection and given us the illusion of having attained it (which, ironically, seems very dehumanizing). In this environment, some writers second-guess their instincts and devalue the sense of play that infuses creative endeavours…”

Personally, I’d argue this tendency goes back much further than the modern day and the impacts of technology — it’s imbedded in ancient Western aesthetic ideals, from the desire to create ‘perfect’ and eternal structures in cement, through to today.

Vandermeer, however, rightly suggests play as the most important thing we can allow the mind to engage in, as it “leads to making the connections necessary to create narrative.” This is a rather prosaic way to put it, but it’s true. Without the chance for the brain to spark, where will we get our stories? We need the chance to form connections, to turn things over in a new light, and to let the mind work its own magic. That brings me to my last point…

Rest is not optional

Your brain needs a minute to just figure things out. Let the process happen. Give yourself time to recharge. If it’s refuelling that we need to do, it’s going to be hard to feel excited or inspired by anything we might engage with if we are, in fact, exhausted.

We should all know by now what the benefits of a proper sleep and rest are. We need down time and actual sleep for cognition, concentration and productivity. So start with actual sleep. Are you getting enough of it? Is it of a good quality?

Then move on to the next stage: creative rest.

This means you are going to part your work in progress, any pressure being applied, and even your determination that things must be finished ASAP. It’s time to start crocheting, painting, drawing, dancing, reading, singing, cooking, and any other damn thing you need that is not doing your writing. Rest your brain for a while. Let your characters take care of themselves in the background. They’ll be fine.

Do some combinatory play. In the words of Einstein, it is the “act of opening up one mental channel by dabbling in another”. Opening is what we want here — release, relaxation and ease. This is the antidote to stress, pressure, tightness, perfectionism, and emptiness.

You’ll be on your way again, soon

Finally, trust that you will refuel in time.

Ask yourself: if I never published, or never had a reader, or never achieved what I wanted, would I have been happy, anyway, to be a writer? For me, the answer is yes. Even if nothing ever comes of it, I trust now that writing is a part of my life. Even if it all goes nowhere. I don’t care about that, I just love to write.

That means I’ll find a way to keep on doing it, even if I’m empty, lost, whatever. I’ll take a break, I’ll ease back, I’ll refuel, and I will, eventually, come back to the page.