Stuck in the Mud

I’ve had writers block. I’ve had it for a while.

Of course if you talk to a growing number of writers you’ll know writers block isn’t a thing. I recently heard a successful author, with numerous published titles, talk about writers block. She was of the opinion that it is an excuse, a fantasy ailment, a lie we sooth ourselves with when times are tough.

I don’t entirely disagree with her assertion of this pesky little blight of writing life. Writing is hard, harder than you think. I forget how hard it can be when I am having a good day. When an issue arises however, when my characters begin acting like stubborn children and refusing to do what I need them to, or when every feasible idea for a blog post evaporates into a haze of nonsense and unsubstantiated facts, I remember how hard it can be. I turn to writers block. It defines something tricky and undefinable to others. I can’t write because I have a problem with my writing, if I could define that problem I’d most likely be able to overcome it, but I can’t quite put a finger on it.

“I am struggling with writers block.” This in and of itself isn’t a problem. When writers block is a short hand description for the difficulties a writer is having, isn’t an issue. It is when we writers start telling ourselves that we just have writers block that the problems arise. When we stop working on what the problem is, stop interrogating our characters, stop chasing the trail of our plots; simply tell ourselves we are blocked. It is when writers block stops being short hand and becomes the issue itself.

Making writer block the issues is lazy, however hard the conundrum is. So if we banish writers block from the already endless list of excuses writers can turn to for not cranking out the word count, that fixes the issue, right? I’m not so sure. Using writers block as an excuse isn’t helpful for writers, but equally it didn’t move from descriptor to ailment for no reason. Sometimes you can brainstorm and plot and character profile until the cows come in, the lights fail and you realise you’ve been trying to tackle the block until 3am every day for a week, yet you still don’t have the answer. It is then, in those cold, grey twilight hours that the thing takes on a life of its own and starts to seem like your nemesis.

Maybe we writers need to get a bit better at looking at the bigger picture. During my current block, I’ve worked through all those little tricks and technique, written pages of nonsense, plotted, profiled characters, worked on something new. Nothing has helped; everything I write is flat and lifeless, trailing off into a great abyss of nothingness. I am stuck wallowing in the muddy pit of my block. I’ve been scared, sad, frustrated and angry. It wasn’t until I stopped, took some time out and looked at the bigger picture that it dawned on me. It isn’t writers block, it’s life block. It isn’t just my writing that I am struggling, it is my whole life, my relationships, my home life, my social life are all stifled and strangled by the way I have been feeling. I’ve been scared, sad, frustrated and angry about everything, all the aspects of my life. You can write when you are tired, when you are ill, when you are upset or when you are just having a crappy day. When you are so low that you are struggling to eat, to get out of bed, to function in everyday life, of course you are going to struggle to write. Your writing is being blocked but it isn’t writers block.

Figuring out the difference might not solve the issue. It won’t suddenly free up your writing and allow you to flow as well as you’d like. It isn’t like overcoming a week’s long plot hurdle or finding the driving forces of a challenging character. It will allow you to unstick yourself though. To begin to untangle yourself from the web of self-doubt and to split writers block away from what is going on in the rest of your life. How many writers are stuck with writer’s block, which when you step back, is actually depression or worse? And what does it mean for them when all that is all being focused, unhelpful, on one aspect of their lives, their writing?

I’ve been lucky; I’ve identified the problem away from writing and am working on clearing the issues up. I can feel myself starting to flow already. It’s not always so simple, but unless we start looking at the bigger picture, how can we know if we are making excuses or whether we are truly stuck in the mud?

When I Grow Up

When I grow up I want to be a writer and live in a modest yet comfortable house. I want to be able to go and visit friends who live in faraway places. I want a garden and time to sit in it. I suspect I will moan about whose turn it is to do the washing up but not too much.

I live in a modest yet comfortable house, I spend most of my waking hours writing, or at least thinking very hard about writing something.  I have friends in faraway places that I like to assume I will one day be able to afford to visit. I have a garden, which is soggy and harbouring velociraptors in its waist high lawn, but it’s February so it’s not at its best right now. I moan about the washing up more than I would like. Yet I don’t feel grown up.

Is it just me? Am I some sort of freak of nature who is epically failing at life, or does everyone secretly feel like this? Are you all sitting out there, with your cups of tea and scattered Sunday papers, secretly wondering when you will start to feel like an adult?

I am in the process of procrastinating very hard about booking a holiday. A large part of my procrastination is to do with the fact that I don’t actually have the money to book the holiday as yet. Well, I like to think that is a large part of it, but there is also this nagging doubt in the back of my mind, one which I suspect is larger and more of a factor than maybe I’m letting on, one that is telling me I shouldn’t be doing this without checking with a responsible adult.

The thing is there, is no hiding from it for very long. There aren’t many areas of my life where I feel particularly grown up. Sure, I clothe and feed myself on a daily basis. However I still follow a pattern with both of those things that I have been adhering to since I was 18 and still living at home, despite my body giving my numerous hints on both counts that I should probably make a change. Apparently take away food more than once a month when you are thirty *cough*has much more of an impact than it did *cough* number of years ago. There is nothing about these daily acts that makes me feel particularly grown up, rather I just feel lucky no one has told me off yet.

I have yet to make one of those “big life decisions” by myself. Sure I moved out of home, but I couldn’t have afforded it without parental support. I didn’t so much make a decision as negotiate what was the right move for me and the rest of the family’s sanity. When it comes to doing anything around my house like DIY, especially DIY with the electric, cordless drill that I know how to use in principle, it is to my parents that I turn before butchering the paint work, plaster and structural integrity of my home. Whilst I may have a home in which I can hang paintings, put up shelves and replace the never ending tide of broken white goods, I still feel like a five year old playing grown up in the wendy house at the bottom of the garden. Although I play with much greater care than a five year old because have you seen the price of a tin of dulux these days?

So what is it that makes you a fully-fledged, signed up member of the adult, human race? Is it paying tax? I have been painstakingly filling out my self-assessment and uttering an ever expanding vocabulary of expletives for years now. I don’t feel any more grown up for doing so; usually I just end up with the tax equivalent of a hangover every time someone mentions HMRC. Is it managing to do your own washing, cooking and cleaning? If so I am failing miserably, even my washing machine is filthy; it may need industrial scrubbing or just purging with flame.

What is that elusive, magically quality that takes you from faking it to making it? What does making it really look like? Is it having debt, children and holidays from your boring, repetitive job biannually? Or is it something deeper, is it finally feeling like you are in charge of your own destiny? Even if the destiny you can afford is only as exciting as a two up two down and taking the bus to work?

Writing Life

I have been at this writing malarkey, full time, for just over three months now. I thought I knew what I was doing, I thought it was just about sitting down and writing. Oh how naïve I was. I have learnt more in the last few months that I have in my thirty *cough mumble* years previous.

Did you know that if you plan on selling your finely crafted novel to a foreign market you might come unstuck if it’s too long? An English book translated to German will be 30% longer; I had never even considered that might be an issue.  That’s not really what I mean though. Sure I have learnt lots of industry tidbits that I am sure will come in useful further down the line but what I am really talking about is my own process.

Before I started this journey I had some very specific opinions about my writing process and what worked for me. If I hadn’t taken the time to dedicate myself solely to the purpose of writing, I think I could very well have continued to hold those opinions. I probably would have blamed my lack of progress on the fact I didn’t have time to write, and not seen that I wasn’t managing my own blocks.

Before I started writing full time I would have insisted to anyone who asked that I am not a planner. I could not possibly plan where my work is going, it destroys the creative process. Wrong, oh how wrong could I be? I have been stuck for a long time, waffling about the same scene, not really saying anything, totally unaware that what was happening was that my luck of planning was forcing me to write myself into a corner.

Sure I knew roughly where I was going, but I didn’t know how I was getting there or most importantly why. The last three months have reinforced the importance of the why. Without the why, there is no story. For someone who isn’t much of a hopeless romantic in real life I have definitely been one about my writing. If it is mean to be it will just happen, it’s a talent you have or you don’t, not a skill you learn. What nonsense.

I have come to the firm belief that anyone can write a perfectly good, publishable book. You have to care enough to put the effort in to actually write it, which means that anyone likely to achieve it does have to have a passion for writing and the talent to keep plugging away for 100,000 words.

Just writing away without paying attention to the skill and craft of storytelling however, is pointless. You might be able to write all those words, but if the words don’t take you anywhere, what is the point? You have to practise the skill; you have to critically look at where your story is going and why. You have to be aware of your themes, not just assume they’ll happen, even if just to stick to the same one and not confuse your reader.

I’ve been doing this for three months and the most important thing I have learnt is that writing is like anything else, if you close your mind, you won’t get anywhere.