Let's talk about Fear...
...though you may choose to call it something else...
I have always associated “Writer’s Block” with an individual’s inability to think of something about which to write. Because of this - and because there are a truly infinite number of potential subjects for a writer - I have never believed “Writer’s Block” to be ‘a real thing’; for me it has always been a convenient label people choose to apply when they are looking for an excuse not to write.
The logic is simple enough: you can never run out of things to write, so what’s stopping you?!
And then the other day it occurred to me that there might be a second element in play if and when we find ourselves struggling to ‘put pen to paper’.
Fear.
Here’s the scenario.
The other day I had just finished some drafting on a piece of fiction (a novella, as it turns out) and was looking for something else to fill an hour or so of my time. I could think of a whole raft of potential subjects, yet felt strangely paralysed. I have a small number of projects in the planning stage, a number of trigger ideas for pieces of short fiction or poetry. So this wasn’t “Writer’s Block” I told myself (at least not according to my definition) but something else entirely. What though?
There was something which seemed to be preventing the opening and naming of a new document, or the typing of that first word on a blank ‘page’. Indeed, in a number of cases the pages I could have been looking at weren’t blank at all, but already blemished with the title of, or idea for, the piece/poem I wished to write. As I dithered, I realised that in the action of typing the first word I would be making a commitment - not to the need for a second word, then a third, and so forth, but a commitment (to myself and no-one else) of trying to get to the end; and then, having got to the end, to go back to the beginning, to re-read, to revise.
And to pass judgement.
What if what I wrote wasn’t any good? What if it didn’t turn out as I expected? What if I thought it was one thing but turned out to be something else entirely - a bit like that novella?!
What if it was irrelevant?
This paralysis wasn’t an issue of subject, nor of process; it was a dilemma of an entirely different order. I realised that subconsciously I may have set myself a bar beneath which I do not wish to limbo. I believe in purpose, not trivia; I want to produce work with weight, potential, merit… all those good things. And what if, in merely ‘dabbling’, I did not do that?
Yes, there was a fear in the end product not proving itself ‘worthy’, but there was also a fear of wasting my time - and I have elevated time to be the most precious thing I have. Of course the irony was that in not wishing to produce something ‘unworthy’, in allowing myself to be semi-paralysed by my goal-seeking, I was actually doing the very thing I loathed most of all i.e. wasting my time.
When I’m mentoring at writers’ retreats I often take delegates through a workshop where we look at the big existential question associated with writing: why do you write? who do you write for? what kind of writer are you? I’ve always had my answers off pat - and for the third question it is that I’m an obsessed writer, I have become addicted, I can’t stop. Which is true. Yet when suddenly faced with - and recognising - this fear, I saw that sometimes I am a reluctant writer too.
And what a shock that was!
How might you overcome the fear? By allowing yourself to write something inconsequential, ephemeral, without ‘meaning’. by accept that you might not finish it, or that it could be rubbish. Or perhaps - and this is the most powerful antidote - by metaphorically closing your eyes, thinking of a word, and just writing the bloody thing down.
Who knows where it might take you - and if you don’t write it down, you’ll never find out…
From Jim Friedman:
I’ve been thinking more about your idea of writer’s ‘block’ as a symptom of fear. There are two things which occur to me.
- The experience of sitting down to a blank page and feeling sensory overload when all the possibilities come crowding in, is almost like a tsunami. This can all too easily become defended against by an overwhelming blank. My second point elaborates on this a little.
- Writing is venturing into a different state of openness, where everything is provisional, in process, uncertain, feeling a way in the dark, tolerating a suspension of the ‘control’ we like to think we have (akin to Keats' ‘negative capability') and whilst this is exciting and a powerful motive it can also be challenged by our default need for surety, stability, pattern etc, a kind of deadening of too much excitement. It’s a continual struggle for everyone, not only creatives, but perhaps especially for them/us.