Writer’s block is a real thing. It can be completely debilitating.
My first instinct was that I must not be caffeinated enough. So I went to Starbucks and got a tall iced coffee with an extra shot and drank it two swigs. Followed by a Redbull. Followed by a Diet Coke. Followed by my eyes popping out of my head and freaking out on this guy at the library for breathing too loudly and rubbing his tacky Adidas slip-on sandals against the carpet.
Well, that didn’t go so well.
So I did the next thing I do anytime I have a problem. I googled it. The first search result was a Wikipedia page. I got a little self-validation with this. I’ve heard professors say that writer’s block is just procrastination or an excuse to not be doing what you are supposed to. This is a big fuck you to those professors.
The Purdue Online Writing Lab has an entire page devoted to writer’s block and how to address it by symptoms. I am experiencing 80% off the symptoms and decide that the remedies are too much to read so I go back to the search results and visit Cracked.com’s article on “How to Punch Writer’s Block in the Face.” Sounds promising, right?
The first sentence says, “write what you know.” I write every single day of my life. Primarily non-fiction. This is the first real, novel length body of fiction I’ve ever written. So, if I’m supposed to write what I know, I’m already doing this wrong.
Then I move into more awful existential questions like, “does anyone really know anything?” I let the philosophical questions go on for another 45 seconds before I stifle them. I got a D in intro philosophy and I’d rather not be reminded.
The article continues, “non-fiction writers all seem to think they can write fiction easily, because it's not as research-intensive.” Yes, I admit to myself. I’ve thought this before.
It goes on to explain that non-fiction writers tend to create their own research to validate their writing. Yes. I did two straight weeks of research for a fictional novel and still feel that there is no real basis for my story. Because it’s dismissible. People can say, “no that can’t happen because x, y, and z.” When really, at the end of the day, it’s just a fucking story.
Nobody says “Wow Stephen King, cars can’t really come to life. Why not just blow Christine up so we can wrap this up early?” Shit happens in fiction books and you just accept it. It’s escapism and entertainment.
The article says that I should accept that I will probably write garbage. I laugh at this because I am literally writing about garbage. Then the article suggests that I figure out my audience. This is crippling. What is my genre? Do I have a sub genre? Do people really choose their books by genre? I’ve always read what’s interesting to me and genres were inconsequential.
I begin to feel like a fish flopping on hot concrete. Why is this so paralyzing? My whole life I’ve wanted to be a writer. Why is so difficult to perform? This is like erectile disfunction for fucking word documents.
The article says, “most new authors are worried about originality.” Very true. My publisher says we should print this because there are no other stories like this out there. Every time I compare it to an existing story he tries to inspire a change. Because it should be different, right? If you only focus on how you shouldn’t be you essentially establish nothing. You have no reference point on how you should be.
I’ve always been the type of person to compromise and go out of my way to make others happy and comfortable. I have always interpreted this is as just politeness. But I googled this too and it turns out it’s my astrological sign. I’m a Libra and sometimes I try too hard to please people. In the process of caring about what other people want and what other people think is cool I have stopped feeling that what I’m doing is actually cool. Now I can’t even read through my progress without hating the shit out of it. It used to be my baby but it has grown into this ugly, redheaded stepchild. Today, I feel like throwing my laptop in front of a speeding bus.
This article says originality is essentially impossible. Every story has already been told. It says above all things I should worry about earnestness. How do you write an honest fiction story? That’s an oxymoron. I hate it when people think that you need some kind of merit for your success. People are always really surprised when they learn that the novel The Outsiders was really written by a sixteen year old girl. Unless this chick used to be a 14 year old greaser boy, her story isn’t honest it’s just fiction. Is The Outsiders not a great American novel?
Do you have to be poor to be a well-respected rap artist? Contrary to popular belief, Drake did not actually start from the bottom. He is a middle class guy from Toronto that started out on Degrassi. Is he not one of the most widely recognized in the industry? There are people out there who want him to murder their vagina. How important is honesty really?
So, I feel even worse than when I started. Thanks, google search. Already halfway down the googling spiral, I search again for more remedies. One site recommends positive affirmations. I absolutely disagree with positive affirmations. In fact, there’s scientific evidence that positive affirmations actually make people feel worse.
I’ve always been a fan of negative affirmations. I have pictures of morbidly obese people on my fridge. I keep a quiz I failed hung above my desk. My professor wrote a huge zero on it and scribbled three large question marks. This is meant to be a constant reminder that I’m actually an idiot and hard work takes... well, hard work.
I phoned a friend who also writes. I told him how I hadn’t written anything solid for several days. I told him all the ways I tried to remedy myself and he just laughed. He told me to relax.
Relax? Are you fucking kidding me?
He suggested that I probably have writer’s block out of fear. Fear of what people will think of me. I hate him for saying this because it’s true. Most of my experiences becoming comfortable as a writer have been reading to people or sharing my zines. I can read great in front of a huge crowd of strangers. Insert someone I love/know into the equation and I am paralyzed with fear.
A girl came up to me after roll call in class and told me she recognized my name. A friend lent her one of my zines and that she loved it and has a friend who wanted to borrow it after. I hate myself for being so horribly awkward. I was thinking, “damn it, now i’ll have to face her all year.” I didn’t know what to say. I should have thanked her for reading. I should have thanked her for sharing.
I’ve had professors who have told me I have a terrible academic voice (true). And that my grammar is terrible (without a doubt). That I could never be a writer. That’s fine. I would never be the kind of person who calls themselves a writer. I cringe when people introduce me that way. I’m just a person. An English student with no career goal or prospects. A twenty-something, nothing.
I’m different on paper. I’m the most terrible (but honest) version of myself. I’m awful in real life. I’m awkward and inarticulate. I’m starting to think that Teresa in real life is just a front. It’s all just self-preservation. A buffer between me and the world. You could probably be closer to me here than you ever could be in real life.
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