“Grandiose fantasies are a symptom of Resistance. They’re the sign of an amateur. The professional has learned that success, like happiness, comes as a by-product of work. The professional concentrates on the work and allows rewards to come or not come, whatever they like.”
—STEVEN PRESSFIELD, THE WAR OF ART
Let’s talk writer’s block.
When I was young and reading tons of craft books, I thought of writer’s block as a mysterious badge of honor unique to “real” writers. It sounded … cool. I had this image of a gorgeous woman dressed in a trendy business suit, wearing glasses, holding her temples, and sitting at a messy desk with various papers, trying to make sense of all of her rich thoughts on writing.
First off, this image is completely wrong. I wear pajamas or yoga pants—anything without a zipper. I never look professional. And when writer’s block is going on, there are no rich thoughts. It’s just a barren wasteland where even cactuses are unwelcome; anyone who dares to visit dies a horrible, lonely death.
Not cool.
So I realized what writer’s block truly was, experienced it myself, and accepted the term as part of the career. When people asked me how my book was going, I’d shake my head and tell them, “Writer’s block.” Even a layperson knows this term, thinking it’s quite mysterious and deadly. I’d usually get an understanding nod. Sometimes I’d even receive an impressed look, which hitched up my all-important ego. People who don’t know writers think we’re exotic. Little do they know we live in solitary confinement, caught between the majestic highs of feeling like God and the lowest of lows of feeling like a mindless amoeba.
But flinging around the term “writer’s block” made me feel validated.
I was trying to write. It wasn’t my fault. I had writer’s block.
Then I finally learned the real truth.
It really was all my fault.
If no writing is getting done, it doesn’t matter what your excuse is, unless it’s a tragedy. You have to write. Call it whatever you want, but somehow, someway, you have to get back to writing.
Eventually.
Before I approached writing as a full-time career, I suffered from writer’s block for eight months. Eight. Months. I was writing a novella and had stalled out in chapter two. Every time I sat down to pick up where I left off, I went blank. I stared for hours. I wrote a word, then deleted it. I chewed my nails and lips. I spent endless time wondering why I couldn’t see a purpose to my scenes. At that point it was an easy leap to convince myself I’d never sell the story anyway. Maybe I’d write something else. Maybe I’d take a much-needed break.
See, in my mind, I had no one waiting for it. No deadline. No eager reader. This can be a gift that allows creativity to fly. But it can also be the kiss of death.
Eight months later, I sat back down at the same scene. Without pause, I deleted the entirety of chapter two and started writing a brand-new scene. I skipped the minutia and began again with action. I finished the book within the month, with no further issues to speak of.
Why? What happened that I could suddenly write again? It was a combination of things. First, I had no deadline, no agent, and no publisher lined up. When you are unpublished, you write the entire book first, then try to sell it. Therefore, I convinced myself it was easier to walk away. Even though I dealt with my own self-hatred at giving up, I rationalized that there was no valid reason to struggle through it. During those eight months, I took a hard look at my goals. My dream to be a successful writer was crumbling before me. If I didn’t do the work, there’d be no story to sell. I went to an RWA conference in a last-ditch effort to see if I could turn my dream into a reality. I networked, listened to best-selling authors, and took classes. Over and over again, I heard the same thing: A writing career is unique. You can study craft and network and be inspired. But the hard stuff is done completely alone. You have to write. You cannot run away from yourself. It’s you in a room with a blank page and a closet full of your own personal monsters. Nothing can prepare you for that, no matter how many books or classes you take.
When I made it home from the RWA conference, I committed myself to finishing that story, no matter what. When I sat in front of that scene that left me helplessly rooted in a tangle of nothingness, I resorted to my only option. I deleted the entire chapter. I restarted at a good part, one that interested me. I realized that for the past eight months I’d tried too hard to involve my heroine in a witty, sparkling conversation with a secondary character. I tried so hard that I’d bored myself.
A lot of blockage takes place because you’re writing a scene that isn’t important. In such cases, it’s best to skip over the boring stuff and come back to it later. Follow the story in the beginning, because messing with minute details can kill the fun. Of course, maybe you enjoy writing details, and then maybe you get blocked at a sex scene or with dialogue. Whatever the case, when you find yourself blocked, mark that spot with a bunch of XXXs and start again at a point that is fun or interesting. Because if you’re bored writing it, I can guarantee readers will be bored reading it.
Writer’s block happens in different ways and at various stages in a writer’s career. It’s important to recognize where you are in order to understand your specific block.
Of course, as a young writer, I also realized that I was firmly in a writer’s playground, just playing with words. There’s much less blockage when you’ve bashed through to your subconscious and simply don’t care. No one’s telling you the book has to hit a list, that you need to pay bills, or that your writing is absolute crap. You sit down, ignore the negative Nellys trolling your space, and create. You find out who you are. You pour all those pumping hormones and big ideas into the story. You are full of possibility and the prospect of a rich, full life of potential beats with every tap of the keys.
But in a full-time, day-to-day writing career, writer’s block is probably going to happen. Actually, writer’s block can happen for anyone who’s thinking of diving into a book. Or it can happen to someone who’s just started, but she doesn’t know what she’s gotten into. That’s a scary feeling. It’s like you thought you played a Jedi mind trick on your muse, but really, your muse fooled you. You thought you were safe at chapter three. You were so wrong.
I’ve dealt with writer’s block in a variety of ways, depending on the circumstance or project. Each time I did, my decision on how to deal with it became a huge turning point for me in my career. Sometimes blockage is helpful to get you to that next level of writing. The problem is the connotation of writer’s block. Blockage gives me the impression I’m completely stuck, and it will take large pieces of machinery to blast through.
Sewage, on the other hand, makes me think of an obstacle I can get through. Sewage can be worked with. But too much sewage causes blockage.
Take care of the sewage first, and you will no longer be blocked.
From now on, think of writer’s block as sewage—a temporary backup that will eventually clear. It’s weird, yes. But changing words changes meanings, and as writers, we all know how important thoughts are when implementing action.
Sewage is the type of backup you hope your house will never have so you don’t have to call the big truck with a pooper scoopers logo on the side. Think of it as a black, pulpy, smelly mass that jams up the creativity pipes. You try to get excited about a project or a scene, and you sit down and get … nothing. Or, perhaps worse, you begin to question your motivation for starting or continuing the project. Suddenly, what seemed exciting and fresh is now stale and unappealing.
Some of the sewage I’ve encountered includes negative thoughts, the influence of outsiders, expectations, life events, and burnout. These are nasty little things that can block up your creativity pipe fast. Let’s break each one down and discuss.
We all have them, because we’re human. It’s harder than we think to attack a creative project without doubts or negative thoughts dogging us each step of the way. I started suppressing these thoughts deep inside, where I thought they wouldn’t bother me, because I just needed to get on with the process of writing. It worked and I was able to continue working for a while, avoiding all negative thoughts and busting through my book. Eventually, though, the sewage jammed up and there were too many negative things inside, blocking up my creative soul.
See, I never dealt with the negative thoughts. I avoided them. And if you don’t deal with negative thoughts, they’ll eventually come spewing out of you in one full swoop, like the Goosebumps movie where all the monsters jumped from the books at once.
Scary. Creepy. Gross.
At first, I tried to ignore the monsters, but I couldn’t seem to write. I realized I had to do something to counteract the damaging thoughts. I used a technique called “morning pages,” from Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way.
The exercise is simple: You rise each morning and immediately write three pages—longhand—without stopping. You do not stop. Ideally, when you finish, you’ve dumped all the nagging thoughts onto the page. This technique allows you to free your mind from negativity and get to work.
When I was working a full-time day job, I couldn’t get into the practice of writing when I first woke up. I had kids to get ready and a long commute, so I wrote my three pages on my morning break. Instead of socializing, I’d lock myself away and write. When I returned to my story that evening, I found I’d quieted the negative voices because I’d given them an outlet instead of keeping them trapped in my head.
If you’re groaning right now, because you hate the idea of having to write three additional pages, I understand. Just give it a try. It not only worked for me, but the process helped me discover amazing things about my life. I found my way out of my day job and into one that suited me better until I could write full-time. In my morning pages, I wrote out all my emotionally abusive boyfriends, and explored the most important traits I needed for a long-term, happy relationship. And if you’ve read either the Marriage to a Billionaire or Searching For series, you know I use a written love spell for my characters in their search for a soul mate. This idea was born directly from my morning pages.
Rereading my pages, I discovered that I’d written my way to a better path. I have always believed in the power of words. Why would I doubt the power of committing words to the page? By releasing my positive intentions and negative thoughts, I’d freed myself from the sewage. And by using morning pages, you’ll be able to do the same.
This one is tough, especially if you’re a people pleaser, like me. The idea that people I knew were thinking negative things about me drove me crazy. I needed everyone to like me. I craved support and excitement behind my decision to write.
When I was young, a lot of positivity in my life surrounded my writing. My mother never discouraged me, and we were a family who always loved to read. Friends and family thought my decision to write was exciting and different. Teachers and mentors praised me along the way. I consider myself lucky to have that foundation of support. My first real obstacle was an English teacher in the honors program.
I was in junior high school at the time and still interested in pursuing a writing career. Throughout the year, our teacher would have us write essays on various classics, such as Huckleberry Finn and Othello, then read them aloud to the class. I worked hard on them, and each time I stood up to read, she berated me. She criticized me in front of my peers. Made faces while I was reading.
By the end of the year, my confidence had shriveled. My stomach ached each time I went to class. On the last day, she came around to speak to each of us and offer a personal good-bye. Stopping at my desk, she told me something that has become a big part of who I was and who I am today.
“I don’t think an honors English class is in your best interest next year,” she said with a smug grin. “You’re struggling. You don’t really belong here.”
“But I want to be a writer,” I whispered.
She paused. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she finally said. I detected a flash of triumph in her eyes. As a quiet, introverted student, I remember being completely shocked at both her words and attitude. The bell rang, and I walked out of her class for the final time, stunned.
She haunted me afterward for a long, long time.
I went home and pondered her words. She was an honors English teacher. She knew good writing. I was just a teenager. I didn’t know good writing. If she told me I would never be a writer, she must be right.
It was a dark time for me. I felt as if I needed to make an important decision about my life. I didn’t want to be a bad writer. If I didn’t have the talent, I convinced myself it would be best to let my dream go and not torture myself for the rest of my life. I could find something else that would interest me. Maybe incorporate a part of writing in a new career to help satisfy my soul.
Maybe teach.
Very quietly, one night, I decided to quit writing. I’d listen to someone who knew best and try very hard to make peace with the truth.
Writing this still makes me choke up. I think of all the kids out there who love to write, paint, or sing—whatever it is—and I think about all the misguided adults who advise them about “real life,” in an attempt to help them. Meanwhile, they destroy the very flicker of light that makes life worth living. They destroy the artistic soul, already struggling to live in the face of a proper, monetary, civilized world.
Looking back, I know I faced a road with two paths. Perhaps if I’d taken the other route, my life would have been different. I’m not even sure what made me believe in myself that much at such a young age, but I refused to go down without a fight. There was something inside me that screamed “Don’t give up!” It told me not to believe in her, but to believe in myself.
It took me a while, but I started writing again. Her words still lingered, but I buried them deeper with each strike of the keyboard. I burned for revenge. I believed one day, when my books were in print, or my byline appeared in a magazine, she would see it and be shocked. She became my own personal nemesis; she gave me drive to prove her wrong.
The best way to overcome other people’s negative opinions or feedback is simple: Decide to prove them wrong. If someone tells you your writing is bad, keep writing and get better. If someone tells you you’ll never make a living by writing, research what you need to do to pay the bills. Create a positive action to combat every negative thought. You need to make a conscious choice to combat all the things that drain your writing energy, and you can do that by completing two tasks:
Write.
Commit.
Most of the people telling you it’s impossible are the ones who either failed or quit.
And the reason they failed is because they quit after failing the first time. Or the second. You, though, will not quit whether it’s your first failure or fiftieth. Therefore, you will succeed.
I’ve failed over and over again, sometimes in spectacular glory, in both love and work. My greatest accomplishments are the ones where I bashed my head against the brick wall, got up, and tried again.
Think Rocky Balboa, and when you do, remember what he said: “It ain’t about how hard you hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward; how much you can take and keep moving forward.”
How do you get those wormlike negative voices out of your brain so you can write and not get blocked?
Think about what will really happen if you fail. Will you die? Probably not. Will you be embarrassed or humiliated? Maybe. Will you lose money or time? Maybe. Will you regret trying?
No.
Sift through the negative and make a conscious decision to combat it with action.
Write. Commit.
Soon, the voices in your head will quiet, and you’ll see only what’s ahead of you.
When writers begin, they always start simply.
You have a story to tell. Usually, you’re driven to write it, because the voices of the story talk to you. You feel as if you are living in dual worlds—your imagination and real life. When you sit down to tell your story, your vision, and the way the story is revealed, triumphs over all. Nothing gets in your way. Sitting down to write a story is a purity of consciousness so heartbreakingly beautiful and fragile, writers seek it like a drug—endlessly going back for one quick hit, hoping they’ll feel it just one more time.
Writing without expectations is completely freeing and takes place in the subconscious.
Writing with expectations limits the writer and the ability to tell the story.
Let me give you an example. When I first wrote my book, The Marriage Bargain, it was before I had made a name for myself. I’d published a few things and cultivated an extremely small following. I wrote the book without expectations, following the story and throwing my entire soul into it. Emotion dripped from the page, because I’d cut and bled to give my characters breath.
When I finally sold the book many years later, I was shocked when it went viral. At that point, I began writing the second book in the series. I was excited for it, and still having fun in the writer’s playground. But once The Marriage Bargain became a worldwide bestseller, and publishers were asking to buy it, and everyone was frantically anticipating its follow-up, the second book stalled.
Day after day, I froze at my keyboard. Fear rattled inside of me—I was concerned over the expectations of how the second book would live up to the first. My publishers wanted lightning to strike twice. I doubted my initial instincts and tried to see if I could make it as funny, heartfelt, and big as the first one.
If I didn’t, it would be a failure, in my mind. I’d disappoint readers, my publishers, and my editor. I’d be a hack. A one-hit wonder. Readers would never buy another book from me, and my career would end.
I learned some very hard lessons during this period, lessons I still fall back on. As I lost sleep and my deadline approached, I’d face that blank page and feel complete frustration. How had I made The Marriage Bargain a perfect book? How could I make this book a bestseller, too?
My answer was brutal but it was the truth. I couldn’t. I couldn’t reach deep enough to make this book like the first. I had to accept that I would never write another book like The Marriage Bargain. It was a different story, written at a different point of my life. To write a cookie-cutter story just to compare it to the breakout success of the first would be cheating. A lie.
I knew I had to write my new book, and in order to do so, I needed to “clear the mechanism”—a popular saying from the movie, For The Love of the Game. The movie revolves around a famous baseball pitcher, portrayed by Kevin Costner. As he settles in for an inning, the roars and loud noise from the crowd begin to affect his pitching. He repeats the mantra, “clear the mechanism,” and slowly, the sounds of the crowd settle to silence, and he is able to concentrate on his work.
I cleared the mechanism. I quieted the outside sounds and focused on the voice of my characters. My new characters. Characters who were nothing like the ones who had charmed the world in the previous book.
Unfortunately I was told that my new heroine was a bit bitchy. And my hero wasn’t as well liked.
But I was also told that one of my new secondary characters, Mama Conte, was brilliant and would steal reader’s hearts in future books.
I was told a scene where my heroine tries to cook homemade pasta in Italy was hysterical.
I remember my editor telling me she loved the second book even more than the first, but she didn’t know if it would sell as well. We both weren’t even sure why. All we knew was this book, The Marriage Trap, was different. But, it still contained my trademark stamp—my voice. My stories are so steeped in voice that readers can quickly identify my work, whether they like it or not.
Expectations can stifle your creative voice and confine you to a blank page. Dragging these expectations to the forefront and examining them is a good tool for fighting back. Give expectations light and they eventually wither. Feed them secretly in the dark and they grow until they devour you whole.
The Marriage Trap never sold as well as The Marriage Bargain, though sales were still solid. But I still love that book. And I learned a lesson I’d repeat over and over in my career.
We must accept that every book will be different. We must give each of our stories space to grow and time to flourish. Treat each story as a unique individual. Some books will do better than others. You might hate writing some books, but you’ll love writing others. Let’s leave expectations to the readers and publishers and keep our creativity for ourselves.
There is only one thing I judge each of my books by. Did I do everything in my power to write the best story possible at that time?
If the answer is yes, then it’s out of my hands whether the book sells or tanks. I did my best. Let that be your expectation for your own work. Everything else will simply block your progress.
Life has the ability to deliver some painful punches. We lose people we love. We lose animals we love. We struggle with our children’s ups and downs. We worry about finances. We deal with divorce. There are so many stressful and heartbreaking events that knock us off our feet and distract us from writing. Sometimes life makes it hard to believe we will ever find joy again in writing.
I remember when my father was going through a major surgery to remove a cancerous, basketball-sized tumor in his stomach. At the time, my self-published novella, Beyond Me, was being released, and I was on deadline with Simon & Schuster for Searching for You.
I was warned the operation was risky, and his chance to survive wasn’t good. Carrying this burden, my family waited through a fifteen-hour surgery, relieved when he survived the operation.
But he had a long road ahead and needed to be watched carefully. I spent a week away from home so I could be near the hospital, and I worked on my laptop when I could. My father began to get better. He was eventually released (in record time, it turns out) and his case is still highly documented as a huge success—and a tiny bit of a miracle.
Awesome. I scurried home, finished up the novella, and sent it out.
My editor called me back and said it was a disaster.
Yep. I knew it was.
I remember her asking me what had happened. When I reminded her of my father’s surgery, she completely understood—it was a lightbulb moment for her. She told me to take another month off and heal a bit, let the story simmer. She forwarded me her edits and suggestions, and I took my time diving back in. After revising and returning it to her, she proclaimed it “perfect,” sending it straight to the copy editor.
Sometimes we need time to breathe, to heal. We need to accept and acknowledge that our emotional capacity is full, that there is no more room available. Not even for a book.
I know that’s difficult with deadlines. I know writers who struggle with constant injuries and pain, yet manage to write their way through. But if you don’t have any juice left, if your book is dull and lifeless, you may need to step away from the page for a while.
Yes, writing is important. But so is your emotional health. Sometimes you need to just be where you are and take a necessary break. This will allow you some fresh air, and when you need to write again, you’ll have fewer ghosts to battle.
If you’re reaching a limit where you haven’t been able to get back to work, you need to ease your muse back into the game. Write in your journal. Write an essay about your experience. When I lost my beloved dog, it took me a while to write again, and I channeled most of my grief by writing an essay about him. I documented his sweet personality, his goofy grin, and the way he managed to plunk himself down into the middle of any situation with the stubbornness of a donkey. And I cried a lot while I was writing.
Writing can help ease the pain, but you need to remove it from any expectations.
Let your gift of writing begin to heal your soul. Writing doesn’t always have to be about a reader. It can also be just for you.
Sometimes the presence of sewage is a warning sign to slow down and refill the well. Maybe you need to find a new way to approach your story. Or change a POV, or delete a scene. There’s nothing wrong with taking a drive, a walk, or a shower to connect with your creativity. (It’s when you find you’ve driven into the next state, without your laptop to write, that you have a real problem.)
A break is not giving in to writer’s block. Today’s writers are being encouraged to produce more work than ever before. Many writers have gone the hybrid route—publishing both traditionally and independently—and they constantly need to write a new project in between contracts. Writers are told they need to produce new material in order to keep their work in the spotlight. Between blogs, promotion, social media, and works-in-progress, burnout is a valid way to run into writer’s block.
If you think burnout is affecting your ability to write, you need to carefully examine your life and current business plan. Because you cannot sacrifice quality in the quest for quantity. If the quality of your writing suffers, readers will eventually wise up and stop buying your books. You are the quality gatekeeper, more so than any editor or publicist. You control the quality of your books. If you’re burnt out, you’ve lost something essential to your career as a writer. I advise a three-pronged approach to work your way through it:
Then write. Begin with a scene that interests you or start a whole new chapter just for the importance of starting with a new page. Play a bit. Do some freewriting. Once you get into it, it’ll be easier to keep going.
Try setting a timer. Commit to half an hour with your butt firmly in a chair, and don’t move. Not even to use the bathroom. Certainly not for that cup of coffee you think you need or the quick check of someone’s Facebook status. Eventually you’ll write something even if it’s This is the dumbest exercise Jennifer Probst made me do.
One word always leads to another.
If you don’t tend to burn out, eventually it will come back in the form of long-term writer’s block. If you aren’t writing what you want, consider it a wake-up call. Maybe it’s time to look at what you crave to write. Sometimes sewage is a way to make you pay attention—a path to growth and change. What made you happy a few years ago may be strangling you alive today. You owe it to yourself and your readers to be true to who you are, to write the stories that emanate from your soul.
That’s why calendars are important. Take the time to calculate what your contract responsibilities are, where you want to go with your writing career, and what your new goals are.
I know a writer who was well known for erotic fiction. She wrote in the genre for years and was quite successful. But she eventually realized she didn’t want to write erotic fiction any longer. She experienced a change in her lifestyle and longed to write Christian romance. That’s a big departure from her original work. But she knew it had to be done, or she’d suffer personally.
If we force ourselves to keep to the status quo, if we refuse change, we cheat everyone including our readers. The woman I described above made a long-term business plan, changed her website, networked with new contacts, and began writing what she needed to write.
Another author well-known for her dark romance decided she needed a break. She published a romantic comedy and was quite open about expectations of her readers. She explained she’d been in a dark place for a while and needed to let some light in. The story poured from her soul and helped her heal. She’d written the book for herself and didn’t expect great sales, but was proud of the result and happy to share it with the world.
The book ended up hitting a best-seller list. Afterward, she was able to dive back into the books suited to her brand. Sometimes we need to take a creative risk for ourselves to combat sewage.
I’ve learned another important thing about writer’s block. If you give into it and its connotations, you may stop writing. I’ve realized sometimes I’m better off working within the constraints of a tight deadline. When my muse has too much time before a delivery date, she likes to play. She has affairs with other story ideas, and becomes stubbornly slow or silent when I try to get ahead. Sometimes I’m firm with her and force her to focus and produce words. Other times I let her lead, and I give in to that impulse to catch up on the latest show or book. I go shopping. I do errands. Then I realize I have to complete thirty-five thousand words in ten days.
Yeah, that’s happened. Actually, a month before writing this chapter, I completed thirty-five thousand words in ten days. I experienced a bad case of sewage and spent too much time giving in to it rather than pushing through. When I realized I had to deliver my manuscript—I was too proud to ask for an extension—I had a complete breakdown and locked myself in my office for two weeks. It was an ugly experience. My fear held me in a grip of sleepless terror. What if the book sucked? How did I rush through the job without sacrificing quality?
Forcing myself to face that particular book with no other escape route helped me focus. I ate and breathed that book. When I stumbled from my office in a blur, my poor kids looked at me like I’d arrived from Mars. I slowly found the story by removing every other distraction in my life. The beginning was brutal. I sat for hours, forcing terrible words that didn’t flow, onto that blank page. I slowly found the threads, hung on for dear life, and followed them. Halfway through, it stopped sucking. When I finished, I was able to go back and rewrite the first half, because I now knew the story.
In that case, I didn’t have time to indulge in writer’s block. Oh, sure it existed in my mind, but it no longer mattered. I was on deadline and needed to deliver a book in order to eat. I had plenty of time and squandered it. I suffered the punishment.
Sounds fair to me.
Old-fashioned stubbornness, perseverance, and pride sometimes work just fine.
Ass in the chair until you find your story works just fine.
I read a fascinating article titled “Writer’s Block and Its History” in The New Yorker. The article explores how various groups of writers experienced blockage, and the underlying emotional element that existed in all of the groups. Sometimes, in the pursuit for productive work, we forget the importance of understanding our humanity. Emotion in all forms—from anger, depression, or lack of interest—affect our daily life and can block us from being creatively happy. The article goes on to state the top four causes of block seemed to revolve around: perfectionism, comparison to others work, lack of creative freedom, and external validation factors.
Researchers learned the closest thing to a cure was when writers allowed for error, trusted the process, and embraced creative work in all forms.
Seems the muse doesn’t flourish with too many rules for too long.
I’ve included the link to the article here for your reading pleasure: http://www.newyorker.com/science/maria-konnikova/how-to-beat-writers-block.
Think about the last time you felt blocked in your writing. Did you have a method to get through it? What did you learn from it? Are you experiencing writer’s block more often than you used to, or was that episode isolated to a particular project? Learning about your triggers and habits in writing is helpful. Analyzing your behavior and how you respond to sewage is important in understanding the triggers that cause blockage. Write down your thoughts and keep them in a safe place to read later.