In Which I Rage-Write About Writer’s Block Being a Real Thing

Please stop saying it doesn’t exist!

Special note: This was written after hearing a well-known and successful public creative say writer’s block doesn’t exist. I had an angry reaction to that opinion, and this essay was what came out. It’s full of strong feeling, and I’m publishing it as I wrote it because I think it makes an important statement. It is not meant to be some kind of hot take, nor is it meant to impugn on a personal level that specific person or other people who say stuff like this (that’s why I don’t name them). Ultimately I want to give them the benefit of the doubt, that they are simply trying to help people when they say writer’s block isn’t real. And I’m sure that does help some people. But not me, and in this essay I tell you why. For an extended and more benevolent version of this essay, listen to my podcast episode on dealing with writer’s block.

Over the years I’ve heard a number of writers and other creatives deny the existence of writer’s block. I think it’s wild people would do this. It’s demonstrably false, or put another way, there’s a preponderance of evidence that it does exist: most writers have at one time or another experienced a block, even if it’s for a short period of time. So why do we still have people going on record saying shit like this? Let’s break it down.

First, a definition of writer’s block, because it’s widely misunderstood. A mistake people make is that it means you can’t write a word. More likely it manifests as a feeling of having to force the writing, feeling uninspired and finding no joy in it, and dreading having to do it. Eventually this will lead to being unable to write. I’ve experienced this in both short and longer bursts. If you learn to identify it early, you can manage your block so that its duration is shorter. The causes are usually our own fears and insecurities about our writing, but sometimes other factors are involved: mental or physical illness, exhaustion or burnout, time-management challenges. And sometimes it’s a sign that writing just isn’t your thing, or that you’re writing novels when you should be doing screenplays.

I’ve heard people say writer’s block isn’t real because its origins are often psychological: “Writer’s block doesn’t exist, it’s just your fears and insecurities getting in the way.” This is akin to saying mental health challenges don’t actually exist because they’re psychological. Writer’s block is often a mental health challenge (mine is of this type). And this kind of statement is also offensive to people who struggle with brain chemistry-related depression who are blocked. To the people saying this kind of thing: stop right now. Your mental health privilege needs to be checked.

You’ll also hear people who deny writer’s block say stuff like, “I don’t allow myself to get writer’s block.” Okay, good for you. Again, check your mental health (or other) privilege. Choose your words more wisely, have some compassion for those who struggle. Your personal reality doesn’t elide the truth of other people’s lived experiences.

I get it that many people who say writer’s block is a myth are trying to help. And it may help a minority. But mostly it sounds shockingly misguided and patronizing. And I think many people who say this kind of thing are actually getting a dopamine hit from it: it reminds them how well they’re doing with their own writing, how they’ve “conquered” their own fears and insecurities and “mastered” self-discipline. In a culture that sees hard work as a moral virtue (and writing regularly is hard work), they get to feel very good about themselves, even hold themselves up generously as an example of what “anyone” can do if they put their mind to it and simply refuse to allow writer’s block to happen.

If you are one of the majority of writers who struggles with blocks, please understand that it’s totally normal and it’s real. There’s no need to deny the existence of writer’s block in order to deal with it. In fact, accepting that it happens, that it isn’t an implication of moral weakness or inherent laziness, will help you move through these periods faster. It’s okay to feel insecure about your writing, to fear failure. If you are struggling with mental health issues that hold you back, you have my compassion and understanding: me too. Sometimes we just need a break, that’s the honest truth. I find that taking short periods away from writing every month or so helps me maintain my enthusiasm over time.

If you are experiencing a longer period of writer’s block, my deepest sympathies. After I finished my PhD, my burnout was so severe I couldn’t write much of anything for two years. I endeavored, I made strides, but I couldn’t write. To those of you who maintain writer’s block isn’t real or crow about how you don’t “allow” it to happen to you, here’s what that sounds like to me: an invalidation of those heartbreaking two years of my life, of the struggle I encountered finding my way back to writing, and of the challenges I still face in managing my mental health while pursuing my creative dreams. Do you really want to imply that I am delusional when I have writer’s block, that I’m experiencing some kind of hysteria, or that I am simply lazy, that I lack the character necessary to be a “real” writer? Please attempt some kindness and compassion. The world certainly needs more of it, and you sound like an asshole.

A Gentleness Revolution

RPSeagull.jpeg

Stop hiding your gentle self.

This blog post is now a podcast episode!

Until I was nine years old, I went to a Montessori school where we weren’t allowed to use the word “hate.” We weren’t allowed to play any kind of game involving toy guns, or even pretend our hand was a gun. At home, I was allowed one hour of TV a week, Saturday morning cartoons (and probably only so my parents could sleep in haha). Violent non-cartoon shows were not allowed, even ones with staged sword fights. Sound extreme? Maybe.

At nine years old, I boarded the yellow bus for the very first time to go to public school. I instinctively walked down the aisle to the back – that’s where most of the kids were. And I learned that very first day that I did not belong there. It didn’t take long for those kids to realize I was different: soft, overly friendly, eager to please, naïve, open. I was like an alien among them. As for me, I came away with one overriding impression from that first bus ride and its twin later that day, when I sat at the front of the bus.

Kids are mean.

I can still feel my visceral shock at how mean those kids were. Not necessarily to me – for whatever reason I escaped any really bad bullying that first day (I suppose they simply didn’t know what to do with me) – but to each other. Riding the school bus became a daily exercise in inuring myself to extreme anxiety. And to some extent, that has followed me throughout my life. When I look out at the world, I see a very mean place. And it is mean. We live in an ungentle world, and for us gentle souls, it’s a painful place to be. And doubly so because the personality traits of gentle souls, and in particular our tender hearts, are viewed as weak and undesirable.

We live in a society where toughness, grit, determination, and aggressiveness are admired. I learned fast to hide those parts of myself that were kind, gentle, and sweet because they were met with derision and bullying. That kind of wound festers. To my shame, I occasionally turned that pain outward, even participating in a few instances of bullying myself. Like I said, kids are mean, and I wasn’t immune.

And grown-ups are mean, too. Gosh, they can be so mean. The only difference is that as a grown-up I now know that often the meanest ones are the most damaged.

You know what? I don’t want to be one of the mean ones. Even if all the cool kids are doing it. Not only that, I want to be the gentle, openhearted person I used to be. I don’t want to hide her away anymore, or try to convince myself that I need to toughen up even more to survive in the big girl world, or pretend I’m one of the cool kids who doesn’t give a shit, or coerce myself into believing that I’m supposed to be mean because after all I’m just speaking my truth and that’s how it’s done.

It’s not. That’s just one way it’s done. And it’s not my way. You do you. I’ll do me.

This is me: I want my world to be gentle. I want it to be a place where other gentle souls don’t have to brace themselves every moment against the inevitable meanness coming their way. I want to live in a kind world, and I think it’s possible. Does that sound eye-rollingly naïve? If it does, maybe take a look at your own wounds. We all start out as openhearted kids, looking out at the world with sweet and hopeful expectation. Most of us have that crushed in us. All of us have that school bus moment, when our eyes are opened to the truth. That people can be so mean. That we must protect ourselves, or join them in lashing out, or run away to hide, or… Or we can decide we’re going to keep on being our gentle selves in the face of humanity’s wounded soul.

I think people are exhausted by all the meanness out there. It’s always going to be there, because humans are human, but maybe us gentle souls have a greater role to play in all this. Maybe by refusing to hide our true gentle selves we can help neutralize some of that meanness. I know that there will never be a larger revolution of gentleness in the wider world – even I have limits to my naiveté. But by committing to a gentleness revolution in our own private lives, maybe we can make some small contribution to creating a kinder world. Who’s with me?