Writer’s block? Foolproof trick for breaking through
… At least it always works for me. I generally freeze up when I’m afraid I don’t have the chops for whatever the job is: an article that requires synthesizing interviews about a topic I don’t feel totally in control of (especially if one of the people I spoke to intimidated me); a book chapter whose concepts are so complex that I fear I’ll never be able to fit them together in a satisfactory way.
So I tell myself that I’ll just sit down and write something. It doesn’t matter whether the copy is any good, since it doesn’t count —it’s just for practice. This little maneuver relieves the pressure, and I do produce “something.” If I’m lucky my energy starts moving, I get connected, and the “practice” turns into a productive session. Even if it doesn’t, and what I write turns out not so great, I put it away and don’t look at it for a day or so. In the meantime, I’ve given my unconscious a chunk of material to work with. When I revisit my copy, either I discover it’s halfway decent or I suddenly know how to really do it right.
The funny thing is that this trick has saved me time and again, even though I’m totally aware that it’s a stratagem I’m using on myself. It breaks through whatever the resistance or the fear is. I don’t know exactly why—I’m just grateful.
Practice and inspiration
The notion of practice is a funny combination of the mundane and the transcendent. Disciplined meditation practice leads over time to a level of skill that supports the development of wisdom, or insight into what Buddhists call emptiness, the interconnectedness of everything. And long practice of the pragmatic necessities of making a living turns out to be a foundation for writing that goes beyond mundane.
All these years, I thought I was just slogging through various writing jobs, some really interesting and some pretty boring. Turns out it was like physical exercise. Read more
The fruit of practice
Not long ago my friend Paola Corso, a poet and fiction writer, told me she wanted to set up a networking event for writers in our neighborhood. I’d love that, but I already go to too many meetings. When it came to it, I told her, I wasn’t sure I could drag myself out of the house on yet another night. I don’t even have children—Paola has two, young ones. And a job. And she already runs a writers’ series for our food coop.
I found myself singing the old refrain: “How do you do everything you do?” She rolled her eyes. “And write,” I added.
Her husband Michael Winks, a playwright, stood next to her. “We’ve been writers a lot longer than we’ve been parents,” she replied. “It’s in our blood.”
But I thought: no, it’s their practice. After years of doing, it becomes ingrained in mind and body, as necessary to the organism as eating, as routine as washing your hair. A meditation teacher once told me that at a certain point, sitting down to meditate becomes so fundamental that you don’t have to make time for it; you just do it. That’s when practice starts to bear its fruit.
What is the “practice” of writing?
I practice yoga, and I practice meditation. And I also “practice” writing. I like this concept, because it connects skill and inspiration. I’ll begin with skill.
One authority defines practice as “systematic training by multiple repetitions.” Other sources emphasize frequency, skill, instruction, discipline, and “artful management.” (Here is a thought-provoking collection of definitions.)
My practice of insight meditation shapes my thinking about writing as a practice. In meditation, you train your mind to stay focused by systematically returning over and over to your breath. You need instruction to learn how to do this. There is an art to choosing the particular technique (out of many) that is appropriate to a given moment. Read more
Craft versus inspiration
Lately I realized that 20 years of making a living as a writer have taught me a lot. People ask me for advice; then they take it. And I usually have a very clear idea of what to tell them.
It took a while to get used to thinking of myself as a hard-headed marketer and negotiator. My ambition was to write literary nonfiction, like my books about homeless women and about women and sacrifice. Each was based on a central image that I used as a method of analysis.
Those books got considerable praise (and one got two awards), but didn’t go far toward supporting me. So I had to operate on both sides of the divide between skill and inspiration: Read more