Reader,
When a writer gets stuck, writing is never the issue.
Those of you who've been reading me for a while have heard this statement before. And you'll almost certainly hear me say it again in the future. It's a truth that bears repeating. It's all too easy for us writers to get in our heads and start to worry that we're not "real" writers (whatever that's supposed to mean).
Fear is a big reason why many of us have trouble writing. Sometimes, we're afraid of what other people will think of our writing. Other times, we're afraid of their reaction to what we'll say. (We're afraid of our reaction too.)
But this week, I learned another reason we can feel stuck: self-punishment.
From Katherine Morgan Schafler's Perfectionist's Guide to Losing Control:
Clients use that word, "stuck," to describe themselves as often as therapists say "boundaries." Occasionally, we're stuck because we're genuinely confused about what's happening and what to do about it, but that kind of confusion is rare. Nine times out of ten, we know exactly what to do to improve our lives, and yet we struggle to do it. The reason we're struggling is that we're engaged in a cycle of self-punishment.
The term "self-punishment" immediately makes me think of the "self-denial" practiced by some pre-modern Christians. In an effort to keep sin at bay and achieve some semblance of purity, these ascetically-minded Christians did all manner of things to themselves: self-flagellation, wearing clothes that chafed their skin to the point of being raw, and embracing the reclusive life of a hermit (to name but three).
Compared to those acts, "not writing" seems fairly mild. Those men and women of old bore the scars of their decisions. To see them was to know the pain they'd embraced in their pursuit of purity. You can imagine wide-mouthed children watching them pass by, shocked into stunned silence by the wildness on display.
Stuck writers, meanwhile, hold all that pain on the inside. They wince when people ask them why they're not writing, unable to give an answer that satisfies the asker, much less themselves. And it all seems so silly. All we have to do is put words on a page until we get to "The End" and call it done. How hard can that be?
Well, if you're here, you know it can be pretty damned hard.
Schafler's comments don't apply to every instance of writer's block. But I'm inclined to think they're true more often than they're not. When I talk with people about writer's block and hear their struggles, a common theme emerges: "I don't feel like I have permission to write."
To some, writing feels frivolous. They can't give themselves permission to write until they've finished their "real work" or earned the right to waste a little time. (Spoiler alert: they never achieve either condition.)
To some, writing feels like something reserved for other people. Other people who write better sentences, perhaps. Other people whose voices are the soup du jour. Other people who have something important to say. (In its most sinister manifestations, this mindset turns sexist, racist, or classist.)
To some, writing feels downright selfish. They're willing to write for other people and tell other people's stories. But to write for themselves? To tell their story? To share their truth? That'd be downright sinful.
In all these cases, the struggle to write is eerily similar to the ascetic's struggle for purity. They're all longing for permission to be comfortable in their skin, but they believe that the very idea is rotten to the core. And so, they punish themselves, hoping against hoping that they'll one day find deliverance and receive their reward.
That said, there is a key difference between stuck writers and the ascetics. From Schafler again: "engaging in your life punitively is often unconscious; it registers consciously as feeling 'stuck.'" The ancient holy men knew what they were doing, whereas many writers have no idea that they've fallen into "a cycle of self-punishment."
Perhaps none of this resonates with you. However, if you're curious, consider this prompt:
Make a list of all the things you feel you must do — or conditions that must feel true — before you can write in peace. Turn that list into a journal entry and explore where those stipulations came from. If you're really brave, describe the last time you met those stipulations and felt free to write. What made that time different?
Keep your stick on the ice.
Frank.