Why I Think Writer's Block is Bullsh*$

The fabulous sustainable arts designer Dinah Coops recently asked me about writer's block. "Is it a myth?" she asked.

For some writers it's very real.

Personally, I don't buy it. Which means I'm bound to get a big fat case of it next week. Ahh, no I won't.

So here's why I think Writer's Block is bullshit:

I think the act of writing, like much of life, is a decision. A choice. 

And, I think of writing as a physical act. It is physically putting fingers to the keyboard or moving pen over paper and then opening up to what comes in: images, characters, words. And pushing through the desire to look out the window or get up and clean out the fridge.

I believe in "writer's block" as much as I believe in exerciser's block or eating-healthfully block or kind-behavior-block or listener's block.

I do believe in not writing, though. And being stuck. Or in a rut, or just in no mood to write. But that's life.

Sometimes you're just depleted. There have been a few times coming off a huge writing rampage where I'm on Empty and I need to fill up a bit. Usually I'm just on Empty in the big scheme of life. Or I can feel something shifting and changing inside me, wanting to go in a different direction. So it's quiet time for a while.

A lot of writers, like me, don't work really well when we don't write. Or exercise. All of us, I believe, have things we need to do in order to work properly as human beings. Gardening, taking a stroll through the woods, running, playing music, reading trashy novels, having sex, helping others, cooking, traveling, praying, making jokes ...

Writers write. And sometimes they don't. But why do we have to give it this sickness called Blocked?

I asked my design friend Dinah about "visual artist's block" and she sings pretty much the same song as I do. Dinah believes it exists, but she's personally never bought into it. Some artists, she said, "just need to take a little vacation from their art work."

In the meantime, here's a beautiful book on the subject of making art in the modern world, Art and Fear. It's not as scary as it sounds, really.

And just to cover my ass: Every writer has a different take on Writer's block. I'm sure it's hard to face the beginning of a new novel after you've sold a trillion copy and became famous and everyone's eyes are on you to see what you'll do.

But for today, I don't believe in writer's block.

Artwork: Gratuitous shot of my chapbook cover, artwork by Darwin Yamamoto.

How to write a last-minute blog post

It's Friday night. You didn't write your Friday blog post yet. And you made a contract with yourself that this was a Blog Day.

How do you do something quick and easy and stick with it?

Start with a photo. I found one in my photo files.

And then pose a question, like:

What makes you feel like the hungry animal in the photo?

Hmmm, now what. Follow up with a second question:

And when you feel like that, what is the perfect way to quiet the call for your choice of "food?"

For me, it’s often a good feeding of the arts. And the other night, I realized how this beast has been roaring inside me for a while. 

Two nights ago went to see a director's cut of dances at PNB. These are usually a sampling of contemporary dances but this program was more classical. It included George Balanchine. Personally, I never have to see a piece by George Balanchine for as long as I live.

So what did I do watching the traditional G.B. dance? Cried a little. Yup, I was moved to tears.

Because I was so hungry my body reacted with tears that represent a state of relief and appreciation. Ahhh, beauty, movement, music, I can breathe again, life’s worth living. Much, much better now.

I was so hungry I was moved by this:

 

When I’m really more into something like this:

 

So that’s what I am often asking for in a state of Feed-Me hunger: art. 

And so goes my last-minute Friday evening blog posting. I (re)learned something, too.

So what can you do when you want to make a post and the day’s almost done and there’s hardly any time—or desire left?

Let’s review:

Find a photo that grabs you.

Post it. Then start writing to it. Without knowing what you’re going to write. I told myself if I just wanted to write “crackers” underneath, that would be fine. But it never is, I always find something else to say.

There’s magic in getting started, like your internal creative muse wakes up and comes running downstairs to play. More!, it says.

See? done. Lesson learned I may get my mom and I some tickets to the symphony.

Feed me!

And now, good night.

How to write a bio that isn’t boring and hateful but has YOU YOU YOU written all over it.

So how terribly boring are some people’s professional client-seeking bios?

I’m having a day where I really hate bios, especially writer’s bios that show up in lit journals like the one I edit. (Next issue creative bios only.)

So today I was updating my Web site and felt a stick-up-my-arse at the bio page. Enough with this trying-to-impress bio b.s. Today was the day to try something totally new.

So here it is. I don’t know if it works but I’m trying it on!

And keep in mind, this is a bio written for a particular kind of audience and client base; people who might appreciate this style and work really well with me, and vv. Call it my siren song. And let it be known, I’m  jumping off the very wise principle Havi Brooks writes about at The Fluent Self. She advocates finding your “Right People,” and letting them find you. This means you get to create conversations just for the group you want to hang with and help and work with and get along with, and you and everyone, world included, is happier.

Ok, read on. Right from Web page.

A bio, three ways. (Part 1 only here) 1. A story I grew up as a happy bright active kid in the states and in Rome. I played well with others and spent a lot of time in my bedroom daydreaming and performing "Hair" and "Jesus Christ Superstar" into my mirror. I had a two tone crimson shag carpet. I did every sport I could get my hands on and was secretly shy with foreign parents and one younger brother and a giant orange cat named Tom.

I left home and traveled to Europe alone on a one-way ticket (I got a free ticket home, too). Next came the move to a big beautiful noisy art-filled city where I did big-city things like working at a women's magazine and writing and loving and partying and thinking and talking and laughing and screaming and then ...

Heartbreak. Getting fired. Watching some of my dreams fall away like coat buttons after a rough night. Next, I lost the perky confidence of my youthy-youth and started to mope around thinking, "Hey! I'm just a sham everyone's smarter." Until the wiser and slightly jaded part of me realized we were all faking it, and the people feigning confidence best were winning, and so I figured, "Hell, I'm smart enough too." And then ...

I left the big city and returned to my birth city and as I moved down my path I was stuck, suddenly there was this OUCH OOH, what's prickling me and I was lost in Dante's thick woods but I was just 29-years-old. And I came out of it when I let myself do what I really, really, really wanted to do. Then I went into the woods again at 33 and out again and in there at 40 again and so on, meaning: I have been on my path and off my path. I have had my ass kicked and heart broken and lost people I love. I have found myself, lost myself, deconstructed myself, build myself back up, and spent a few years getting lost riding the Waaaambulance.

Eventually I learned that life is a multi-colored series of transitions and thresholds. Like, a non-stop set of waves. Life is not, as I once thought, about finding your high note and holding it for ever. You are never "squared away" like my mother wishes, nor do you ever "have it all together" and "being on top of your game" is just bullshit. OK, so we hold these amazing moments for five minutes and then WHACK, it starts over. But in a good way, really!

Then I arrived at a place where I looked at my own little story and took responsibility for all of it ALL OF IT and boy. [Tears] I learned something. The imagination has a lot of good creative power that you can hone and flex and it will get you through anything. You have to make friends with it first, and learn to use it, like a powerful magic sword.

So many times I arrived at the chapter that's titled: How the hell did I get myself into these dark prickly woods? But I have also arrived at the chapter with the open sunny meadow and wildflowers, with my eyes blinking and my jaw dropped, wondering: How the hell did I ever get to this beautiful and cool and mysterious god-forsaken place? Wow ... cool... shivers, thank you.

And the moral, or gift of this story, has left me with a big-heart desire to help other people find their way through and out of the woods. I want to help people live a life that is fulfilling and creative and happifying. Filled with imagination.

Keats said it so well: "I am certain of nothing but the Holiness of the Heart's affections and the Truth of the Imagination." I agree. With one addition: Imagination + Action = Freedom. I am a do-er. Amen. The end.

******

So, what kind of bio would you write if you really dug deep and sung your siren song to your Right People?

Part 1 of 3, bio, from: http://www.tatyanamishel.com/bio.htm

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