For How Long Should I Write?

 I’ve been reminded recently, both by clients and by my own hectic life, that we often stay away from our writing because of a misconception about just how much time we should set aside before we even think about sitting down to write.  I bet if I took a poll, most people would tell me they need to find at least a two-hour block of time before they can consider writing.  Some of my clients have even claimed they can’t write without a free four-hour stretch ahead of them.

Thinking we need to find such picture-window opportunities to write is frequently a contributing factor in writing block.  If a writer who has stayed away from the page for too long and, consciously or without being aware of it, feels anxiety around the prospect of writing, tells herself that to make a writing session worthwhile, she has to set aside at least two hours, she is actually creating an obstacle to achieving her goal.  If you are already anxious, why would you want even to think about spending two hours with your stomach churning and your heart pounding?  Anything sounds more pleasurable than that prospect, even getting on your hands and knees and scrubbing the toilet! 

The amount of time you write is not important.  What counts is that you write.  So be easy on yourself.  If you find that despite your best intentions, you haven’t been writing lately, if you have stayed away from that novel or story, memoir or essay, the column or feature you’ve been intending to work on forever, set aside 15 minutes writing time tomorrow.  And if the thought of 15 minutes makes your stomach churn, make that five minutes.

I know what you’re thinking.  Fifteen minutes doesn’t even count.  Whenever I ask my clients or students to curb their writing time to 15 minutes for a week or so, they look at me incredulously.  “15 mintes!  I will barely get started,” they all say.  “That will never work.”

But the next time we talk or meet, inevitably they’ll confess that I was right.  Although they haven’t written pages and pages, they have written.  And just as important, they feel that they have gained momentum for their writing.  Now when they approach their computer or their notebook, they no longer feel as if they have bags of sand on their feet.  For the past few days, they often tell me, they have been off and running the moment they sat down.

Our biggest resistance to writing can actually be an aversion to sitting down—not to the writing itself.  That’s why, people often find that once they manage to place themselves in front of their computer or notebook, what they thought would feel awful, feels good.  Of course, for some writers, the act of writing itself creates anxiety.  And that’s where the time limitation comes in.  Imagining trying to write for two hours, let alone four, sets the stakes much, much too high.  But for most of us, fifteen minutes—or fiveif that’s what works for you–doesn’t feel like any time at all.  It doesn’t really count, so there’s nothing to risk.  “Sure, I can put words on the page for five minutes.  No big deal.”  And once you commit to this, I promise, you will be on your oway to writing that novel, story, essay . . ..

For Whom Are You Writing?

Recently, several clients have talked about how lonely and isolated they feel when they are writing, how the solitude is difficult for them to tolerate. As I’ve reflected on the struggle of these writers, I realized that their difficulty is not that writing requires solitude, but that even when they sit in a room with no other person present, they are not really alone.  Instead, whenever they write, they invite a host of other voices with them into their writing space: critical parents and teachers, magazine editors, judgmental readers, competitive friends.  “Invite” may be too strong a word.  Perhaps “permit” is more appropriate.  Often, writers who struggle as they write, have not made it perfectly clear to the critics in their life, past and present, that they should stay away.

Of course, these writers are not all aware of their uninvited guests.  The only way to learn who, in addition to you, inhabits your writing space is to focus your awareness on the voices in your head.  Most of us are conscious of these voices, at least some of time.  But we don’t often hear them as we write.  To do this effectively, you need to become their scribe.  As you write, keep one ear tuned, then write down—either in parentheses or in a space on the page set apart for just this purpose—everything the voices say.   At first, you’ll likely catch them telling you that you’re writing is boring.  Or that nobody will want to read what you’re writing.  They may criticize your grammar.  Or your spelling.  Or your prose.

These critics want to be heard, and if they become worried that they are losing control, they escalate.  That is why if you continue to listen and transcribe, the criticisms may become more toxic. Anything to keep you from writing.

Once you become aware of the voices and who they may represent, you can let them know that they are no longer welcome in your writing space.  When you do this, it’s important to treat them kindly.  You don’t want to create tension and darkness around your writing.  Instead of banishing the critics, suggest another activity for them, anything to distract them and keep them focus off of you.

I once had a client who realized that her mother came into her writing room with her each morning and prevented her from working.  To create the true solitude she needed, this writer learned to get up out of her chair and walk her mother across the room to the door.  “Mom, thanks for visiting,” she told her each day.  “It was good to see you.  But right now, I’m writing, and I need to be alone.  Maybe you could do some shopping.”

When I identified one of my harshest critics as my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Lauck, I learned to tell her that I appreciated her concern, but that I didn’t need her any longer.  “However, there are plenty of fourth graders out there who could use your help.  Why don’t you look for one of them to support?”

Being alone with yourself for a period of time each day can be renewing.  Without distractions, you can focus all your creative energy on your writing.  But if you have not cleared your writing space of unwanted guests, what looks like solitude is quite the opposite: open season for the critics in your head.  No wonder so many of the writers I work with have a difficult time being alone when they write.

Writing is indeed a solitary act.  And if you can achieve true solitude, which involves intimacy with yourself, you have gone a long way to creating an ideal writing situation.  It is when you allow “others” to enter your writing space, that trouble begins.

What You Should Be Writing

At a reunion of participants in a weekend writing retreat I led in July, one of the writers mentioned that she felt guilty because she was not writing what she should be writing.

“What do you mean?” I asked her.

“I’m supposed to be writing a memoir and instead I’m writing short, humorous pieces.”

“Who said you should be writing a memoir?” I asked her.

“It’s what I’ve been planning to write for a while,” she replied.

I’ve heard this “should” response before from other writers.  “My college teacher said I should be a poet,” a client told me during one of our early meetings.  “But I can’t seem to write poems.  I keep starting to write stories, then stopping, because they’re not what I should be writing.

Another client, who hadn’t been able to write a word for months told me that her goal was to complete a novel.  In fact, she had enrolled in an M.F.A. Program in long fiction, then been forced to drop out because of writing block.

“Have you written anything besides long fiction?” I asked her.

“Oh sure.  I’ve written essays and short stories.  But those don’t count,” she answered.

“Don’t count?” I asked.

“Anybody can write those.  The only thing that really counts is writing a novel.  That’s what I should be writing and I’m not good enough to do that.”

I wonder where such misconceptions begin.  Why should any of us take as gospel what a teacher once told us?  Where is it decreed that novels are more important and demand more mastery than short stories or essays?  Just because we one day decide that we are going to write a novel, a play, a family memoir, a book of poetry, are we meant to be chained to what might have been an arbitrary decision?  Are all other genres banned?

As far as what we are drawn to write, there are no shoulds. Well, that’s not completely true.  The only should in a writer’s life involves listening to her instinct. Whatever you are drawn to write is exactly what you should be writing.  Being a writer is not an assignment.  It is a passion that cannot be quelled by anything other than sitting down to write.  And deciding just what to write—stories, essays, poems–is the most personal of decisions.  Writing is an intimate act.  Nobody should come between you and your writing, not former teachers and mentors, not parents, not friends, and not the literary culture in which you live.