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.

Listening to Yourself

I’m just finishing up a proposal for a collection of short personal essays titled “Small.”  I have no idea whether these pieces so dear to me will find a home or not.  But I am certain that writing them was a rich and satisfying experience.  This, I believe, because the subject and the project were conceived deep within me.

Sometime over a year ago, I had recently finished an essay, and finding myself without a direction for my writing, felt at sea.  Unlike some writers I know who can rattle off a list of future projects, I become so immersed in whatever I am writing that I have no time to look beyond my current page.  I needed to begin something new, but what?

Initially I cast about for an idea.  I could write about my family of origin; there was no lack of material there, and when I told family stories, friends often urged that I write them down.  Or I could write a piece of pedagogy and capture on the page my passion for teaching writing.  Or . . . . . But nothing stuck.  None of the possible topics I considered gave me the frisson I knew was necessary for me to begin.

One day, I was taking my dog, Daphne Opal, for her afternoon walk and wrestling with my demons.  All that morning, I had sat in front of a mostly blank screen, and now I felt completely out of sorts.  What was wrong with me? Why, oh why, couldn’t I come up with something to write? Why was I unable to generate any new ideas that energized me?  Was I that dull?  That constricted?

Suddenly—and I cannot tell you why—I dropped the leash, looked up at the sky and asked, “What should I be writing?”

“Small,” the answer came to me.  “You should be writing about thinking small.”

Immediately I was seized with the possibilities.  Because I am easily overwhelmed, I am happiest focusing on tiny details of a larger whole—one tiny plant pushing its way up through a riverbank of rocks; one measure of a concerto, a corner of a mural, a single sentence from a short story.  Writing about “small” would fuel me for many months to come.

I wouldn’t call myself spiritual.  I don’t pray, do not meditate on a regular basis, do not ever think about a “higher power.”  So I cannot explain what happened that afternoon as divine intervention.  Far from it.  Instead, I’m almost certain that the idea of “small” had been with me for a while, and had finally found an opportunity to make its voice heard.  While I was struggling and straining, thinking too hard and with too much conventional logic, while I was commanding myself to “come up” with an idea, to be “creative,” forcing inspiration, I was creating so much noise in my universe that I wasn’t able to hear the voice deepest within me.  It was only once I stopped working so hard and surrendered, that I was able to hear my own truest voice speaking directly to me.

For months after that afternoon, I wrote about small–about cultivating one flower each morning in my garden, in order to avoid overwhelm and discouragement; about the power of a single breath to renew me; about the long-lasting effects of a fleeting, joyful encounter with a stranger.  Now I have accumulated 25 short essays, and I’m about to send a proposal out into the world.  But that involves separation and division, and is entirely different from the writing process.  All the while I was writing, I felt undivided, completely resonant and in full harmony with myself.  All because I had allowed myself to stop and listen to what I, and I alone, wanted to write.

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.

The Noise Factor

Jeannie McCormack’s comment about ear plugs reminded me that I haven’t talked about the noise factor and writing.  But even before I broach that topic, it might be a good time for me to explain why I’m writing so much about what to think about before you even sit down.

Finding the right time and place to write, is about more than just creating the most comfortable situation for you as a writer.  On one level, of course, that’s what I’ve been writing about.  But on a deeper level, the time and place you choose to write are some of the many ways you create a safe environment in which to write.

In the end, all of my clients have difficulty with some phase of the writing process because, on a conscious or unconscious level, writing feels dangerous to them.  You may or may not be aware of the anxiety the prospect of writing or publishing your writing ignites within you.  As I mentioned earlier, you may simply find you never get around to sitting down and beginning.  Procrastination is frequently a way of sloughing off anxiety –even if you’re not aware of feeling anxious.  Putting a completed manuscript away in a drawer and forgetting about it is another way of calming your nerves.  Out of sight, out of mind.

It’s too early to explore the many reasons writing makes us anxious.  You’ll have to trust me here.  But I can assure you that finding the right time and place to write mark the beginning of your creating safety in your writing world.  But whatever the causes of unease around writing, by selecting the most comfortable place and time to write, you’ll be taking the first steps to diminishing your anxiety.

Controlling the noise factor is another strategy for helping to calm yourself when you write.  Writers like Jeannie and I need complete peace and quiet to feel safe.  I write best in a cocoon, where I know I will not be interrupted or distracted by people or noise.  So does Jeannie.

However, I’ve worked with some writers who do much better writing in a bustling café, with people ordering espressos and lattes, chairs shuffling, keyboards clicking.  Others among my clients feel most relaxed when writing to loud music.  They find a steady background rhythm distracts them from their worries.  “If I’m listening to the same music I listen to when I’m partying or relaxing,” one client told me, “the writing doesn’t seem so hugely important.  And that calms me down.”

This client has hit at the very heart of creating a sense of safety around our writing.  For many of us, the stakes feel unbearably high each time we sit down to write.  It’s no wonder we procrastinate and become easily distracted.  Who can tolerate intense tension for a sustained period of time?

One way to lower these elevated stakes is to create an atmosphere that tells us that nothing too ground shaking is involved when we put words to the page.  The right music can go a long way toward creating this impression for us. As can putting ourselves in the right environment.  Each of these is a very personal matter, and may take some time to fine tune.  But once you’ve found what works for you, you’ve taken an important step in lowering your writing stress.

CREATING A MINDSET

If you have settled on the best time and place to write, and are still having difficulty sitting down, you might take about five minutes or so to relax and create a mindset conducive to writing.  Here’s how to do this:

1.  Think about a place in your life where you have felt peaceful and safe.  It might be a meadow high in the Sierras, or a childhood backyard.  It might on a branch high in a family apple tree, when you were old enough to climb.  Or a vacation beach where you remember feeling particularly good.  Or a bedroom where sleep came easily.

2.  Sit down, uncross your legs, close your eyes, and take a few, deep cleansing breaths. Inhale, then exhale, slowly, and on the exhalation, begin to release some of your tension.

3.  Next, you might invite your body to relax, beginning with the top of your head and concluding with the tips of your toes.  Focus on each portion of your body—scalp, ears, jaw, lips, shoulders, arms, etc.–and imagine warmth flowing into and throughout that part.

4.  Once you have relaxed from head to toe, think about the safe place you selected, and in your mind’s eye, approach that place from a distance.  Begin counting from ten, backwards to one, and with each number, allow yourself to move closer and closer to this special place.  Once you arrive at two, imagine yourself an arm’s length from the spot, a distance from which you can hear, see, feel, smell, everything about it.  Finally, with one, enter the space fully.

5.  Remain in the space for a minute or two, seeing yourself relaxing there.

6.  After two minutes, you might just be ready to open your notebook or boot up your computer and begin writing.

While you’re thinking about where you would feel most comfortable writing, you should also consider what time would be optimal (it’s best to write at the same time every day).  First, reflect on when during the day you consistently feel the most alert and energized.  It’s not that you have to feel charged in order to write.  In fact, that’s a myth I’ll discuss in the future.  If I mention feeling energized, it’s because many writers who struggle to write use lack of energy as a reason to stay away from the page.

Most writers divide themselves into morning or night people.  In fact, I’ve never worked with a writer who decided she felt charged in the middle of the day. And those writers who are “night people,” fall primarily into the late night category. I can’t remember anybody who decided that 7:00 in the evening might be a prime writing time.  If you’re a morning person, think about how early you can get to your writing.  Can you bounce out of bed and begin?  Or do you need to make a cup of coffee or tea before you can even think about doing anything?

Once you settle on an advantageous writing time, you should then decide for how long you want to write.  The most common mistake among writers who struggle with writing is setting aside much too much time to write.  I’ve heard every possible variation of, “I haven’t been able to write all week, so I’m setting aside all of Saturday to make up the lost time.”

What these self-punishing writers don’t realize is that more punishment is just the opposite of what they need.  I understand the anger and frustration with themselves they feel for not writing for a week, two weeks, a month, even three months . . . But if you stop and reflect—I mean really reflect—how often do you find punishment motivating?  And for how long?

The best remedy for not writing is to practice self kindness.  And you do this by starting small.  Instead of all day, or even several hours, set aside a half-hour to write, five days in a row, for the first week or so.  If a half-hour feels uncomfortable, downsize to 15 minutes.  I’ve worked with writers who felt so anxious about writing, we started with less than 15 minutes.  It’s important that each writer discover her own comfort level and stay there, no matter how long it takes, until the writing time seems to fly by.

It’s also important to commit to write at least five times a week, preferably without interruption.  This is really the only way to gain momentum and to quell some of the anxiety you experience around writing.  The longer you wait in between writing sessions, the more time your anxiety has to gather reinforcements.

Some of you may be thinking, This advice is full of contradictions!  She says we should each discover our own comfort level, and then she insists that we write five days in a row!  And you’d be right.  My advice sounds contradictory because writing is a paradox.  It is a practice that requires that you show up on a regular basis, in order to be free of the obstacles and inhibitions that keep you from writing.

Backtracking a Bit

I realized yesterday that I hadn’t really started at the beginning.  My first post was about sitting down to write, which seemed to be the logical starting point. But yesterday, as I walked along the path from the back door of my house to my office, I realized that I hadn’t really written about first things first. 

Having been such a terribly blocked writer in college, I always knew that the place I wrote was important.  I learned that I could not write in the library, for example.  There was too much noise and distraction.  Even worse, sitting at a table in a reading room, surrounded by what seemed like scores of fellow undergraduates, I felt too exposed.  Anybody, friend or acquaintance, could walk up to where I sat and interrupt my train of thought, or worse yet, discover how little progress I was making.

I didn’t feel secure enough to write in my dorm room either.  Even if I was alone when I sat down, I never knew when my roommate might return from class, or a neighbor pop in to chat.  So I took to writing in odd spaces, small, out of the way lounges in the dorm, that didn’t seem to be used by anybody but me.  Of course, the space where I wrote could hardly vault me into the universe of those who wrote fluidly.  My difficulties were greater than that.  But I did realize that I felt more comfortable attempting to write in a place more or less of my own.

Years and years later, in the house where I now live, I had my own room, where I met with my clients and wrote.  It was a nice enough room, and I thought I felt quite comfortable ensconced there doing my work.  Then, after my husband, Stephen, and I were married, we needed that room for guests, so he transformed a broken-down shed in my backyard into my new office, with two sets of French doors that meet in the southwest corner, providing a flood of light, along with a wide view of my garden. And once I started writing in this new space, which was separate from the house and all mine, I suddenly began writing more fluidly and for longer periods of time each day. Eventually, I realized how much safer I now felt.  While in my old office, which was near the front door, I could hear comings and goings, footsteps and voices in other parts of the house.  And I was only a knock away from interruptions.

Now the space is mine alone, and it is surrounded by the garden I planted and continue to tend.  It is a place from which I can watch my roses bloom and fade, my dogwood blossoms unfurl.  Where I can hear the twittering and cheeps of goldfinches and sparrows.  The scurrying of squirrels.  A space where I feel completely fluid. . Where I can forget where my body ends and the rest of the universe begins.

Not every writer is as fortunate as I am.  And most don’t need the degree of privacy I do.  But even without a room of your own, you can shape a writing space that feels secure and inspiring.  I’ve worked with some people who live in apartments and the only space they can claim for their writing is a corner of their bedroom or living room. While it’s a challenge to create privacy in what is actually a shared space, these writers have found ways to personalize their writing environments.  Several writers have bought screens to place behind their writing chairs.  The screens visually separate their writing area from the rest of the room, creating a cocoon-like feeling once the writer sits down in her chair.  Others have hung curtains around their writing corner, surrounding themselves with pleasing material, which not only provides privacy, but mutes outside sound when they write.  It helps if these spaces open onto a window with a lovely view, but that isn’t absolutely necessary.  A painting or photograph hung on the wall where you write can provide just the view you need to feel safe and to offer inspiration.  So can a vase of flowers or a candle placed on your desk. Your favorite music is another way to shape the space as your own.

Not all writers feel the need for privacy, however.  I’ve worked with quite a few people who find they write best in cafes.  Away from their home or apartment, out in the world, surrounded by other people busy at their computers or with their notebooks, helps these writers feel less isolated, more part of a community.  And because they are sitting at a table, with a cup of coffee or tea to one side, the stakes don’t seem as high and they are able to relax more as they write.

No two writers thrive in the same environment.  What matters is that you experiment with the situation and conditions that work best for you, so that you create a writing “space” where you feel completely safe.

I’ve worked with several clients lately who were able to sit down and begin writing, but found themselves feeling restless and distracted after 15 minutes to half an hour.  They all concluded that they had a ridiculously short attention span.  This isn’t true, of course.  The problem, once again, is anxiety.

For some writers, the initial sitting down and beginning to write is not the main obstacle.  They have no trouble starting the short story, the academic paper, the column they plan to compose.  And for some time, these writers can type happily along, feeling competent and productive.  Then, out of the blue, they feel a compulsion to check their email or to answer a telephone message they received the day before.  Or they suddenly need to find a recipe on the Internet.  Or practice the yoga they have  neglected for two weeks.  While they may not experience their restlessness or distraction as discomfort around writing, their desire to stop writing and engage in another activity is a way to avoid the anxiety they actually feel.  We don’t have to be aware of it to feel anxious.

Taking a moment or two break to recharge your writing batteries can certainly be helpful.  But turning your attention away from what you were writing for more than a short time is never productive.  In the first place, most often, the writers I work with find that they  don’t return to their original writing.  They become so involved with their email or their yoga, that by the time they think about writing again, they’ve run out of time.  Or if they make another attempt at writing, enough time has gone by that they have lost all their momentum and it takes them so long to reengage that they become discouraged and close their notebook or shut down their computer.

What works best for writers who struggle with  a strong desire to stop writing soon after they have started is first, to pick a break activity that won’t lure you completely away from your writing.  For some writers, a quick walk around the block does the trick.  For others, listening to a track from a favorite CD does this trick.  For still others,  shifting their writing location is effective.  Each of us is different and should tailor our writing process to our personal taste and desires.   Second, it’s important to set a maximum amount of time for the writing break, five to ten minutes at the most.  It’s also best if the activity and the length remain constant over time.  That way, you associate them with writing only, and you are much more likely to return to your story, your paper or your column once the allotted time has elapsed.  In fact, after you repeat your  ”writing break behavior” for a month or so, returning to your writing may become a conditioned response.

Hello Writers,

This is a blog to keep writers writing.  Once a terribly blocked writer myself, I am now a published writer and professor in an M.F.A. program.  Over the years, I have worked with writers who have difficulty with all phases of the writing process–everything from not being able to sit down and write, struggle with restlessness and distractions once they begin, never being able to complete what they’ve started, and not sending out what they’ve completed.  Together, these writers and I have found solutions to all of these writing inhibitions and more.

Since this is the launch day of my blog, I’m going to start at the very beginning, with the initial difficulty encountered by some writers: simply sitting down to write.  Many of us know what this feels like.  We have every intention of writing, but somehow, everything else gets in the way.  We scour the kitchen sink, answer an overdue RSVP, make a “quick” telephone call or two, go to the gym.  Sometimes we are able to write “later,” but often we are not.  For some of us, this not sitting down  is temporary, a passing phase.  For others, it prolongs, becoming chronic, until they decide that perhaps they are simply too busy to write.

FIRST THINGS FIRST

Many of my students and clients have difficulty simply sitting down to write.  They might have every intention of writing, but they find that everything else “gets in the way.” While in the past, it was housecleaning and refrigerator defrosting and to-do lists that kept them from the page, the list of distractions has burgeoned in the last five years and even includes options that bring writers to the computer while preventing them from actually writing.  While reading and responding to email tops the list—at least I’m in front of the computer and looking at the screen–everything from exercise—if I don’t go to the gym first thing in the morning, I won’t go—to listening to and returning telephone messages to text messaging and “internet research” offer themselves up as viable and compelling alternatives to writing.

While I have heard some of the most inventive—and even persuasive–rationalizations to just why people somehow didn’t manage to find time to write all week, I have never been convinced.  At least not completely.  Too many years of struggling with my own writing inhibitions taught me that just about every excuse in the book is just that—an excuse.  A way of avoiding writing because for some reason, it makes us anxious either to think about or to actually sit down and write.

Here’s my advice: Write as soon after you get up in the morning as possible.  For some writers, this might mean simply reaching down for their laptop, sitting up against the headboard and fingers to keyboard.  For others, it might well involve brewing a hefty cup of coffee or steeping a rich cup of tea and then heading to the computer.  While for others, “as soon as possible” might mean a quick walk around the block to get their synapses firing.

What’s important here is not to delay any longer than necessary so that the anxiety you feel (even if you’re not aware of it, you’re anxious, I promise) doesn’t have a chance to intensify.  So do just what you really believe is necessary, but not any more.  And see if you’re able to sit down and begin the writing process with less delay and heartfelt rationalization than before. For some writers, sitting down is all that is necessary. Once they put pen to paper or type the first words on their screen, they’re launched.