What is Writer's Block?

Recently, I read something that argued that there is no such thing as writer’s block, and that, in fact, writer’s block was essentially just an excuse for people who don’t want to work hard. That reminded me of one of the books about that I really dislike.  (Sources that I dislike will remain nameless because I’d rather not write bad things about people.) The idea that writer’s block doesn’t exist is something of a pet peeve of mine: I find it annoying beyond the scope of the claim’s significance. People who talk about experiencing "writer's block" are talking about something, and arguing that those people are just being lazy strikes me as facile and insulting. Plenty of people who struggle with writer's block are anything but lazy.  I'm not going to provide any set definition, but I want to consider a few issues related to writer's block.

It may be the case that the term "writer's block" is poorly chosen.  A book that I do like (Hjortshoj, Understanding Writing Blocks) argues that we should talk about “writing blocks” rather than “writer’s block” because that puts focus on the process and takes focus away from the idea that it is a personal problem.  From a strategic perspective—from the perspective of trying to help people get writing—I like Hjortshoj’s point.  But on another level, I don’t think that makes “writer’s block” an inaccurate term—in fact, in a way, it is completely accurate to focus on the personal nature of the problem.  Blocks in the writing process are intensely personal because the writing process is intensely personal, and losing focus on the personal element can interfere with attempts to understand how to work through individual writing problems.

Even if the term “writer’s block” is not poorly chosen, it is problematic because it is used to describe a wide variety of issues: one person’s block may have very different causes than another person’s.  We can generalize and say that these problems are psychological in nature.  We would not use “writer’s block” to describe, for example, someone who stopped writing after suffering a stroke, or a brain injury. And, indeed, we also want to say that “writer’s block” is only appropriate to describe someone who has a psychological issue of some significance. “Writer’s block” is not appropriate to describe someone who is just lazy. If you’re not writing because you’d rather do something else because the other thing seems more fun or more appealing, that’s not writer’s block, that’s just your choice about how to spend your time. By parallel, a person can choose to drink alcohol without having a drinking problem—it may not the best choice, but it’s a choice, not a real problem—so, too, can a person choose to avoid writing without having a problem writing (not counting the inherent difficulties of writing, that is).

But once I start to talk about motivation and intention, the discussion moves into slippery territory, and this may be part of what makes it difficult to define writer’s block (and also part of what makes otherwise seemingly intelligent authors write silly things like that there is no such thing as writer’s block because it’s just that people are being lazy).  At what point do we say that someone has moved from bad choices to actual dysfunction?  I’d rather not get into a debate about where the boundary lies.  It’s entirely possible to imagine someone who is supposed to write instead deciding “I’m going to go have fun with my friends.” It’s entirely possible to imagine that this choice was made simply because going to have fun with friends is fun, while writing is difficult (and often not fun at all). It’s also entirely possible to imagine that same choice being made by a repressed fear of writing that leads to avoidance.  One of these situations would not be writer’s block, but the other would be or could be.

If we start to think of writer’s block this way--as a pattern of not writing due to some psychological difficulty--we can see it in a variety of ways. In some cases it may be a symptom of some other psychological issue (e.g., depression). In others it might be a problem experienced only in the specific area of writing. Stage fright could be seen as a parallel, in the sense that some cases of stage fright are generally limited to fear of performing in front of others, while other cases are the manifestation of some larger issue, for example a more general social anxiety.

Another issue to consider is that the source of the problem does not always lie with the writer (or at least not with the writer entirely). I worked with a master’s candidate who was struggling because many previous drafts of work had been rejected by the thesis chair with the only feedback being to rewrite the entire thing. Someone who can produce several complete drafts definitely has the ability to write, and a history of producing writing is strong evidence that the writer is capable of writing. But none of that is a guarantee against getting stuck at some point. Repeated, unreasonably bad feedback could certainly cause an aversion to writing in the most reasonable of people. If you start to feel like your efforts are futile, it becomes harder to keep working. while it is true that the writer faced with such unreasonable feedback will need to find some solution somehow—but the best solutions that present (get a thesis chair who will actually try to help you learn! Quit the program and enroll elsewhere) are not writing solutions and my be pretty distasteful in themselves. Finding a solution is still problematic, but it’s useful to keep in mind that there are outside forces that can trigger problems with writing. Struggling against outside barriers can hardly be considered a personal weakness.

At its worst, writer’s block can become a severe and difficult self-reinforcing concern that contributes to other issues.  Someone who suffers from depression, for example, might struggle to write due to negative self-opinions or evaluations. In such a case, one bad writing session might lead to self-criticism, which makes the writer feel bad, and which then makes it harder to write the next time. And if writing goes poorly two times in a row, the negative feelings increase, causing problems in the third writing session, etc. A cycle like this a little self-perpetuating: it definitely takes effort to break that cycle. And if the writer starts to focus on the writer’s block as separate from the other issues, it can start to feel as if problems are compounding (“Not only am I depressed, but I have writer’s block, too!”).

To wrap this up, I’d like to note how much I like to avoid semantic debates: trying to precisely define “writer’s block” is just a problem that I don’t want engage. The issue isn’t whether “writer’s block” exists or what “writer’s block” is; the issue is how to get writing and how to write effectively. It seems silly to argue that all writers who are having trouble writing just aren’t trying hard enough. But it also seems silly to think that all writers who are having trouble writing have the same problem. For some, it’s this; for others, it’s that. The specific reasons that a person doesn’t write, and therefore might want to say that he or she has writer’s block, vary wildly from person to person. For some, it might be a mild aversion, for others, it might be related to or caused by significant emotional difficulties, such as depression. 

I have not directly answered the question “what is writer’s block?”  Nonetheless, I want to conclude by looking forward in the direction of a topic for a separate post: what does one do if one is not writing and suffering from that? What can you do if you are experiencing a writing block?  From one perspective, the answer to “writer’s block” is to view it as the symptom of some other problem and then to work on that problem. Focusing on writer’s block itself can distract from doing things that will benefit you. It is meaningful to talk about writer’s block, but only as a symptom of some other problem. From another perspective, the answer is simple, but not easy: develop a good practice. 

Too many ideas and writer's block

On his 1932-1933 work schedule, Henry Miller wrote a list of “commandments,” the first of which was: “Work on one thing at a time until finished.” In many ways, it’s not a commandment that is entirely practical, but in others, it’s crucial to having a successful experience as a writer.

In the long run, it’s good to have lots of ideas and to start lots of projects. That way, when a forced lull comes in the work on one project, there is another project to work on. This is especially true at the later stages of work. If, for example, you’ve just submitted a final draft of something and are waiting for page proofs to come back for proofreading, then there’s no work that you can do on that project.  It’s a time to start a new project, even though the current one isn’t finished.  And, from the other perspective, it’s good to have an active curiosity, which will suggest many projects of potential value. Exploring those projects can be good to some extent—so long as they don’t confound focused effort.

In the short run, however, having many projects demanding attention can be very counter-productive. Having a lot of ideas that demand attention can prevent giving any one idea sufficient focus.

Here’s what happens to me often:

I have a great idea!

I start to write about the great idea! and decide it’s flawed.

I have another great idea!

I start to write about that new great idea! And then I realize it’s flawed.

repeat ad nauseum

When an idea first comes to me, it’s not fully developed or fully thought out. Writing helps me develop it and work out the problems, but that’s the thing: in the process of working out an idea, I discover problems. Discovering problems can lead to frustration. Frustration can lead to avoidance.

If I have a lot of ideas, then frustration can lead me to briefly engage many different ideas and abandon them all in frustration.  But if I only have one idea—if I stay focused—then, when I hit a problem, I work to resolve the problem, or at least I work to find a resolution.

I can get stuck if I don’t stick to one idea because I can shift through a number of ideas, get frustrated with each, and then get frustrated with the whole process and stop working altogether. 

Working through an idea carefully can be time consuming and difficult. Working with an idea tends to reveal dimensions that I had not previously considered, and then it takes effort to deal with those dimensions. All of that requires focus on the one idea—thus the value of Miller’s “work on one thing.”

If you have a lot of different ideas, they can compete for attention, and each one will seem more exciting and viable from a distance, where the difficulties are less obvious. If you have writer’s block, cut down your focus. Pick one small thing to write about, and put aside all the other cool things that you could write about.

In Robert M. Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, there is an anecdote of a writing student who was having trouble writing about her town. The teacher told her to write about one street, then about one building, and she continued having trouble. Eventually she tried writing about one brick in one building, and from that point of focus, she was able to produce a lot of writing.

That anecdote captures the sort of writer’s block that a lot of writers face, I think: there is a torrent of ideas waiting to come out, and their competition to come out blocks the process.

Write one thing at a time until finished.

Don’t get blocked because you have too many ideas. If you think that you have nothing to write about, reconsider. Try finding one really small idea that you could write about and work on that idea, and that idea alone, until you’ve made progress.

I partly chose this subject today because I was having trouble finding something to write about—I had skipped over a number of possible ideas and was feeling frustrated. And I recognized that frustration as related to my unwillingness to put in the effort to make any of my ideas work.

Writing without inspiration

For people who have writing projects to complete, a regular practice of writing is valuable and effective. But keeping a regular practice means that sometimes it’s necessary to write even if you have nothing in particular to say. 

For people who don’t write regularly, it can be pretty common to slip into the feeling of not being ready to write, or of needing some sort of inspiration or focus.

I’m writing this today partly because I don’t have any particular inspiration, but want to write something to post on my blog.  And not writing, and not practicing writing, are big pitfalls that many people struggle with when engaged in a writing project.

If you’re not producing enough writing, or if you’re struggling with writer’s block, starting to write—writing anything—can feel like an almost insurmountable hurdle—one that can be overcome with inspiration. But inspiration is elusive.

For me, at least, it’s especially elusive when I sit down to actually write.  If I’m waiting in line at the grocery, or out for a run, or otherwise occupied, I may feel some momentary inspiration—but such inspiration often fades as soon as I sit down to write about it.

I have three suggestions for people who have writing projects to complete and who are struggling with resistance:

1. Do something small and simple
2. Write about one thing and one thing only
3. Make mistakes

1. If you’re having trouble getting engaged with your project, do something small and simple. Fix a citation. Fix one typo. One little thing at a time, pick up the small and simple tasks that don’t require heavy thinking.  Consider such activities as a form of “warm up” exercise: start thinking about the project without having to worry about the large-scale difficulties.  Fix one thing; Celebrate fixing that thing; Feel good for having accomplished something. Repeat frequently.

2. I strongly believe that one of the biggest problems that many or most writers face is that they have too much to say.  Having a lot of ideas can often start to feel like having nothing to say at all: A variety of ideas compete for attention, and every time you try to focus on one, the others draw your attention away, suggesting that you’re not writing about the most important issue. It's a pretty short series of steps from "this isn't the most important thing I have to say" to "this isn't very important" to "this isn't worth writing about; no one will care." You don’t have to write about the most important issue—just write about one issue. Get into detail. Tighten your focus. Don’t get stuck because you have five equally good things to say, and all are imperfect: pick one, say something about it, and try to discuss the concerns that you have about that one idea. Write about whether that idea was worth the effort you put into writing about it. You’re never going to write out all your ideas—make a focused presentation about one thing. And then move on to others later.

3. Ideas that seem great at a distance, look more problematic when you put them down on paper and examine them. If you write something and it looks wrong to you, don’t cross it out, unless you have a better alternative. Instead, try to write about why it looks wrong to you—what is the weakness of the claim? What is the strength? Where do you agree and disagree with what you just wrote? Write with a willingness to be wrong, and then you can explore possibilities to see if you find something you like.  Researchers will often go through mountains of material looking for the few pieces that matter for their research, and at the same time, as writers, they will expect to get their writing correct on the first try, when they would benefit from a similar willingness to spend time on something that might be worthless in hopes of finding that one elusive thing of value.

It doesn’t take much to have a lot to say and a lot to write. Writing it all down, however, is difficult and frustrating, and can often make a person feel incapable. The feeling of inspiration can be elusive—chased away by the difficulties of the task. But inspiration isn’t always necessary. Engage in the practice of writing in some small and simple way—free writing, fixing grammar or citations, etc.—and keep at the practice until you come across some issue that you do feel motivated to write about. Inspiration blooms more easily when supported by a practice. Rather than looking for inspiration that will enable you to write, practice writing as a method of finding ideas worth examining.

Be Willing to Get It Wrong part 2: On the cost of being wrong as a graduate student

In my previous post, and in a video I posted last Friday, I was talking about being willing to get it wrong.  In both the video and the blog post, I assert that the cost of being wrong isn’t that big a problem, and that’s a claim that I don’t make lightly.  This post is to discuss why I believe this is true for graduate students.

Graduate students often get stuck in the writing of their dissertation, and then, as a result of being stuck, fail to produce written material to give their professors. A lot of these writers, I think, are stuck because they don’t feel their work is good enough, and perhaps even feel that they are not good enough to do good work.  One approach to this problem is to focus on how writers are often more self-critical than is best for themselves, and get stuck for this reason (a book on writing blocks argues that self-criticism is one of the big causes of writing blocks), but that focuses on the writer.

In this post, I want to focus on the context: why is it that getting it wrong isn’t that big a deal for graduate students? Why do I assert that the costs of turning in a bad work are generally low? Well, what are the costs?

Firstly, there are the emotional costs of getting negative feedback. I would argue that these are the biggest costs—the main damage from getting bad feedback is emotional. A self-critical person who receives negative feedback will quite possibly struggle a good deal due to negative feedback. This can be a big problem, but there are ways of managing your response to feedback that can help.

Beyond the emotional costs, what are the other potential impacts on a graduate student? Well, those impacts are generally constrained to the context of the university—friends and family do not, typically, even look at a graduate student’s work, so a bad work isn’t going to affect those relationships, and a non-academic employer similarly won’t care whether or not your professor liked a specific work (if your employer is paying for your education, they might care about your standing and progress in your program as a whole, but they won’t generally care about individual pieces of work). So what are some of the possible impacts:

1. Getting kicked out of your program.  This is a form of academic death, I suppose.  Realistically, it’s implausible to imagine a student getting kicked out of a graduate program for submitting an inferior piece of work. It’s plausible to imagine a student getting kicked out of a program for plagiarism, but that’s not really poor quality work (which is difficult to avoid), that’s malfeasance (which is pretty easy to avoid). And it’s pretty easy to imagine a student getting kicked out of a program for regularly turning in poor quality work—but that’s not what I’m focusing on here.  If you have turned in several pieces of inferior work over a long period of time, obviously there will be some anxiety over whether another such inferior work will cause problems, and if you’ve been previously warned that you have to improve your work or get kicked out of your program, then obviously there’s a significant potential negative impact.  But I would wager that’s a real threat to only a few students. Students are far more likely to fear getting kicked out than they are to get kicked out.

2. Damaging your relationship with a professor.  There is a real danger here, and one to take very seriously.  At the same time, I would argue that if your work does actually cause a significant negative reaction from a professor, that’s a good sign to reconsider working with that professor.  There is a world of difference between harsh yet constructive criticism and peevish complaints or ideological agendas.  The kind of professor who would give harsh but real criticism is also likely the kind of professor who will revise their views when new, improved work is submitted (again, acknowledging the different impact of repeated submission of inferior work compared to a single piece). A reasonably mature professor will not carry a grudge against a student for a single piece of poor work. The kind of professor who would be offended—who would carry a grudge—for a single inferior piece of work, is probably not the kind of professor that you really want to work with. (Granting, it’s sometimes desirable to work with professors who are emotionally difficult—but if you choose to do that, you can then manage your relationship and your emotional response to that professor by remembering that the professor’s issues are not related to you personally.)  On the whole, the cost of a single bad piece of work, then, is low. If you are a student who is dealing with writer’s block, it can be very helpful to remember the low cost of a single bad piece of work.

3. Other negative impacts. Realistically, for graduate students, there are very few other negative impacts of poor work.  Poor work could prevent getting a fellowship or grant, and that can be be distressing, but, of course, in the context of grant/fellowship applications, the rejection of a poor work is equivalent to the result of no work: you can’t let fear of rejection stop you from writing and turning in an application because the result of rejection is almost identical to the result of submitting no application at all—rejection and not applying both end in missing the opportunity. I won’t make light of the emotional impact of trying and failing, but isn’t there an almost equal burden in allowing fear of failure to stop you from trying?

Turning in low-quality work can have negative ramifications. But for graduate students, the dangers are relatively slight, particularly when compared to the dangers of letting fear of error interfere with the progress of your writing and research. Take chances, experiment, and face censure for your actions rather than fearing error, inviting paralysis, and earning censure for not having done work. For the vast majority of graduate students, the costs of getting it wrong are relatively low compared to the costs of delaying submission of a work.