Writing It Out

I recently broke my writer’s block. I did it by writing.

Which is like saying, I got over my fear of heights by going on the high dive, I got rid of my unemployment by going back to work, I got rid of my lethargy by deciding to exercise.

I mean, of course the way to get rid of writer’s block is to…uh, write.

Indeed, I didn’t really suffer from Writer’s Block so much as I suffered from not wanting to write. Every once in while I would sit down to write and nothing stopped me from making progress. I just couldn’t dredge up the enthusiasm to write which once consumed me.

(When finishing one novel about 10 years ago, I stayed up till 2 a.m. and wrote 10,000 words that day.)

I once burned to write. I would work all day as a Public Defender (a job that sucks up your brain and heart), then would go to the gym for an hour, then come home, shower, and spend an hour or two at the computer putting in 2000 words in my latest opus.

But these last two years, it all stalled. Not interested in exercising. Not interested in moving my characters around in their lives. Not interested in the computer at all, except to see the latest Pearls Before Swine comic. (The guy who draws that strip is a former lawyer who got out after a handful of years of slogging at the law. Betcha he doesn’t miss the tedium of the courtroom, not one little bit.)

I can’t tell you why. When I did sit down to write, the words sort of flowed–usually I’d do anywhere from 500 to 1000 words. So it’s not a failure of imagination.

I suppose I thought I’d have published a novel with a major house by now, especially after winning the Black Orchid Novella Award. But you’re getting tired of hearing about that, aren’t you?

I talked to my son’s mother (she lives in McKinleyville) who is a therapist. I was trying to get up the energy to write a short story for the Jerry Jazz website contest. Then I started talking about Princess, the very expensive nylon string guitar which has been broken for years. I recently was finally able to get it repaired and she sang like an angel at her first outing.

“You’re talking about her like a girlfriend,” my son’s mother said. “You should write your story about her.”

My son’s mother has some good ideas, turns out.

But I didn’t want to just sit at the computer and bang it out. Something told me to go old school on this.

So one morning I sat at the kitchen table with a notebook and pen and started writing. I kept writing till I had 2000 words. The next day I finished the story.

The handwriting broke the spell. Suddenly, the muse and I were cavorting again like teenagers. I wrote an essay and a few other things, and was able to go back to the computer and bust out another 5000 words on the next Minerva novel, all in the week after finishing the short story.

Handwriting. I think what happens is that the ancient act of physically forming the words on paper with pen recalls the joy and excitement of writing. It’s fun. Damn! Writing is fun again!

So, sorry I haven’t been at the blog for a few weeks. Me and the muse have been doing unspeakably beautiful things with pen and paper.