Writer’s Block a/k/a Fire-Breathing Dragon
Beginning writers often ask if I ever have writer’s block. I
assure them it rarely happens more than once or twice a day.
assure them it rarely happens more than once or twice a day.
How do I overcome it? What do I do when it happens? Write.
Write mundane details of my characters’ lives. Write about them throwing back
the covers and getting out of bed, scrambling eggs, opening a Coke, taking a
shower, putting on blue jeans, phoning a friend to ask if she’s read any good
books lately. Eventually something interesting will happen, and then I go back
and delete the inconsequential parts.
Write mundane details of my characters’ lives. Write about them throwing back
the covers and getting out of bed, scrambling eggs, opening a Coke, taking a
shower, putting on blue jeans, phoning a friend to ask if she’s read any good
books lately. Eventually something interesting will happen, and then I go back
and delete the inconsequential parts.
In retrospect, I was flippant, dismissive, and a bit arrogant…but
right.
right.
My new book, The Ex
Who Saw a Ghost, fourth in Charley’s Ghost series, is a great example of
major writer’s block, something I didn’t recover from in a few paragraphs, a few
hours, a day, or even a month. It took me over a year to write this book, and
there were many times I considered sending it to the Recycle Bin, emptying that
bin, pouring gasoline over my computer, and setting it all on fire. My critique
partners, my editor, and a beta reader/friend yanked it out of the flames too
many times to count.
Who Saw a Ghost, fourth in Charley’s Ghost series, is a great example of
major writer’s block, something I didn’t recover from in a few paragraphs, a few
hours, a day, or even a month. It took me over a year to write this book, and
there were many times I considered sending it to the Recycle Bin, emptying that
bin, pouring gasoline over my computer, and setting it all on fire. My critique
partners, my editor, and a beta reader/friend yanked it out of the flames too
many times to count.
I started this book in January 2015. As with any new book, I
began writing excitedly, certain I would produce the best book I’d ever
written.
began writing excitedly, certain I would produce the best book I’d ever
written.
The third week in January I became ill. I don’t like being sick.
I don’t like admitting I’m sick. My boyfriend, trapped thirty miles away in the
midst of a hostile takeover of the company he works for, called every night to
see how I was doing. I told him I was doing fine, just a nagging little cough. I
told myself the same thing and forced myself to work on my book. To say those
pages were garbage would lend them a dignity they don’t deserve. They were the
ramblings of a feverish, oxygen-deprived brain.
I don’t like admitting I’m sick. My boyfriend, trapped thirty miles away in the
midst of a hostile takeover of the company he works for, called every night to
see how I was doing. I told him I was doing fine, just a nagging little cough. I
told myself the same thing and forced myself to work on my book. To say those
pages were garbage would lend them a dignity they don’t deserve. They were the
ramblings of a feverish, oxygen-deprived brain.
Finally I was making so little sense in our nightly phone
calls that the boyfriend no longer believed I was fine. He took off work, came
over and dragged me to the emergency room. He tells the story that he dragged
me “kicking and screaming,” but the truth is, I had no energy to kick and no
voice to scream.
calls that the boyfriend no longer believed I was fine. He took off work, came
over and dragged me to the emergency room. He tells the story that he dragged
me “kicking and screaming,” but the truth is, I had no energy to kick and no
voice to scream.
I was diagnosed with double pneumonia, temperature 104, oxygen
level 72, hallucinations, acute renal failure, all systems shutting down and
some other multi-syllabic conditions. They thought I was going to die. I could
not, of course, because that book wasn’t finished.
level 72, hallucinations, acute renal failure, all systems shutting down and
some other multi-syllabic conditions. They thought I was going to die. I could
not, of course, because that book wasn’t finished.
I spent five days in the hospital then another couple of
weeks in bed. By the time I returned to my manuscript with an oxygen level back
to 99, I realized everything I’d written while ill had to go. I actually should
have saved it…to a file labeled, “Ravings of a Crazy Woman.” I could probably
laugh at it now. At the time, I was devastated that I had written such garbage.
weeks in bed. By the time I returned to my manuscript with an oxygen level back
to 99, I realized everything I’d written while ill had to go. I actually should
have saved it…to a file labeled, “Ravings of a Crazy Woman.” I could probably
laugh at it now. At the time, I was devastated that I had written such garbage.
I got back to work on the book. Except the book didn’t want
to be written. What on earth had I been thinking when I started it? Whose idea
was it to write about that? Surely not mine!
to be written. What on earth had I been thinking when I started it? Whose idea
was it to write about that? Surely not mine!
The boyfriend of twelve years decided this was the time to
get serious about moving in together since, “I can’t trust you to live alone!
You lied to me! You could have died!”
get serious about moving in together since, “I can’t trust you to live alone!
You lied to me! You could have died!”
I wasn’t really lying. When somebody asks how you are, you
say, “Fine.” Right? You don’t say, “Oh, I stubbed my toe on the coffee table, I
nicked my finger when chopping tomatoes, I can’t breathe, and my
great-grandmother, Wolfman, and Elvis Presley just came to visit.” Who wants to
hear such whining?
say, “Fine.” Right? You don’t say, “Oh, I stubbed my toe on the coffee table, I
nicked my finger when chopping tomatoes, I can’t breathe, and my
great-grandmother, Wolfman, and Elvis Presley just came to visit.” Who wants to
hear such whining?
Anyway, we found a place and put our houses on the market…and
I began an episode of PTSD that lasted several months. In 1986 I sold my house
in Dallas, moved to Kansas City and married the Maxhole, an abusive,
control-freak piece of pond scum who tortured me and held me prisoner for
seventeen years. Although the boyfriend is nothing like the Maxhole, I was
selling my home in a place I loved and moving to another state with a man I
trusted. Flashbacks!! I had a total meltdown every few days with no recovery
time in between.
I began an episode of PTSD that lasted several months. In 1986 I sold my house
in Dallas, moved to Kansas City and married the Maxhole, an abusive,
control-freak piece of pond scum who tortured me and held me prisoner for
seventeen years. Although the boyfriend is nothing like the Maxhole, I was
selling my home in a place I loved and moving to another state with a man I
trusted. Flashbacks!! I had a total meltdown every few days with no recovery
time in between.
Through all the chaos, I forced myself to keep writing. The
pages I produced during these months weren’t even entertaining as the ramblings
of a mad woman. They were mundane. Illogical. Boring. Writing was no longer
fun. Writing was torture. No surprise. My brain was tortured!
pages I produced during these months weren’t even entertaining as the ramblings
of a mad woman. They were mundane. Illogical. Boring. Writing was no longer
fun. Writing was torture. No surprise. My brain was tortured!
But I continued to struggle. I rewrote each chapter four or
five times. Note that I did not say I revised
each chapter. I rewrote them completely
over and over.
five times. Note that I did not say I revised
each chapter. I rewrote them completely
over and over.
Around the middle of October when the PTSD attacks finally
settled down, I looked at the chapter I’d been slaving over for three weeks…and
saw immediately what the problem was. My writing brain had returned! I went
back to the beginning of the book and made major revisions. In every chapter,
every sentence, I could see what was right, what was wrong, what needed to be
changed or deleted. After that, I easily finished the last half of the book in
a few weeks.
settled down, I looked at the chapter I’d been slaving over for three weeks…and
saw immediately what the problem was. My writing brain had returned! I went
back to the beginning of the book and made major revisions. In every chapter,
every sentence, I could see what was right, what was wrong, what needed to be
changed or deleted. After that, I easily finished the last half of the book in
a few weeks.
This was definitely the worst case of writer’s block I’ve
ever had. I wanted to stop working on that book. I wanted to stop writing. Thank
goodness my critique group and friends kept pushing me! After the third round
of revisions, I sent it to my editor. She said it was really good, just needed a
few tweaks. On my sixth and final pass through the book, I realized—OMG! It’s a
pretty good book!
ever had. I wanted to stop working on that book. I wanted to stop writing. Thank
goodness my critique group and friends kept pushing me! After the third round
of revisions, I sent it to my editor. She said it was really good, just needed a
few tweaks. On my sixth and final pass through the book, I realized—OMG! It’s a
pretty good book!
Since its release last week, that book has had only 5-star
reviews. I’m sure that won’t continue. It never does! But I have been able to
breathe a huge sigh of relief. After all the struggles, I managed to turn out a
book people enjoy reading.
reviews. I’m sure that won’t continue. It never does! But I have been able to
breathe a huge sigh of relief. After all the struggles, I managed to turn out a
book people enjoy reading.
I hope I never have that level of writer’s block again, but
it has given me a better understanding of the real meaning of that term. Sure,
most of us have moments of mini-blocks. Most of us struggle every day to get
the right words on the page…then change those words the next day to the new
right words. But the real thing, the total blockage of the creative process, is
a fire-breathing dragon of gigantic proportions who gobbles up your thoughts
before you even think them!
it has given me a better understanding of the real meaning of that term. Sure,
most of us have moments of mini-blocks. Most of us struggle every day to get
the right words on the page…then change those words the next day to the new
right words. But the real thing, the total blockage of the creative process, is
a fire-breathing dragon of gigantic proportions who gobbles up your thoughts
before you even think them!
At the same time, the experience validated my original cure…just
keep writing. Eventually you’re going to write something worth keeping.
keep writing. Eventually you’re going to write something worth keeping.
Massive amounts of chocolate also help the recovery process.
Ditto. Had three deaths in my family last year and after 10 years of writing at least two books at the same time–duh! Some days I struggle to SPEAK cohesive sentences. Never had issues before, through surgeries, chemo, kept plugging along. So, since cooking is my therapy I'm working on a gluten free cookbook. Hopefully when this is finished I will get back to the three books in progress and produce another novel. If not, it's still been memorable ride.
You never know which dragon is going to be the one to take you down! Please let me know when you finish that gluten free cookbook. I have so many friends with that problem…and my attempts to create gluten free desserts have not been very successful!
Good blog, Sally. So glad you survived☺.
Thanks, Pam! It's scary to lose an ability. Glad it came back!
I rarely have conventional writer's block. I get more of a writer's lethargy, which I can't blame on anything but the Day J.O.B. and "technology overwhelm." If I'm writing and editing all day at the day works, then at night when I get home, I can be pretty brain dead; hence, the writer's lethargy. But if you're a born writer, I'm pretty confident it always comes back, even after trauma and an extended hiatus (what's that????).