Why am I not writing? I have been asking myself that question every night in my journal. I am so shut down that the notion of a winking cursor sends me scrambling for the fastest route to diversion. I turn to Netflix and doom-scrolling more often than housework because if I can’t write, which is a shame; my pantry could use a good culling. Either way, I’m not writing.
My writer’s block has acquired the power of mitosis, multiplied, and built itself into a locked fortress, but I’m not unique or alone. Every writer suffers writer’s block at one time or another, and they get over it. So have I, many times across decades of writing, but do you think I can remember the remedy this time? Apparently not. This is a pernicious case, and I haven’t written anything new in nearly a year.
I possess skills to beat the blank page and tools that I picked up from fellow writers, books on writing, and writing conferences. I’ve used them to troubleshoot my latest project: Has the plot gone awry? Do secondary characters take over the narrative? Whose story is it, anyway? It needs refinement, but I can see where the story can go. I’ve accounted for my opportunities to write. Most days include plenty of space for quality time with my laptop, and yet I don’t open Scrivener. And I’ve taken my mental temperature because the mind can be under the weather. Distraction, stress, depression, and grief are the usual suspects, and the past few months have been a rollercoaster. But I have written through worse before. Just not now.
Why am I not writing? Here’s a better question: Why am I okay that I’m not? I have been demoralized by how, with every day that passes without writing, the fortress walls grow. They obscured a truth I learned ages ago, which I’m angry to have been blinded to it, and grateful I remembered it.
Writing is only part of the writing life.
I am not writing my novel, but the longer the drought goes on the more I engage with the other side of creativity. I played video games and watched movies and television as a distraction (and still do), but now I spend more time absorbing story structure and characterization. I build Lego flowers and doodle in my sketchbook and listen to music. I read more broadly. Writing is a solitary pastime, but it doesn’t happen in a vacuum. I must fill up with art to write. Sometimes, I need a rest, so I gave up banging my head against the keyboard and opened a new journal to show up on the page, even if it’s about not writing (one of those writer-block-busting tools, of course).
Best of all, I have writers in my life.
I stopped making new stories, but I continue to surround myself with storytellers. Whether or not I’m writing, they ask me for feedback. They tell me about their projects.
They dissect films, books, and TV shows with me. Even the small talk of fellow creatives helps.
Yes, I have collected a strong set of writing tools through the years, but better, I also have an excellent crowd of writers in my life. They came from communities purposely created for writers, some have become friendly acquaintances, and some are now close friends. I’ve met them by chance, through the internet and NaNoWriMo, and by joining JRW. All of them are good people who understand the ups and downs because they’re living the writer’s life, too. They maintain my creativity even as it’s hibernating. I’m lucky to keep company with my neighborhood of writers. They’ll be there when I start writing again.
About the Author
Jean Anderson was raised in Maine, began a family in Pennsylvania, studied writing and anthropology in Arizona, and once she landed in Virginia in the early aughts, volunteered for National Novel Writing Month for over fifteen years. She lives in Midlothian with her spouse, two cats, an anxious hound, and a hoard of NaNoWriMo manuscripts. Jean is a JRW volunteer for Thursday Night Writes.