One colleague of mine recounted a story he’d heard from a writer who believed there was no such thing as writer’s block. “There’s no such thing as ‘ditch-diggers’ block,” he quoted. Other workers in other jobs are expected to just get on with it.
We do seem to reserve special reverence for the procrastination of creative writing. Many authors will tell you–have told me–writer’s block exists. I’ve experienced it: sitting forlornly in front of my blinking cursor, my fingers poised on the keyboard, unable to write. Often, I’ll find something else, anything else to do instead of staring at a blank screen.
Yet I believe my colleague’s anecdote. What I have discovered is that my writer’s block is actually my early warning system.
My canary in the coal mine.
If I try to work on a section and it’s not coming together, if I’ve started and stopped a dozen times, if I have succumbed to the classic symptoms of writer’s block, I’ve learned (the hard way) that it in fact means I am on the wrong track.
Example:
David, Lyra’s guide in the Second World, is religious and he tries to convince Lyra religion is not all about violence. She reluctantly agrees to attend a church service. My idea was that she’d be intrigued by it–no where near convinced of religion’s value–but nonetheless taken by its potential enchantment.
Lyra understands very little of the service, yet she’s surprised to realize it doesn’t seem to matter. The words of the minister, the prayers, the sermon wash over her in a melodic intonation. The hymns, the music, the joy and song are universal. In fact, she startles when she hears a piece her mother used to play.
“What’s this song?” Lyra whispers to David.
“Amazing Grace,” he says.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound. That saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found, was blind but now I see.
Lyra has never heard the lyrics before; she knew only the music. The congregations’ voices are haunting, full, poignant. In her mind, Lyra sees her mother as she plays, sees the same rich vein of emotion etched into her face. Tears well in Lyra’s eyes, but they don’t burn like before; her heart feels full, but it doesn’t ache like before.
“You were moved,” David comments afterward.
Lyra brushes a light finger at her cheek. “Because of the music, not religion.”
“One is not so different than the other.”
Yes, it’s cheesy, I know, which is why I needed to rewrite it. I wanted the idea that the service could move Lyra in an unexpected way. So I start. And I stop. And I erase before I save. It all sucks.
Until I come to this:
“Forget about theology,” David implores her. “Religion is not all about doctrine and rules. It is about emotion. It is about the experience.”
An older couple, well dressed in neat, pressed clothes, like Annie predicted, stops at their pew.
“Good evening,” the woman says. She has cinnamon brown skin, milk chocolate eyes and a silver bun of hair at the nape of her neck. Her husband, his pale arm resting gently on hers, has a thin nose and thin lips stretched wide into a warm smile.
Lyra tenses, as if she’s been caught trespassing. She expects an interrogation, followed by demands that she, an obvious imposter, leave.
Instead, the woman welcomes them. “It is nice to see new faces, young faces.” The man nods at them and they glide away, up the aisle into a pew at the front.
“See?” David smiles. “The church is inclusive. All are welcome.” He puts a warm hand on Lyra’s arm, as if reminding her she can relax. She doesn’t.
“Only so they can recruit the weak-minded,” Lyra’s voice hardens.
This last sentence was my muse’s way of getting me back on track. I subconsciously took Lyra’s reaction in the opposite direction–she isn’t moved by a bunch of hymns; she’s hardened against being in church. She grew up in a world where religion does not exist–she learned only that it was the cause of violence and chaos. Her first experience with religion is when her boyfriend, recruited by extremists, blows up her school in an act of religious martyrdom. She agrees to her mission to kill Moto, the bad guy, because she is terrified about the destruction that religion will re-introduce into her world if she allows Moto to gain a foothold in her country. Therefore it makes more sense for her to react negatively to her church visit.
Once I had her storming out of the church, the story started to flow again. Not only did I stay truer to Lyra’s character, but I also set up the inherent conflict between Lyra and David at the same time.
“Lyra, please,” David says, but she does not stop. She holds herself up tall and wraps her arms around her to ward off the night chill, to ward of the chill of David’s words.
“I am sorry, Lyra,” David says, keeping pace. “You were not ready.”
Lyra bristles, his condescension a steel brush against her skin. She wheels on him, snaps at him. “Ready for what?” She feels flustered, off-kilter, off-balance. She’s not used to her anger, her emotions roiling so close to the surface.
“You were not ready to open your mind.”
Let the conflict begin…
LESSON LEARNED: Think of “writer’s block” as a warning that you should stop the path you’re trying to stay on and rethink what you’re doing. If your story is not coming together, there’s good reason for it. It may take time to figure out the problem and then solve it, but I assure you, it’s time better spent than either slogging through and getting nowhere or avoiding writing altogether.