The Blinking* Cursor
You know how it goes. You follow your inspired muse to the page and start writing and everything’s going great, then 1000 words in, you hit a wall. A big fat concrete wall with barbed wire strung across the top. Maybe the wall is a plot hole. Maybe it’s a character who is suddenly acting out of character. Or maybe you’re just really, really tired because you stayed up all night reading Anna Karenina so you can honestly say “Yes, I’ve read Anna Karenina” should anyone in your writers’ group ask if you’ve read Anna Karenina because that’s the sort of thing you imagine writers in writers’ groups ask whenever there is a lull in the conversation and you’re certainly expecting lulls at the next meeting because you’ve been asked to read an excerpt from your incredibly boring work in progress.
So what do you do when you hit a wall? Well, the best advice I’ve ever heard is this: change your environment. Get up out of your chair. Run the washing machine again since you forgot to put the washed load in the dryer last night (blame Anna) and the laundry is smelling more like Mountain Man than Mountain Spring. Pick up a book and read a chapter. Walk the dog. Walk the ferret. Walk the goldfish. Re-introduce yourself to your children. Pick lint off your significant other’s sweater. Knit a sweater. Go for a run. Call your mother. Kiss your spouse. Kiss your neighbor. Chase a rabbit. Eat a cookie.
Just do something other than stare at the blinking cursor.
This is excellent advice. Yes, there are some writers who can bore a hole through any writing wall with sheer determination (usually prompted by a looming deadline of “yesterday”). But most of us aren’t Cylopsian like that and we hate those people anyway so instead we must get up out of the chair.
I don’t know the science behind it, but apparently when we walk away and do something totally unrelated to the problem at hand, the brain feels emotionally secure enough to back up and re-consider the problem from a different perspective. (This is sort of like what happens when you’re trying to remember the name of that movie – you know, the one with that actor who did that other movie with that actress – and you can’t for the life of you remember it no matter how squinty your eyes or how furrowed your brow, but then it comes to you three days later during the silent prayer time at church and you’re so excited that you accidentally blurt “What Dreams May Come!” really loud and a split-second later as you re-play your prayerful exclamation you realize you might have pronounced “What” as “Wet” and no wonder people don’t invite you over for dinner after church.)
I run into walls a lot. (Insert Toyota joke here.) Want to know how I deal with walls? Do I flip down my Scott Summers sunglasses and burn a hole through the concrete? Nope. So that must mean I get out of my chair and do something else, right? Um…no.
I stare at the blinking* cursor.
I might still try to write, but it only takes a few keystrokes to discover that I’m facing one of those Escape from New York walls you can’t get over without Snake Plissken’s help and Snake’s retired, so good luck with that.
So instead? I just stare at that blinking* cursor.
Three hours later, I get up out of my chair and declare myself a complete failure as a writer, having added nothing to my novel except an impenetrable obstacle that fittingly resembles a very wide, very tall tombstone.
Here is where I’m supposed to spin this unflattering picture of the writer’s life into some kind of inspirational lesson. Um. Nope. Can’t do it.
Because sometimes writing is impossible. Sometimes trying to put a word on the page is like trying to staple a wasp to a jackrabbit. And sometimes, you waste hours of your life staring at a blinking* cursor.
I’m sorry smelly laundry. I’m sorry obese ferret. I’m sorry neighbor who looks exactly like Kate Beckinsale**. I suck.
What can I say? I’m a writer.
*Please feel free to replace the asterisked instances of “blinking” with your favorite swear word. I did.
**No, I don’t have a neighbor who looks exactly like Kate Beckinsale. But this is my blog and my daydream so I can pretend whatever I want. Like right now? I’m pretending that Kate Beckinsale’s people will happen upon this post during routine “checking for unflattering web content” Googling and decide it would be great PR if she were to suddenly show up in Colorado and invite me out to dinner where I’d be happy just to listen to her talk in that sexy English accent even with her mouth full of P.F. Changs’ Oolong Marinated Sea Bass.
16 Comments
Elisabeth Black
It’s a relief to hear that other people also let themselves get stuck even though they know they shouldn’t.
Very funny post.
Steve P., ND
Misery loves dinner guests. Or something like that.
MIchele Brouder
Taking a break and coming back to it with a fresh eye usually helps me as well.
Also,I run the wash machine in the middle of the night when I can’t sleep then I can return to bed with a sense of accomplishment.
Steve P., ND
When you run the washing machine at night, do you actually put laundry in it? Or do you just like the way it sings you to sleep? And if you fall asleep to the sound of the washing machine, do you dream of lost socks?
sarah
Lol, as usual. I have several old novel drafts that stop abruptly mid-story at 1000 words. My solution – write poetry instead.
By the way, that whole “change your environment” thing is what counsellors recommend too when people are feeling too whatever. Get up, do something, go out, get over yourself.
I suspect at least half the writing process involves getting over yourself.
Steve P., ND
I feel “too whatever” all the time. I’m just glad I can’t spontaneously teleport or I’d be literally all over the place.
Pam
I can always count on you. For inspiration. And for a good laugh.
Steve P., ND
Just call me abacus.
Nicole
Sigh . . .
Steve P., ND
I know. And also, there’s “argh.” Sometimes I put them together and just say aigh. It seems to fit.
Kathleen
You draw cartoons, with words. I see them. I laugh.
Steve P., ND
Sometimes I make cookies with words, too. You should try one. They taste like cartoons.
katdish
You’re just a mess, Steve. You know that? No doubt you were born to be writer. Now stop staring at that blinking cursor and write something, dammit! How’s that for a pep talk? You’re welcome.
Steve P., ND
Me? A mess? Clearly you haven’t been reading between the lines. Oh, right. I forgot. I’m transparent. There is no between. Yup. I’m a mess.
Even though my name isn’t “dammit,” I’ll write something soon. A blog post. Or a short story. Or a few words in my bestselling novel. I just have to finish the ol’ paying work first.
Billy Coffey
Showers. That’s my fix for this problem. When I’m stuck, I take a shower. I suppose I could get all metaphysical and say I’m trying to wash the failure off or that there’s some mystical connection with falling water, but I don’t think so. At any rate, I’ve read that Sinatra took seven showers a day. I SO have him beat.
Steve P., ND
I’m trying to come up with a response to your comment, but I’m sorta stuck. I wonder if Panera has a shower in the employee restroom?
[Insert ticking clock cliche here.]
Nope. No shower. But a quick bath in a vat of broccoli cheese soup seems to have done the trick. (Also, it’s delicious.)
Sinatra was such a maverick. Always had to do things “his” way. But I may just have to try that shower approach. Apart from the prohibitive water expense and the fact that it might trigger latent OCD tendencies which then could render me unable to type on a computer keyboard without first putting on surgical gloves, it seems like the perfect solution. Plus, when artisans someday paint my writerly likeness on the cafe wall at Barnes & Noble, I’ll look so much cleaner than Hemingway.
Bonus.