A few years ago I was working at a literary salon in Oakland, California. That night I was in the kitchen, tackling the daunting and skin-wrecking task of washing the many dishes from that evening’s rush. As I pulled on a pair of pink, cloth-lined gloves and dipped my rubbery hands into the scalding water, the owner came around the corner and told me the open mic host couldn’t make it that night. “Any chance you can take over?” she asked with a nervous chuckle.
Our open mic had never been a huge affair. A few dozen people would shuffle in each Monday to read their latest poem, an excerpt from their novel, perform a song or tell some jokes. The audience was calm and quiet and seemed supportive enough. Bored, at times.
“It starts in like twenty minutes,” she said rather sheepishly. “I can take over those dishes,” she added, pointing.
Fair motivation. I de-gloved. I shoved a wiry curl behind my ear, smoothed my shirt and asked, “What am I supposed to start with?”
“Eh, just start talking,” she said with a smile.
Here is the pause in the story where I turn around, look at the camera and say, oh hi. Didn’t see you there. We’re here today to explore the art of writing. Or rather, the art of getting yourself into the seat and pen-and-papering it. I believe that the concept of writer’s block is a myth, or at the very least, an excuse. This week, as I wrote this, I connected with Adam Johnson (Orphan Master’s Son, Fortune Smiles) and asked him if he had any anecdotes about moments when inspiration hit, of getting unstuck. Any insights into the tough spot we call writer’s block.
He said, “I don’t have much to offer as the only way to prevent writer’s block is to never stop writing.”
So what does that actually look like? The never stop writing thing? We have to remind ourselves that writing is like jogging: it’s hard to get started but the more regularly you do it, the more in shape you’ll be and the easier it’ll be. Every day. The tools are simple: joggers need their shoes and a road; writers need a pen and paper. Or in our times, of course, a keypad and electricity. It’s a simple concept but the hard part is getting asses in the seats, so to speak.
We have to carve writing into our schedules; to make it a habit and to not stop in that beginning phase when the habit is hard. That can take weeks, months, but once that routine is built into your life and the writing is on your mind daily, the words will come easier, the stories will form more fluidly. It’s not always fun but it’s always rewarding when you hit that stride. For me, the project I struggle with most is my second novel. The habit I’ve formed in order to write that novel is to wake up at 6 every morning and before starting anything else—copywriting work or my next article or answering emails or even talking to anyone—I write. Without fail, every weekday morning. I never write on weekends because I consider my novel work, because I take it seriously.
Before I started getting paid to be a writer—which has taken years but alas, here I am—a professor told me that I needed to stop thinking about when I will be a writer. You are a writer, already, she told me. You just have to take yourself seriously. You don’t have to ask for permission to write, nor to call yourself a writer. But you do have to give yourself permission to craft your life around it. No one will take it seriously if you don’t. Look at your calendar. When is the best time to make your daily habit? Maybe it’s early in the morning before work, at lunch time or in the evening. What sacrifices are you willing to make for it? Maybe you lose an hour of sleep, miss out on some TV or late-night social events but the more you’re exercising that writing muscle, the more present your characters will be in your mind; poems and songs will start to buzz around in your head and when it comes time to sit down for your daily routine, those words will be there ready to connect with the ones from the day before.
That night at the literary salon I flipped the mic on, allowed my boss to dramatically lower the lights, shine a spotlight. I tapped the mic and as ironically as I could I said, “Is this thing on?” Laughter. Claps. I gave a meager introduction to the first performer and she sang a folk song about her dog. I returned to the stage, made a joke about dogs and love songs. More laughter. Claps. The night went on. Performers hopped on stage and off. I didn’t know what I was doing but I started it, kept going. I realized how much I enjoyed the act of hosting, of cracking jokes and making comments. I loved how the audience was reacting and I still can’t believe it but the old host never returned and I ended up hosting that open mic for almost two years. Every Monday. And it started with my boss saying “Eh, just start talking.”
Just start writing. Don’t stop. Even a Pulitzer Prize winner couldn’t think of better advice.
