I used to write constantly. Fiction mostly, with occasional poetry (not the formal definition of “occasional poetry;” I just wrote poetry occasionally) and plays and screenplays and such. I mean constantly. I had PILES of manuscripts and ideas and such sitting around. And then I stopped and sort of seized up and became totally unable to write. You know why?
Because I went to grad school in English Lit.
Seemed like a great idea at the time. “I love books! Why not study them full-time and become a professor and stuff?” Nope. Instead it filled me so completely with theory and critical standpoints and such that I became totally paralyzed in terms of actually doing anything creative. For the last *five years I have been unable to write anything I liked. There was the occasional first 50 pages of a wildly self-indulgent novel, things like that, but nothing I liked, and certainly nothing that felt meaty and honest. I’ve been basically trying to get myself unfcked from all the garbage I picked up–and at one time believed was important–which isolated style from content, separated form from meaning, and generally got me so anxious about structure and diction that I was unable to discern anything worth writing about.
Until today!
I was at the coffee shop, reading last week’s New Yorker (yes, and acting like some kind of bohemian freak, I guess–I love coffee and the New Yorker), and there was a line in Anthony Lane’s review of “Sweet Home Alabama” (yes, really) that described Reese Witherspoon’s character as “a steely American type: the girl next door who will kill to get out of town.” Somehow this line resonated with me, and quickly I thought of “Crimes and Misdemeanors,” “A Clockwork Orange,” and a bunch of issues that I’ve been obsessing on, and Boom!
It was as if the sun came out (which it may have in actuality). I had an entire story in mind, from setup to awful finale, and it had the human, honest elements I’ve been missing in everything I’ve tried to write in the last five years. It felt so good to see it come forth like that, and I immediately turned to the blankest page I could find in the magazine and started scribbling notes (I had no paper). Then I came home and started typing like mad for about an hour before I had to walk the mutt and go to work. At work, when I had free time, I kept making notes, and additions, and still I haven’t found the flaw or the lack or the shallow spot or any of those godawful things that have made me give up on so many projects in the past.
I feel like I’ve gotten back a limb I’d lost years ago. How wonderful to feel as if I’ve got an idea that’s not derivative (no more than any idea, at least), that actually inspires me to write, that feels honest and interesting and relevant and important to write about.
Other Doper stories of writer’s block suffered, overcome, dealt with, died of?