The first kind of writer’s block is the dreaded blank slate. It’s that intimidating phase of creation where the entire universe of possibility is open before you, and you can’t write one shred of it because you don’t know where to even begin, perhaps even what to write at all.

I don’t often lack for ideas. But, even with some broad-storke notions of what to write, I still have to zero in on something concrete, something compelling.

The second kind of writer’s block is getting stuck in the middle of a story. You’ve got characters in some situation, and you may even have a general idea where you want them to be later in the story. But, as a writer you hit that wall and you’re not sure how to move them into the next step in the story. This kind of block has its own challenges and frustrations as a writer. But, at least  you know you’ve gotten somewhere.

Right now, I’m working on a short story and I’ve hit that second writer’s block. It’s a turning point in the story. I even know where I want the characters to be. But, I can’t yet get them there.

Some writers have great advice about overcoming these problems. Some even publish about the topic. My advice is recognize a couple important things as a writer.

First, it doesn’t much matter if you’re a literary genius or a best seller. Even if you are, you aren’t going to write or sell nothing. Accept living in your own skin. Accept your own ideas as intrinsically worthy to the most important person in your life — you.

Second, don’t try too hard to look outside yourself for solutions. Take a break. Go live. Read and watch other media. Read. Do what you do to rejuvenate. Those things will get your brain working again. Don’t worry if you feel like you’re “stealing ideas” by reading other material. If you’re really into writing, your brain can’t help itself. It will think up ideas in your own way. That is creation.

Third, if you have the option, let someone read what you’ve written so far. Some people don’t like to do this. I’m mixed on it myself. But often, another reader will see exactly the corner you’ve painted yourself into. And, often, they’ll say something obvious that you can’t see, like “Why in the world would this guy say that?” Answer that question, and the dam’s likely to break. You may have to ask questions, and that’s ok. The notion that we are alone in writing our work, and that others don’t contribute to the creation is pretty foolish.

Now, if I can just get myself out of that corner I’ve painted myself into…

His memoirs on writing amused me. They might even have inspired. It’s not much of a book to review (Oh hell, ok: B+). But, it is full of great lines. Here are some of the best:

When you’re six, most of your Bingo balls are still floating around in the draw-tank.

If you write (or paint or dance or sculpt or sing, I suppose), someone will try to make you feel lousy about it, that’s all. I’m not editorializingm, just trying to give you the facts as I see them.

It starts with this: put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down there to write, remidn yoruself why it isn’t in the middle of the room. Life isn’t a support-system for art. It’s the other way around.

You go on the third level, of course, and begin to write real fiction. Why shouldn’t you? Why should you fear? Carpenters don’t build monsters, after all; they build houses, stores and banks. They build some of wood a plank at a time and some of brick a brick at a time. You will build a paragraph at a time, constructing these of your vocabulary and your knowledge of grammar and basic style. As long as you stay level-on-the-level and shave even every door, you can build whatever you like — whole mansions, if you have the energy.

But you need the room, you need the door, and you need the determination to shut the door. You need a concrete goal, as well.

I’ve been reading Cryptonomicon, and finally reach that page count where I’m suckered in. Stephenson’s chapters are frenetic minutiae with kick-in-the-gut closers that keep me turning the pages. The book is thick — over 900 pages. At my careful pace I’m not likely to finish soon. But, I’m hooked on the interwoven story line of WWII cryptography and millennial Internet biz wheeling and dealing. I’m eager to see where it all goes.

A friend and I have kicked off a writing exercise exchange to keep on task. We started with a simple 1,000 word piece with bite. I quoted a snippet in the previous post. I surprised myself with a simple, straight-shooting piece of fiction that I turned out to enjoy quite a bit. Our next step is cleaning up the 1,000 words, maybe expanding them into 2,000.

Now if I can catch a break from all the homefront activities to repair some water issues on the house. Once I get that cleaned up, it’ll be a load off my mind. I’m always amazed how stressed I get with home repairs, even ones that aren’t worth losing sleep over. Give me a week, some drywall patching, a new window sill, and I’ll be young again.

Of course, this happened the week I started a new role at work managing a staff of seven. 

I spent last night collapsed on the couch in my khakis and unbuttoned shirt, watching a rerun of last year’s Superbowl and drinking tea. Between thoughts as I drift to sleep I keep piecing together a starting point for the fiction I want to work on. And, yet, not a pen to the page, not a keystroke typed.

Things are bound to stay crazy. Here’s to hoping the house we haven’t identified just yet has a cozy little office where I can string some words together into something resembling an actual story!

I left with a solid education. I knew next to nothing about stories.

When I look back at the last time I actually did creative writing, I cringe at how awful my understanding of stories was. This past week, I’ve been skimming through some of the books I bought for creative writing classes. I’m amazed at how differently I read them now.

Then, it was practically a cargo cult mentality — I nodded when writers wrote about stories being character driven. Then, I’d go try to mimic stories by creating allegorical symbols and the most transparent characters one can imagine.

I would create plots, sometimes elaborate ones, and fail to see that anything I wrote like that was either caricature or motionless prattle.

I was obsessed with prose. I conflate good writing with good prose, and had no idea what a writer actually does, and more importantly what a writer actually says.

Now, years later, I do have a much better understanding of what stories are, how they work, and how to create them. I learned it, oddly enough, in another obscure medium. I hope in ten years I’ll look back on now in amazement how foolish I was writing this very entry.

The trouble now is that the more I learn, the less certain I am of my ability as a writer. It’s the usual nonsense writers allow to trespass in their brains so they can prevent themselves from writing.