Writing streak, part 1

Today I’m beginning my more detailed treatise on maintaining a writing streak.

1. Sometimes Writing Feels Impossible

A writer gets stuck when they construct an illusory belief in the impossibility of writing. Unfortunately, the writer usually doesn’t know how they constructed that belief, or how to dispel it. The impossibility of writing feels inalienable and unassailable even though it is illusory and alien.

It is entirely possible for a writer to convince themselves that writing is impossible. Many professional writers have not experienced this and find this concept ludicrous and will say things like, “If you have trouble writing, the solution is to start writing.” This is akin to telling someone with depression, “Have you tried not being depressed?”

Writing is putting one word after another. I can’t really argue there. But a writing streak isn’t maintained by just arranging words into sentences on a consistent timetable. I mean, it is, but also not. Writing is something we do for love. And love is a kind of divine madness–just ask Othello and Ophelia about what love hath wrought.

I don’t mean that love is sacred. I just mean that love leads to all sorts of rigamarole and tomfoolery.

For example, I love to write. Because of this, if I experience an otherwise normal disruption in my writing, I could start to obsess about that disruption. Why did I have trouble writing? Why were the results no good? Why did I not enjoy the work?

For most writers the disruption becomes a momentary blip, not even a hiccup, as they reset their writing streak. But this disruption can also sow the seeds for a runaway feedback loop where each failure to write becomes evidence for the impossibility of writing.

The disruption creates the conditions for its own continued existence. This is called autopoiesis if you want to use up your vowels.

I see a problem and give it a name–it rhymes with lighter’s lock. I identify with that problem. I shift my attention to the problem I created. Then I try to control the conditions that caused the disruption. My focus shifts from my love of writing to the problem. Because of this, I stop creating the conditions that would have led to writing. The more I let this shift in focus disrupt my writing, the more convinced I am that writing is impossible.

The more convinced I am that writing is impossible, the more my focus shifts to the disruption thwarting my desire. Snake head eats snake tail. Thus we get an ouroboros, another great vowel dump. Here’s another way to put it: We’re trying to fix the unfixable problem before we start to write. But we fix the problem by writing.

How do I get to Carnegie Hall? Practice, man, practice.

This insidious fairy dance can last for years. But if we can see this process happening moment by moment, we can start to doubt the power of the illusion. Like every Middle Grade villain, it’s power was always something we could dispel. But the book had to happen so we could develop the confidence we needed. The villain will likely return in book two, but meanwhile, we can get back to the process of constructing the conditions for a consistent writing streak.