I’ve written about this before, but the problem comes up so often, I think it bears reflecting upon again:
What do you do when you find yourself avoiding writing?
This situation often arises with the writers I work with. They might willingly commit to writing for only 15 minutes a day, five days a week. They might even feel pumped up at the prospect. And so do I. At least we have a plan. 15 minutes is a completely manageable amount of time to write. We are by no means asking too much of this writer.
But the next time we meet, the writer may well look at me apologetically, “I’m so sorry. I haven’t written since we last met.”
Oh,” I reply, in spite of feeling disappointment worm its way through me. “What do you think got in the way?”
“I don’t know. Every day I promised myself I’d write, but when the time came, I found something else to do.”
“Was that something else you found important? Something that really needed to be accomplished during your writing time?” I ask sympathetically, intimately familiar with the impulse not to write.
“Not really,” the writer often replies. “And when I didn’t write, I felt so angry with myself.” Or the writer might say something like, “At the time I thought it was essential that I help my son eat a better breakfast before I sent him off to school, but I realized later that I could have written and made sure he ate well in the morning.”
In all the years I’ve been writing myself and working with writers, the only way I’ve discovered to resolve this tension between writing and not writing is to think very, very small. The main reason a writer avoids sitting down to write is that he or she begins thinking too big, much too big. As the time to write arrives, they begin worrying about how much more they have to write before they finish their novel or essay or story. And once they feel sufficiently worked up, their stomach cramps with thoughts of the criticism they will face if they ever finish. People will say they’re bad writers. People will say what they’ve written isn’t interesting. People will say, “So what?” when they reach the last page—if they ever do.
When a writer and I are faced with this situation, I understand that the 15 minutes we have agreed upon is still too large—large enough that the voices of the critics have time to begin screaming in the writer’s ears.
What I’ve learned to suggest—and admittedly, only recently—is that the writer agree to think about writing for three minutes only. That she sit down, in spite of all the excuses swirling in her head, and begin to put words on the page—for three minutes, no more, nor less.
At the end of the three minutes, the writer will either feel calm and engaged enough to continue for the rest of the session, or they can simply get up and walk away. No recriminations. No guilt. No self-directed anger. If they have simply sat down and put words on the page for three minutes, they will have fulfilled their commitment to writing.
I suggest anyone having difficulty getting to their writing, try this strategy. And if at the end of three minutes, you still feel the pull to flee, get up, walk away, and enjoy the rest of your day!