Writer's Block and Tackle

Robert Olen Butler, the Pulitzer-Prize winning writer, asserts (and, I’m paraphrasing here) that writer’s block is something that only thoughtful and likely very good writers suffer. He says that the Stephen Kings and John Grishams of the world do not suffer writer’s block because they are turning out work that comes merely from the head, not from a deeper, more unconscious (and therefore – at least he implies – more trustworthy and valuable) place. The dream space, he calls it.

Well, given my experiences of today, I must be a very thoughtful and likely very good writer indeed. At least, if Mr. Butler is correct in his assertion.

Today I began two different stories. The same thing happened with both of them. I’d developed a character, given her or him a deep yearning of one sort or another, and then – SPLAT!! Wall. What would the obstacle or obstacles be? How would they work to overcome those obstacles? What, in the end, would be their fate? (I know, I know, I need to let the characters tell me what their fate will be. I do, sometimes.) Everything I thought of seemed, well, trite, hackneyed, overdone, already explored.

I seemed to become overwhelmed – and, ultimately, short-circuited – by my ability to choose any fate for these characters. (This is a syndrome that my poet friend, Katerina, refers to as agoraphobia. An apt term, I think.) I could invent a horrible car accident or the murder of a previously close friend or the unexpected death of a parent. But which one of these? Which one would be most perfectly attenuated to the particular yearning such that my work would (to use Robert Olen Butler’s words again) thrum, thrum, thrum, with nary a twang?

I decided to stop for a bit. Did some cleaning. Organizing. Taking care of those pesky piles of special coupons, too many literary magazines to count, books to-be-read and recently read. I filed things away, cleaned the kitchen table, took the dogs for a longer walk than usual, despite the slippery sidewalks and the biting, cold wind that February in Chicago often delivers. I considered doing my laundry, but decided against it. It can wait until early next week and maybe it’ll be a little warmer then.

Last week I attended the AWP Conference here in Chicago. (AWP stands for “Association of Writers & Writing Programs.” I am a member by virtue of my matriculation in Spalding University’s MFA in Writing program.) The best part of the conference was seeing several of my Spalding colleagues – students and staff alike, as well as my good friend Andrew, who recently completed his MFA in Writing at Columbia College. The second best part of the conference was the book fair, where writers and editors of magazines and presses alike could appraise one another, dance about, and rub elbows. It was all, in the end, rather overwhelming. So many panel discussions, so many booths to try to visit at the book fair, and so so so many people!! Who knew there were so many writers in the world? One had to take care not to let it become depressing.

One of the panels I attended featured the aforementioned Robert Olen Butler, whose book From Where You Dream, I recently read. He has some very interesting ideas and speaks passionately about the central role of “yearning” in the creation of fiction. He is also, however, quite dogmatic and prescriptive that his is the one and only way to successfully write fiction. (If you are curious as to my response to this sort of certainty, please refer to the initial entry of this blog, posted yesterday afternoon.) Why must his be the only approach that is right or real or legitimate? Why can’t it just be a very useful, helpful, or good approach? I’m glad I heard his talk and I found several of his anecdotes very amusing, but… really! The one, true way to write fiction? Give me a break.

That said, he has a Pulitzer and I am struggling with today’s writer’s block and composing this blog entry. Maybe he’s right after all.