THE LITERARY Life
Writer’s Block
WRITER’S block, I have always maintained, is not real. It is an invention. A self-inflicted wound. A chimera. After all, every time we fall asleep we write stories in our dreams. And yet whenever I give a talk to young writers, eventually a hand goes up with a question about the ubiquitous phenomenon of writer’s block and how to cure it. I think we must anatomize and rename the variations of this perceived ailment in order to deprive it of its power. Another, more apt, phrase is something like the studious avoidance of writing. To call this writer’s block would be like avoiding exercise and calling it “exercise block.” I have exercise block a lot. Almost every day. It’s a real shame, but what can I do? If I told my friends I had “exercise block” they might say, “You mean you are not exercising?” And I would have to agree. Perhaps if a friend claims to have writer’s block, you might say, “You mean you are not writing?”
I believe that common instances of writer’s block fall into one of thirteen categories. The first is the aforementioned avoidance of writing. The second is . Sometimes we do not want to work on a poem, or a play, or a story for no other reason than we should not be working on it. We should be waiting until we know more; then the writing will come to us. Perhaps this means we need to mourn for a while before writing. Or live a bit more before
