I’ve heard it said that a key factor in writing essays (and probably blog posts) is that you want to answer a question. Sometimes it’s the question the audience is asking, the search query that leads the reader to your work. Sometimes it’s a question or answer interesting enough that the reader says, “I didn’t realize I wanted to know this… but you’ve hooked me.”
It’s also often said that you should know – and write for – your intended audience. Picture the person who comes to your site. What brought them to this post? What need do they have which you might meet? What will hold their attention?
Today, I’m struggling to follow that advice. My question is simple to ask, but difficult to answer, and entirely personal, so it may not be useful to most. My audience isn’t the hapless reader who found their way to this dreary corner of the Internet, either. Rather, the intended audience is me.
The question: Why am I not writing?
By that I mean, why am I not regularly putting in effort on the books I claim I want to write, the stories I’ve promised myself and others that I will publish? Why am I not cranking out the words that pile up into paragraphs that construct chapters that build books?
It’s not because I don’t care about writing, is it? I like writing. I like finding the “just right” word for what I mean, even if it’s often a struggle. I love it when I come up with a clever turn of phrase, even if it’s less frequent than I’d like. I care about the characters inhabiting my head, and I know the way their stories are meant to turn out, more or less, if I can ever download all my thoughts and dangling plot threads onto the blank screen.
The easy answer is I’m lazy.
I might play video games instead. In a video game, you’ve got a story handed to you – possibly even well-written – plus the power to interact with the world, and sometimes to even chart the course of events that save or destroy that world. You’ve got mechanics designed to flash and chirp when you hit milestones. You unlock new powers and abilities, or watch the progress of your experience bar as you conquer your foes and complete your tasks. All the reward centers of the brain are duped into feeling much the same as when you accomplish things in real life, but without that frustrating “work” part that comes with any goal that truly matters.
The easy answer isn’t often the true or full answer, though, is it?
Why am I lazy about writing? I can be disciplined in other areas; I can see the benefits of making lasting change and force myself to do it. Why not writing? Why not a sentence a day, little by little, “bird by bird” as Anne Lamott famously suggests? Small steps add up to big results eventually. Am I too lazy to write a sentence?
Clearly not. I’ve written a bunch of them here.
So why are the sentences about my characters and settings so much harder to put down on paper than my self-pity about struggling to write? Am I just trading one form of procrastination for another? “Oh, I know, I’ll WRITE about writing, and thus, kind of satisfy the goal.”
That’s probably more of what’s behind this than I want to admit. Thankfully, I’ll never post this.
Procrastination is usually birthed from fear or boredom, or so I’ve heard. What am I bored by? Is it that I’ve kind of already told myself the story by outlining the major plot points and character arcs, so it feels like there’s nothing new to discover? Is it that the only thing remaining is the hard work of fleshing out those outline points, and that’s not exciting?
Maybe.
No, it’s fear. At least, it’s fear more than boredom. Fear that there’s no point. Fear that what I’ll write isn’t worth the effort, because I already fear that what I’ve written isn’t up to par. Fear that there are too many flaws or holes in the plot I’ve laid down in my self-published stuff – so many that it’s going to take a ton of work to fix that before I can really move on to the next thing.
Fear that what I’m writing isn’t relatable, or that it’s so banal that it’s got nothing to say. I’m talking “The sky is blue and life is hard sometimes” level of obvious truth… if embedding some kind of truth or moral is even part of the consideration.
No one’s asking for a sermon, and if they were, I’d find them a much better preacher.
Fear that the plot “twists” are more like gentle curves. Fear that the characters are more cardboard than care-worthy. Fear that the vision in my head is far removed from the end result – one of the most basic fears of every creative. “I thought I could make it turn out better than it did.”
Fear that I already know all the answers to those fears, and that none of them are sufficient to kick me into motion.
“Well, you’ll get better by doing it.” Yes, I know, thank you.
“You only improve by putting in reps. One word after the next until it’s done.” Exactly. Simple yet profound.
“Whose standard are you holding yourself up to? You just have to do YOUR best.” That’s a relief.
“You have to love the process, because that’s where the growth happens.” Of course.
“You have to focus entirely on what you can control, which is writing the best you can.” Indeed. I agree completely. That’s the way forward.
And yet, once again, I tune out the whispers of my imaginary tenants — those whose voices were once a vivid clamor, those whose exploits were once the movies playing out in my mind whenever I closed my eyes.
If I asked them, I wonder if they would understand, or feel betrayed. Would they sigh knowingly with me and commiserate, or fold their arms across their chests and glare at me from across the dark room I’ve locked them in? One or two would get in my face about it — not surprisingly, I have no doubt which ones.
But I’m non-confrontational to a fault, even if the person I need to confront is myself.
Maybe especially then.
So I don’t ask them. And I usually don’t ask me either. It’s easier that way.
Maybe that’s the answer to the original question – the path of least resistance. The voices in my head can’t move a muscle, push a pen, or lift a finger to a keyboard… so I “win” by default. If you can call it winning.
Tomorrow there’s a Writer’s Hour at a library on one of the nearby bases. I plan to go. I’m excited about there being some kind of writer’s group, especially one I don’t have to lead or organize. I’m happy to pop in and smile at everyone, laugh with everyone, listen to the stories and the struggles, nod my head with the sage advice and whatever anyone’s willing to share because “I know how THAT feels…”
I know a bunch of us will probably have similar voices locked away inside, waiting for their turn to come to life on paper or a screen. I know I’m not alone in feeling the way I do.
I wonder if it will help. Maybe my characters wonder too. Then again, I doubt they’d read this. They probably already know the answer to the one question they’d ask.
This is something I prepared for our local writing group in case planned lessons didn’t use up the whole time we set aside for our meeting. One of the participants suggested talking about transitions between scenes and how to end scenes, and that’s an interesting part of how we craft stories.
