Hitting the Wall: Remedies for Writers Block

To tell the truth, this hasn’t happened to me in so long I’ve forgotten that I’m just as susceptible to writer’s block as anyone else. In fact, I didn’t even notice that I had come to a complete standstill — writing-wise — until someone asked me if I had “retired.” Well, in truth, writer’s block is like retirement, only with guilt. Lots of guilt, especially when this is how you earn your living. What to do? Here are some things I have tried and will now pass along to you, just in case you ever need them.

1. Clean up your office, top to bottom. File or pitch every piece of paper. Use Windex or Mr. Clean or Pledge on all surfaces. Vacuum or sweep or wash and wax the floor. Wash your keyboard. OK. Your universe is clean. Now, you can get to work.

2. No, not yet? The next trick is to remove distractions, which include all the things you have to do that are keeping you from doing what your really have to do, which is write. If it’s paying bills, pay them. If it’s laundry, do it all. If it’s calling your mother or designing a flyer or checking every piece of e-mail, get it all out of the way. After all, who can work with a mind that looks like a messy to-do list?

3. Still not ready? Acknowledge it, accept it, forget it. Unplug the computer. Take at least 24 hours off. Go for a walk or a bike ride. Take a nap. Take a bath. Meditate. Go to a movie. Read a trashy novel. Call your best friend. Work out. Go dancing. Eat ice cream or whatever you consider really sinful. But do not think about work.

4. Refreshed and ready to go yet? No? Enough of this nonsense. It’s time to get tough with yourself. This isn't a game, my friend; this is what you do. You’re a pro. You don’t wait for inspiration; you do what has to be done, when it has to be done. So, as the saying goes, just do it. Put on your most comfortable writing clothes; fix yourself a cup of coffee; turn off the phone; flex your fingers; and put them on the keys.

5. Now, write.

Follow the Bouncing E-mail

My daughters have been complaining about not receiving my e-mail attachments. Now, they tell me they are not even receiving my e-mails. They have a lot of company. My e-mails are bouncing back faster than I can hit “send” — well, my emails to anyone@charter.net, anyway. I had no idea how many people are on Charter. This is not good.

Nothing that involves the Internet is easy. It always has multiple steps, and this is no exception. I start by calling Charter, who tells me, “It’s not our fault. If your e-mail comes from your website, you will have to call your website host.” My website host says they can’t find anything wrong on their end; I should call Charter again. This gives me an instant stomachache.

Being technologically advanced, Charter has a female computer that tries to read my voice by asking me ridiculous questions to which there are no correct answers. Eventually, I give up and say “representative.” Wrong word. How about “operator”? Still wrong. “Agent?” Bingo.

Next step: the endless wait. Despite the fact that my call is important to them, I go into a loop that plays endless commercials for Charter, until a human being finally shows up and asks me for my PIN, which I don’t know. Somehow, he accepts one of the numbers I give him and tries to identify my problem. The agent gives up, says he will connect me with a supervisor, and puts me on perma-hold. The supervisor does not appear. Eventually, I am cut off.

This goes on for a while until I have a tantrum and actually get to speak to a real, live supervisor. I try to explain that all of my e-mails are coming back with an error message that indicates I’m sending SPAM. He suggests I forward the offending message (which one?) to postmaster@charter.net. "How can I do that if I can’t get through to Charter?" I ask. He prevails upon me to try. My e-mail bounces back. He gives me his private e-mail address and finally deduces that Charter doesn’t like my e-mail signature with its little ghost and links to my website, blogs, and twitter.

"Do my daughters really need my signature?" he asks. "Can I write the postmaster@charter.net from another e-mail address?" These suggestions are followed by a serious explanation of SPAM with which I am quite familiar, since a lot of it gets through, although, of course, not my little ghost logo or twitter link.

That whole procedure (four phone calls) takes over an hour, and I still haven’t begun to implement the supervisor’s multiple solutions. At the moment, I am too tired to even try. I only hope no one from Charter is expecting a reply to his or her e-mail message before tomorrow, or, perhaps, ever.

Stop the Background Music

My father used to dislike the word “bored.” So, just to be contrary, I had my boyfriend paint a sign that said in huge, mock-typewriter letters, “I am bored.” Today, as I was going on and on about my latest project — a PowerPoint presentation — my sister remarked, “Well, at least you’ll never be bored.” I guess as long as there are new subjects to write and new ways to write about them, she is right. I won’t be.

I fall into bed at night, or rather escape into it, just to stop working. Not that all those words on my computer screen are necessarily work related. Many of them are just busy-ness that pass for work but are really play. If I billed for every hour I sit there, hunched over my keyboard until my muscles scream, I would be a wealthy woman. The question is what do I actually write?

Well, there are e-mails; blog posts; “tweets” and postings to various other social networking sites; responses to comments on my blogs or website; articles for online article sites; other marketing-related “stuff”; replies to requests for information on coaching, editing, and ghostwriting; plans and handouts for teaching; some volunteer efforts; and notes to go with mailing labels for my books. Of course, none of that includes anything to do with my other life (what other life?). If there is time left over, I do actual work.

There is something amiss here. Once upon a time in another life, my husband walked in the front door of our apartment and was bowled over by a blaring stereo. “Bobbi,” he remarked (at the top of his lungs), “don’t you think the background music is a little too loud?” Well, yes, it was, and it is. All the things I spend prime time on (did I mention addictive reading?), added together, comprise the background music of my life. And they are taking a considerable chunk out of my waking hours.

Of course, they are not all a waste of time. One must market, and many of those activities are part of marketing. But many are not. If I can design something, even if it’s totally unnecessary, I’ll spend hours designing it. I will play on Photoshop. I will illustrate things that could well remain un-illustrated. You get the idea.

This begs the question: Why? I’ve been pondering the answer all evening, and I think I have figured it out. If I don’t keep my fingers and mind occupied every single moment, I’m afraid I’ll be bored.

I wonder if I should send this to my sister, who is unlikely to stumble on it if I don’t. But, first I have to proof it; then, I have to find some clip art to illustrate it; then, I have to post it on my blog; then, I have to send it. Whoops!

Technology Overload

We have a saying in our family: The one who dies with the most toys wins. Until recently, I didn’t even think I was a competitor; now, I’m sure I’m going to win.

It started with the new external hard drive, which I had to have because it spoke two languages: Mac and PC. Then, there was the ergonomic keyboard for the PC, since my fingers seem incapable of negotiating a standard laptop keyboard. And, of course, I had to have a universal wireless mouse of my own, despite the fact that there were mice in every drawer of every desk in two states.

The entire time I was in Florida, every time I made or received a phone call on my cell phone, I had to go outside to talk because my phone didn’t seem to like the house, especially the kitchen. My earpiece wouldn’t work at all, so I wore out my left ear smashing the phone up against it. Leslie finally took pity on me and gave me her old cell phone, but then she had to take me to the Sprint store to switch my phone number and contact list. I was happy as a clam, but what did I know? Apparently, a truly modern cell phone user is half naked without a Bluetooth permanently attached to his or her ear. Need I say more?

By now, three quarters of the world knows the saga of my new laptop. Really, it seemed perfect until I realized how incomplete I felt not being able to send e-mail or access the Internet while sitting in bed, which is about five feet away from my desk. “Why do you need wireless when you live in a closet?” Terry asked. My condo may be small, but it is not a closet. Besides, no one really needs wireless. It’s like diamonds. People have been known to live all their lives without diamonds. But the question is, are they really happy?

Such reasoning immediately sent me to Best Buy to inquire about a wireless modem. The inquiry led to the purchase, which led to the attempted installation, which led to the frustration, which led a totally unintelligible conversation with someone in India. I don’t know what he said, but it doesn’t matter because I am connected and can access the Internet from every room. What more could I possibly want, except maybe to figure out why I still can’t send and e-mail from any room?