Blindfolded, But Writing

I have this typed journal I write in. I use Scrivener (of course), the most popular writers tool on any forum, and I started it last year. I had the idea that I was going to write — then writer’s block happened. So I decided perhaps it would be easier to journal, more reliable and consistent. “Paagh! I have folders for years and months, the text organized by date—and each month only has one journal entry. There you go, consistency!”

What it has done for me is make it less scary to write. I don’t know why, but I used to have real trouble just writing out thoughts, opinions, daydreams, anything that wasn’t a to-do list or work email. I think it’s just something so intimate and personal it terrified me. Like, I would be known if someone else read my writing, whether it was a story or a journal entry, it was just too close. A feeling I didn’t recognize as emotional avoidance until recently. It’s just that the idea of someone knowing me,  seeing me, feels like my body is an open nerve and their awareness is brushing it, painfully raw. I couldn’t let that happen.

But through the power of exposure therapy, I can write pretty comfortably. Look at me! Right now! Typing! Type type type typity type.

I still only journal about once a month, but it’s better than never. My creative writing is more elusive. I have been on this journey for about 4 years now, with plenty of stops and starts. I have lots of seeds of stories, but nothing that I can seem to finish. It’s usually the same stopping point - the inciting incident. Because there are so many options! It’s a smorgasbord of possibilities, how do I pick just one? And what does it mean for my story if I do?

And something about picking a storyline feels unnatural. I don’t want to build a story, I want to discover it. I want to write and be surprised about the words that come out of my character’s mouth, about where the story goes. I’m a reader at heart, and I want this to be living a story, not drafting one.

My biggest hurdle has been just leaving the writing alone long enough to get a rhythm. The white hot flash of inspiration will strike and I’ll fling out a scene. But when the frenzy is over, and I am stumped about what should happen, so I start to nitpick, to overthink. And that makes it so hard. To get back into it, because I took something small and delicate and poked and prodded and analyzed it until I lost what was there in the first place.

My usual solution when I have a problem is to buy something, a gadget or doodad, that can fix it. I looked at getting a typewriter to see if that could discourage my overthinking. Goddamn, are those things expensive. What gives? So I have tried something as low tech as it gets. I just put a piece of paper over my screen. I can’t see what I’m writing. It often means I have a million typos, but the flow is starting to come. It feels so silly—like I’m one of those horses with blinders on, trying to cross a scary stretch of country. But it fucking works!

Another thing that has worked for me is to listen to music that gets me in the zone. It has to have no lyrics, vocalizations are fine, but no words or at least not in a language I can remotely understand. The more vibey, the better. I particularly love meditation music, with humming and moaning. Or drums! Drums are great for a quick paced scene. I also get into instrumental covers of popular songs, like the Bridgerton series. Movie scores are a great option—unless I know them too well. (Looking at you, Lord of the Rings soundtrack.)

Lastly, I seem to write best in my sunroom. I try to write at my desk, or in bed, or at the kitchen counter. But I think all of those places are associated with some role I serve in my life. Work, partner, mother. But the sunroom can really only be a sunroom. Nothing to do out here but sit, and write.

All this is to say that I’ve been writing for a few years now, but am only just starting to feel like a writer. Like it doesn’t scare me now, but is a joyous thing, to have fun and play at. It hasn’t been consistent or easy, but not giving up has led to real progress—if not in my word count, then at least in how I feel about writing. So if you’re out there, struggling to write, or wondering if you’re allowed to call yourself a writer yet—hi, me too. But I’m learning that showing up counts. That it’s okay to go slow, to get stuck, to come back anyway. The words don’t always pour out, but they do come. And when they do, it’s magic.

Here’s to more sunroom mornings, messy drafts, and typing with a paper over the screen. Let’s keep going.