Writer's Block

Ralph and Bill grabbed a booth near the back of the diner, where they wouldn’t be disturbed, ordered coffee, and began to tackle Bill’s problem.

“You sounded pretty urgent on the phone,” Ralph said. “What’s up?”

“I thought I needed some advice. I’ve been going nuts lately trying to figure this thing out.”

“What thing?”

“Let me put it this way,” Bill said. “Ever hear of a high diver who couldn’t dive?”

“No.”

“A skater who couldn’t skate?”

“No again.”

“How about a writer who couldn’t write?”

“Now that I’ve heard of. Don’t they have a name for that? Writer’s cramp--?”

“Writer’s block. I haven’t been able to come up with a decent idea for a story for months. It’s driving me crazy.”

“Hmm,” Ralph considered. “Well, I can understand your frustration at least. Guess it’s pretty common, eh?”

“So I understand, but knowing that isn’t much comfort.”

“What does it feel like?”

“It’s kind of hard to describe, a little like amnesia, I guess. Your imagination just doesn’t work. Nothing comes into your thoughts except what you’re looking at at the time, or remembering.”

“I see. But what do other people write about, if it’s not what they observe or remember?”

“As far as I can tell, they just make it up.”

“Out of thin air?”

“Yes, so it seems.”

“It just comes to them, just occurs to them, out of the blue, whenever they want it to, the inspiration for a story, or a novel?”

“No, not really. It’s usually prompted by an event: something someone says, something that happens. The writer reflects on it and the inspiration comes from that. Some people get inspired by listing things they’re interested in. Others, I’ve heard, play a game called ‘what if--?’”

“’What if--’what?”

“You know, what if a dentist worries he’s going bonkers and knows the statistics about dentists’ high suicide rate, but he can’t get out of his practise due to his bills and family needs, loans, people depending on him, etc. What’s he going to do to keep from becoming another statistic?”

“What if the sky really was falling?“Exactly. What would people do? What would happen?”

“And what made it happen?”

“Right.”

“It sounds to me like the ‘What if--?’ game is a pretty potent trigger for the imagination. But I take it you’ve tried it and didn’t like it, right?”

“That’s right. For me it doesn’t work very well.”

“Why not?”“I can come up with ideas easily enough, but they’re not stories I’d like to develop. It’s a personal thing, and again, it’s a little hard to explain, but let me put it this way: suppose I did write a story about that make-believe dentist. What would I need to do? First, I don’t know anything about dentists or their anxieties, so it would be pretty hard for me to identify with this guy’s mental state as he begins to deteriorate.”

“So you’d worry about credibility. But can’t you empathize with somebody who’s hovering over people’s open mouths, infections, rotten teeth and gums, blood and bone all day, day after day? causing all kinds of discomfort and strain despite his best efforts to prevent it? I mean, it’s a ‘mission impossible’ to help everyone who comes through the door, and save their teeth, from what I understand.”

“I guess so, but suppose I could describe his anxiety and stress, how do I know how to describe what he might do?”

“People under stress they can’t escape try all kinds of things short of killing themselves, don’t they? I mean, playing racquetball, jogging, going on a cruise--?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Say, you’ve got a better imagination than I do! Why don’t you write the story?”

“Me? No, not me, pal. I’m not a writer.”

“Well why not? I mean, everyone writes, right?”“I wouldn’t want to do it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just not something I’d like to do. It’s not me,” Ralph chuckled.

“I guess that’s my point. Not everything I might imagine would be what I would want to develop into a story, even if I could. I guess I’m looking for material I’m interested in saying, something
I relate to, that makes me feel something, that makes me laugh or cry or get goosebumps when I think about it. Something, I guess, that interests me.”

“Okay, I hear you. So why not list your interests till you hit on something you do want to write?”

“I’ve tried that, too. Easier said than done.”

“And why is that?”

“Because when I start listing my interests, I get bogged down in just writing about my memories and personal experiences, people and places I’ve known--I guess reality takes over. It doesn’t stimulate fictional images or scenes.”

Ralph paused for a long time. “You know what I think?” he said, looking Bill squarely in the eye.

“What?”

“I think you don’t want to write anything down because you’re afraid of it.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid of failure, of rejection, afraid some editors won’t like it, afraid you’re no damn good as a writer.”

Bill looked down and said nothing. “Maybe so,” he considered.

“You should write what interests you and not worry if somebody else won’t like it. If it interests you, chances are it will interest others, even if it doesn’t interest everybody. Editors are paid to know if it will interest their readers, and if it won’t, that’s no skin off of your teeth. You just keep sending it around until you find someone who thinks it’s something their readers will be interested in, and they’ll send you a check.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. What are you interested in writing about, by the way?” Ralph asked as they got up to leave.

"I’m not sure,” Bill said, “but I feel a lot better now about my chances of finding out. I should have seen it for myself.”

“You were probably too close to it.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Bill admitted. “Say, I thought you didn’t know that much about writing, you said. I’d say you know quite a bit. You sure you’re not a writer on the side?”

“No, I’m no writer. But it didn’t take much to see the answer to your problem. Sometimes you just have to get a different perspective.”

“Thanks a lot, Ralph,” Bill grinned. “Let me get the coffee, okay?”

“You got it.”