Recently I was cruelly asked to write about my writing style by my friend Laurie. She told me to write a paragraph or so, which seemed to be woefully truncated for all the things about writing that I wanted to put to paper. I agonized over which clever idea I wanted to pursue, to the point that I wound up staring at a blank page for hours on end.
Well, it was blank after I typed in Mozart’s quote, “I write as a sow piddles.“ I finally scribbled off some half-baked answers and sent them to Laurie.
So in honor of my writing block I am reposting something I wrote years ago about Writer’s Block.
And yes, this method works for me. Maybe it will for you. And thank you Laurie, for forcing me to write. You are lovingly cruel.
As a way to get over “writer’s block,” I tend to favor a little physical exercise, especially going out and shooting some hoops. In my college Psych class, I learned a little about the schematics of the human brain. How one particular area is responsible for a particular ability- such as writing- and how that area can become overloaded. I figure that if this area is overwhelmed with electrical impulses from the creative process, than it will flood, like an engine that has too much fuel. In order to draw that fuel out of the writing area, I try to focus that energy on the polar end of my psyche- repetitious physical movement, which requires no writing at all.
Then, there on the blacktop, in the middle of a shot, the missing word, phrase, or idea will come to me. Usually, I should say, because there is a ‘Catch-22′ to my cure for writer’s block. If you are familiar with basketball terminology- it is more of a ‘Catch-and-Shoot’ than a Catch-22, really.
As I start to loosen up on the court, my imagination does, too. With my mind drifting away from whatever problem that left me staring at the blank page, I sometimes forget my project all together. One minute I’m a budding Nelson Algren at the typewriter; next, I’m former Boston Celtic great Cedric “Cornbread” Maxwell, standing at the free-throw line- trying to ice the dreaded Philadelphia 76ers in Game Seven of the Eastern Conference Finals!
Jess Kersey- who’s refereeing the game- smiles the thinnest of smiles, and waits to toss me the ball. Everybody knows I have to go through the ritual first. I make a couple of imaginary dribbles with an imaginary basketball…three…four…five! Then, pantomiming the entire act of hoisting the ball up, aim and release it towards the hoop.
The shot is perfect. It always is.
Jess tosses the ball to me, Andrew Toney walks into my left-side peripheral vision, and snarls something’ nasty ’bout my momma. But, I don’t pay him any attention; same with Dr. J and Darryl Dawkins– both glaring at me from their spots just outside the paint. I see their mouths move, but it is muffled in a gauzy roar. Johnny Most, the voice of the Celtics- a man who forgot to take his announcers earpiece out after the last game of the season and thought he went deaf for almost a year!- is shouting in his raspy, signature delivery, “Cornbread Maxwell is at the charity stripe…ONE TO TIE!…TWO TO WIN!!!“
The first shot bounces once, goes straight up, then through the net. Tie game. I know the second one is good as soon as it leaves my hands, the silence in Boston Garden creating a vacuum in which you can hear not only the ball zipping through the twine, but the sound of a million Philly hearts breaking. Mo Cheeks starts to hang his head, Andrew Toney looks incredulous. Dr. J turns to head to the locker room and immortality. Only Darryl Dawkins says something to me, but I can’t repeat what rumbled forth from the man known as Chocolate Thunder.
So, I pick up the ball and head back inside the house, sensing the spark of creativity dropping in like the gentle arc of Cornbread Maxwell’s shot. Just like Cornbread, I needed to go through the ritual first. It is the natural spark to the creative fire.
2 Comments
October 10, 2007 at 4:05 am
Gee, you’re good.
And yeah, I’m a bitch.
October 10, 2007 at 6:31 pm
If by ‘bitch’ you mean ‘tremendously talented and inspiring friend’ then I concur.
Otherwise I say “No friggin’ way.”