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Sep. 19th, 2005 11:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
icarusI don't believe in writer's block technically. I believe that the phrase "writer's block" covers a variety of different--and more specific--obstacles that cause one to struggle with writing. The primary versions of writer's block are:
- Distraction. One has RL problems that drain away energy for writing, leaving one's fics high and dry.
Cure: shift your focus for a while on just what's fun for you. Also, use notebooks. Scribble the ideas for fics as they arise for later use, don't try to squeeze them out now.
- Low confidence or the "I suck" syndrome, which saps creative energy by causing one to over-think stories, judging them harshly as they struggle to survive under the hot blaze of self-criticism. Often the result of internalized harsh criticism from elsewhere.
Cure: listen to feedback from someone other than yourself - a trusted beta perhaps? - because right now you can't be fair.
- Creative exhaustion, or the "blood from a stone" syndrome. Often afflicts those who write for their jobs; they've nothing left for their fiction no matter how hard they squeeze.
Cure: write short pieces, drabbles. Shift your focus to what's fun for you.
- Creative low tide. Creativity comes in waves: there are high tides and low tides. Low tide is especially frustrating after a busy period.
Cure: keep writing, don't push yourself, just write what's there. If your output's down for a while that's okay. Or if you need to produce, try the Nanowrimo method -- just give yourself a word count goal daily, nevermind quality. You'll be surprised at what comes out.
- Plateaus. You've been doing the same thing forever and you know you're in a rut, haven't gotten out of it and yet can't get excited about fics.
Cure: challenges. Join one. Or issue one in your LJ.
- Steep slopes. You're trying something new and of course it's harder than what you've written a million times before (this often leads to "I suck" syndrome).
Cure: honest feedback/handholding from a trusted beta. Also, go deeper into what you're writing, surround yourself with it. Research related material when you have time (writing war-fic? Research weapons), keep your notebook or whatever you use handy for new ideas. Watch related movies. The more absorbed you are in your new project the less time you have to compare it to what comes easy.
- The rusty hinge. You haven't written in a while for one reason or another, and yet think that you're going to leap in and be just as good as that moment you polished the last two lines of your novel.
Cure: write what's there and move on; just go for volume until you've loosened up a bit. An athelete has to stretch first - so do you. I recommend challenges again, because you can always convince yourself it was awkward because of the Dobby/Filch pairing, and they do make you stretch. What you want to avoid is comparing your current writing to your old writing. No matter what, you've changed so your writing will have changed.
- Force feeding. Your creative ideas are going left, but what you've promised or have to do is in the opposite direction, or worse, something you hate. This can stall both what have to do and what you want to do.
Cure: this one's new to me, I'm in the middle of it now, and I have no cure at present.
There are more, I'm sure.
Usually several of these hit at the same time leading to a predictable slow-down or halt in one's writing. In my case I've been working on the Beg Me For It soundtrack because I had RL issues, creative exhaustion from writing for my job this summer, the "I suck" syndrome stemming from some harsh criticism, then force feeding and pressure to finish one story alongside more criticism about my writing choices that stalled the Percy/Snape and Lucius Gen I was working on. This all hit in the same two-week period.
I haven't been able to write for nearly a month. I ran into my critic the other day. He looked really guilty and scurried. Uhn-hunh. People who know they were fair and reasonable don't scurry.
So I'm attempting a cure: just write what I enjoy and what comes easily to hand.
The Price of War
By Icarus
Harry plastered himself against the wall as an unshaven exhausted looking man lead a unicorn through the narrow hallways at St. Mungo's, its head drooping. Next to Harry, Ron stared after it. "Is this St. Mungo's or a veterinarian's?"
The man swiveled. "Don't talk to my daughter like that!"
He turned to the unicorn, patting its head. "There, there, Elsie. No one thinks you're a horse… the magical reversal blokes, they'll figure this out. Would you like another sugar cube?" The unicorn whinnied, nose burrowing into his hand. Hermione gave a cringing Ron her most reproving look.
They trailed behind Mrs. Weasley and Arthur with the rest of the Weasley family, separating as a mummy shuffled between them. Ron didn't give it a backward glance.
Harry never liked visiting the hospital.
Directly ahead, the twins in matching orange jackets were uncharacteristically silent. Bill's shoulders in front of Harry were set in grim determination. In the lead, Arthur's face was drawn and as white as a sheet. He seemed a great deal older to Harry. They paused at a doorway and waited for Harry, Ron and Hermione to catch up. The sign on the door read: "Magical Reversal – Horrific Trauma Ward." Molly paused, lifting her chin as she took a deep breath, then pushed the door open with a palm.
The room was brightly lit with green floors and green walls. It had nine or ten metal beds in neat rows, six of which were occupied. To Harry's right, a woman in a fluffy pink dressing gown and curlers announced: "I must let the birdies go, that's right, that's right." Several of the other patients were asleep, empty potion flasks still smoking on their bed tables. In the far left hand corner a makeshift curtain of sheets was half-drawn around a white bed. The familiar red hair resting on a large pillow only made Percy's face seem depressingly pale in comparison. He seemed smaller than Harry recalled, empty of that irritating personality that demanded everyone's attention.
Harry was relieved to see he was asleep. He remembered Crouch's disjointed babbling under Imperius and didn't want to hear Percy ramble about reports to the thin air. Thinking of Voldemort, Harry clutched at the empty space in his pocket, wishing he had his wand. But this was a locked ward where the patients were a danger to themselves: no weapons allowed.
Percy already had a visitor. A young sandy-haired man in Ministry robes and a wilted wizard's cap sat on a stool beside his bed. As the door clacked shut, he glanced over his shoulder at them, and stood, releasing Percy's hand. It fell limp to the coverlet. Percy didn't stir.
"Do you –- do they say if he'll be all right?" The young man had round blue eyes and his voice was soft and rather meek. He seemed to remember his hat and swept it off his head hurriedly, crumpling it in his hands. "They –- they won't tell me anything. Not family you see. You are family? I mean, the resemblance is rather…." He trailed off with a nervous little laugh.
There was an awkward silence as the Weasleys stared at him.
"I'm, uh, I guess he didn't tell you about me, which he wouldn't I suppose." He fumbled with the wizard's cap again, then suddenly offered his outstretched hand to Arthur, taking a few steps forward. Arthur shook it, his face bewildered. "I'm—I'm Jeremiah, a friend of Percy's. Please… tell me how he is," he asked, his brow furrowed.
"Percy has friends?" Fred asked with a little snort of disbelief.
"There's no accounting for taste," George murmured.
"Out," Molly said. The twins winced, their shoulders hunched, but her eyes were still fixed on the stranger. "Get away from my son, immediately."
Aghast, everyone turned to stare at her. But Arthur's hands had dropped to his sides, his expression one of dawning understanding. Bill strangely enough seemed unsurprised at the outburst.
"Birdies, Owl post… it's important, I must warn them…." The woman in the pink bathrobe said. "You-Know-Who was here…."
The young man's small mouth opened and closed. Then he dipped his head in defeat. "I—if you could just tell me how he is…."
"Out!" Molly's voice trembled. She pointed at the door.
Harry and Hermione exchanged puzzled glances, and Ron's mouth hung open like fish's. The young man shrank from her as he picked up a black valise that rested next to Percy's bed, saying, "I guess I'll be going then, late for work…heh…about two days late, but they've been sending it to me here." There were in fact stacks of papers on Percy's bedside, but the young man left them as he fled. Arthur's hand lifted and then dropped to his side as the door shut behind him.
There was a pregnant pause, then Molly made her way to Percy's bedside, sinking into the stool the young man had vacated. Bill turned and strode after Percy's friend.
Hermione tugged Harry's sleeve as she started to follow Bill. "Come on," she whispered, "Percy will still be here later." With curious glances Harry and Ron obeyed.
Bill was already halfway down the bustling hall. "Wait!" he called, waving.
Several Medi-Witches turned with irritated looks.
Jeremiah had stopped at the elevators, trapped. He was obviously pretending to not hear Bill, staring up at the dial and bouncing a little on the balls of his feet as if urging it to move faster. But the arrow remained stubbornly pointed at the number twelve and didn't budge.
"Wait," Bill breathed as he caught up. "You're Percy's friend."
Jeremiah's gaze took Bill in from head to toe, his glance veering around the frightening scars on Bill's face. "Um. Yes." His grip tightened on the valise.
"It's bad," Bill said bluntly, getting it all out in one breath. "The healer says it's bad." Jeremiah paled but he gazed up at Bill eagerly, absorbing the news with every fiber. "They had him under Imperius for who knows how long, possibly since Fudge—-and there were no bruises."
There was an intake of breath from Jeremiah at this, and Bill nodded knowingly. "Yeah. He never fought it. It was probably cast by someone he trusted." Bill sighed, eyes saddened. "It's a worst-case scenario."
"Oh," Jeremiah said, staring at the floor. "Can they--?"
"They're doing all they can, but anyone can see they're overwhelmed."
Jeremiah nodded, still looking at the floor. He glanced up at Bill trustingly. "I tried to get him moved to a private room, but I'm not related you see." His voice betrayed a note of frustration.
"You're a pure-blood?" The corner of Bill's mouth quirked.
"I'm a Stodgemore," he corrected and straightened, looking down his nose at Bill who was actually a bit taller. It was the first sign of backbone Harry had yet seen from him, though the name meant nothing as far he was concerned. But Ron's eyebrows raised.
Bill chuckled. "Figures."
Jeremiah frowned a little at that, but waved it off with a gesture and continued to vent his frustration. "I could easily bring in a specialist but they won't let me!"
The elevator door slid open behind him, then closed, ignored. Bill cast a glance over his shoulder, back down the hall. "Talk to dad, not mum. He'll be reasonable."
"Oh. Um. Percy wouldn't like my talking to his father," Jeremiah said doubtfully.
"Percy's in no position to argue," Bill said.
"He'll be very cross with me when he wakes," Jeremiah argued.
"Let's hope so."
The elevator doors opened again and several healers stepped off, a patient frozen by Mobilicorpus floating between them. Bill and Jeremiah separated, stepping aside as the group passed between them. Ron mouthed to Hermione, Who is this bloke?
As the doctors passed Jeremiah chewed his lower lip, worrying it. "Okay."
"Mum will be gone at eight; she has—-a meeting." None of them discussed Order business in public. "But dad will still be here."
Jeremiah gazed up at Bill. "Will he like me? Percy's… your dad?"
"I only said he'd be reasonable," Bill cautioned.
Jeremiah gave a small sad nod.
"Look, I have to go," Bill said, gesturing down the hall in the general direction of Percy's ward.
Jeremiah pressed the button for the elevator again. "I'll get him a private room," he said confidently, not bothering to look in Bill's direction. "They have more reasonable visiting hours. When he wakes, I don't want to listen to him go on and on about that green paint. Percy can't have so much as a potted plant out of place."
The brass elevator doors slid open. The corner of Bill's mouth quirked. "I promise we won't bring any potted plants…."
Jeremiah stepped into the elevator, choosing his floor. He gave a painful wan smile.
"Hey. Jeremiah," Bill said suddenly, jamming his foot in the door to bounce them back open. "Whatever dad says later... you're all right."
- Distraction. One has RL problems that drain away energy for writing, leaving one's fics high and dry.
Cure: shift your focus for a while on just what's fun for you. Also, use notebooks. Scribble the ideas for fics as they arise for later use, don't try to squeeze them out now.
- Low confidence or the "I suck" syndrome, which saps creative energy by causing one to over-think stories, judging them harshly as they struggle to survive under the hot blaze of self-criticism. Often the result of internalized harsh criticism from elsewhere.
Cure: listen to feedback from someone other than yourself - a trusted beta perhaps? - because right now you can't be fair.
- Creative exhaustion, or the "blood from a stone" syndrome. Often afflicts those who write for their jobs; they've nothing left for their fiction no matter how hard they squeeze.
Cure: write short pieces, drabbles. Shift your focus to what's fun for you.
- Creative low tide. Creativity comes in waves: there are high tides and low tides. Low tide is especially frustrating after a busy period.
Cure: keep writing, don't push yourself, just write what's there. If your output's down for a while that's okay. Or if you need to produce, try the Nanowrimo method -- just give yourself a word count goal daily, nevermind quality. You'll be surprised at what comes out.
- Plateaus. You've been doing the same thing forever and you know you're in a rut, haven't gotten out of it and yet can't get excited about fics.
Cure: challenges. Join one. Or issue one in your LJ.
- Steep slopes. You're trying something new and of course it's harder than what you've written a million times before (this often leads to "I suck" syndrome).
Cure: honest feedback/handholding from a trusted beta. Also, go deeper into what you're writing, surround yourself with it. Research related material when you have time (writing war-fic? Research weapons), keep your notebook or whatever you use handy for new ideas. Watch related movies. The more absorbed you are in your new project the less time you have to compare it to what comes easy.
- The rusty hinge. You haven't written in a while for one reason or another, and yet think that you're going to leap in and be just as good as that moment you polished the last two lines of your novel.
Cure: write what's there and move on; just go for volume until you've loosened up a bit. An athelete has to stretch first - so do you. I recommend challenges again, because you can always convince yourself it was awkward because of the Dobby/Filch pairing, and they do make you stretch. What you want to avoid is comparing your current writing to your old writing. No matter what, you've changed so your writing will have changed.
- Force feeding. Your creative ideas are going left, but what you've promised or have to do is in the opposite direction, or worse, something you hate. This can stall both what have to do and what you want to do.
Cure: this one's new to me, I'm in the middle of it now, and I have no cure at present.
There are more, I'm sure.
Usually several of these hit at the same time leading to a predictable slow-down or halt in one's writing. In my case I've been working on the Beg Me For It soundtrack because I had RL issues, creative exhaustion from writing for my job this summer, the "I suck" syndrome stemming from some harsh criticism, then force feeding and pressure to finish one story alongside more criticism about my writing choices that stalled the Percy/Snape and Lucius Gen I was working on. This all hit in the same two-week period.
I haven't been able to write for nearly a month. I ran into my critic the other day. He looked really guilty and scurried. Uhn-hunh. People who know they were fair and reasonable don't scurry.
So I'm attempting a cure: just write what I enjoy and what comes easily to hand.
The Price of War
By Icarus
Harry plastered himself against the wall as an unshaven exhausted looking man lead a unicorn through the narrow hallways at St. Mungo's, its head drooping. Next to Harry, Ron stared after it. "Is this St. Mungo's or a veterinarian's?"
The man swiveled. "Don't talk to my daughter like that!"
He turned to the unicorn, patting its head. "There, there, Elsie. No one thinks you're a horse… the magical reversal blokes, they'll figure this out. Would you like another sugar cube?" The unicorn whinnied, nose burrowing into his hand. Hermione gave a cringing Ron her most reproving look.
They trailed behind Mrs. Weasley and Arthur with the rest of the Weasley family, separating as a mummy shuffled between them. Ron didn't give it a backward glance.
Harry never liked visiting the hospital.
Directly ahead, the twins in matching orange jackets were uncharacteristically silent. Bill's shoulders in front of Harry were set in grim determination. In the lead, Arthur's face was drawn and as white as a sheet. He seemed a great deal older to Harry. They paused at a doorway and waited for Harry, Ron and Hermione to catch up. The sign on the door read: "Magical Reversal – Horrific Trauma Ward." Molly paused, lifting her chin as she took a deep breath, then pushed the door open with a palm.
The room was brightly lit with green floors and green walls. It had nine or ten metal beds in neat rows, six of which were occupied. To Harry's right, a woman in a fluffy pink dressing gown and curlers announced: "I must let the birdies go, that's right, that's right." Several of the other patients were asleep, empty potion flasks still smoking on their bed tables. In the far left hand corner a makeshift curtain of sheets was half-drawn around a white bed. The familiar red hair resting on a large pillow only made Percy's face seem depressingly pale in comparison. He seemed smaller than Harry recalled, empty of that irritating personality that demanded everyone's attention.
Harry was relieved to see he was asleep. He remembered Crouch's disjointed babbling under Imperius and didn't want to hear Percy ramble about reports to the thin air. Thinking of Voldemort, Harry clutched at the empty space in his pocket, wishing he had his wand. But this was a locked ward where the patients were a danger to themselves: no weapons allowed.
Percy already had a visitor. A young sandy-haired man in Ministry robes and a wilted wizard's cap sat on a stool beside his bed. As the door clacked shut, he glanced over his shoulder at them, and stood, releasing Percy's hand. It fell limp to the coverlet. Percy didn't stir.
"Do you –- do they say if he'll be all right?" The young man had round blue eyes and his voice was soft and rather meek. He seemed to remember his hat and swept it off his head hurriedly, crumpling it in his hands. "They –- they won't tell me anything. Not family you see. You are family? I mean, the resemblance is rather…." He trailed off with a nervous little laugh.
There was an awkward silence as the Weasleys stared at him.
"I'm, uh, I guess he didn't tell you about me, which he wouldn't I suppose." He fumbled with the wizard's cap again, then suddenly offered his outstretched hand to Arthur, taking a few steps forward. Arthur shook it, his face bewildered. "I'm—I'm Jeremiah, a friend of Percy's. Please… tell me how he is," he asked, his brow furrowed.
"Percy has friends?" Fred asked with a little snort of disbelief.
"There's no accounting for taste," George murmured.
"Out," Molly said. The twins winced, their shoulders hunched, but her eyes were still fixed on the stranger. "Get away from my son, immediately."
Aghast, everyone turned to stare at her. But Arthur's hands had dropped to his sides, his expression one of dawning understanding. Bill strangely enough seemed unsurprised at the outburst.
"Birdies, Owl post… it's important, I must warn them…." The woman in the pink bathrobe said. "You-Know-Who was here…."
The young man's small mouth opened and closed. Then he dipped his head in defeat. "I—if you could just tell me how he is…."
"Out!" Molly's voice trembled. She pointed at the door.
Harry and Hermione exchanged puzzled glances, and Ron's mouth hung open like fish's. The young man shrank from her as he picked up a black valise that rested next to Percy's bed, saying, "I guess I'll be going then, late for work…heh…about two days late, but they've been sending it to me here." There were in fact stacks of papers on Percy's bedside, but the young man left them as he fled. Arthur's hand lifted and then dropped to his side as the door shut behind him.
There was a pregnant pause, then Molly made her way to Percy's bedside, sinking into the stool the young man had vacated. Bill turned and strode after Percy's friend.
Hermione tugged Harry's sleeve as she started to follow Bill. "Come on," she whispered, "Percy will still be here later." With curious glances Harry and Ron obeyed.
Bill was already halfway down the bustling hall. "Wait!" he called, waving.
Several Medi-Witches turned with irritated looks.
Jeremiah had stopped at the elevators, trapped. He was obviously pretending to not hear Bill, staring up at the dial and bouncing a little on the balls of his feet as if urging it to move faster. But the arrow remained stubbornly pointed at the number twelve and didn't budge.
"Wait," Bill breathed as he caught up. "You're Percy's friend."
Jeremiah's gaze took Bill in from head to toe, his glance veering around the frightening scars on Bill's face. "Um. Yes." His grip tightened on the valise.
"It's bad," Bill said bluntly, getting it all out in one breath. "The healer says it's bad." Jeremiah paled but he gazed up at Bill eagerly, absorbing the news with every fiber. "They had him under Imperius for who knows how long, possibly since Fudge—-and there were no bruises."
There was an intake of breath from Jeremiah at this, and Bill nodded knowingly. "Yeah. He never fought it. It was probably cast by someone he trusted." Bill sighed, eyes saddened. "It's a worst-case scenario."
"Oh," Jeremiah said, staring at the floor. "Can they--?"
"They're doing all they can, but anyone can see they're overwhelmed."
Jeremiah nodded, still looking at the floor. He glanced up at Bill trustingly. "I tried to get him moved to a private room, but I'm not related you see." His voice betrayed a note of frustration.
"You're a pure-blood?" The corner of Bill's mouth quirked.
"I'm a Stodgemore," he corrected and straightened, looking down his nose at Bill who was actually a bit taller. It was the first sign of backbone Harry had yet seen from him, though the name meant nothing as far he was concerned. But Ron's eyebrows raised.
Bill chuckled. "Figures."
Jeremiah frowned a little at that, but waved it off with a gesture and continued to vent his frustration. "I could easily bring in a specialist but they won't let me!"
The elevator door slid open behind him, then closed, ignored. Bill cast a glance over his shoulder, back down the hall. "Talk to dad, not mum. He'll be reasonable."
"Oh. Um. Percy wouldn't like my talking to his father," Jeremiah said doubtfully.
"Percy's in no position to argue," Bill said.
"He'll be very cross with me when he wakes," Jeremiah argued.
"Let's hope so."
The elevator doors opened again and several healers stepped off, a patient frozen by Mobilicorpus floating between them. Bill and Jeremiah separated, stepping aside as the group passed between them. Ron mouthed to Hermione, Who is this bloke?
As the doctors passed Jeremiah chewed his lower lip, worrying it. "Okay."
"Mum will be gone at eight; she has—-a meeting." None of them discussed Order business in public. "But dad will still be here."
Jeremiah gazed up at Bill. "Will he like me? Percy's… your dad?"
"I only said he'd be reasonable," Bill cautioned.
Jeremiah gave a small sad nod.
"Look, I have to go," Bill said, gesturing down the hall in the general direction of Percy's ward.
Jeremiah pressed the button for the elevator again. "I'll get him a private room," he said confidently, not bothering to look in Bill's direction. "They have more reasonable visiting hours. When he wakes, I don't want to listen to him go on and on about that green paint. Percy can't have so much as a potted plant out of place."
The brass elevator doors slid open. The corner of Bill's mouth quirked. "I promise we won't bring any potted plants…."
Jeremiah stepped into the elevator, choosing his floor. He gave a painful wan smile.
"Hey. Jeremiah," Bill said suddenly, jamming his foot in the door to bounce them back open. "Whatever dad says later... you're all right."
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no subject
Date: 2005-09-20 04:07 pm (UTC)Write what you enjoy is definitely good advice. One of the smartest things I have heard recently is someone on my LJ who remarked that one reason so many WIP's get abandoned is the author gets so much pressure to take the plot in a particular direction. If you listen to that pressure, you could end up going in a direction you don't want to go in, and then you lose interest in your own work. Not that I'm saying that has happened to you (no idea if it has) but I think "write what you enjoy" would pre-empt that sort of thing from happening.
I'm working very hard to write just what I enjoy so my creative juices don't dry up.