Prone to a rather problematic strain of perfectionism that became pathological during graduate school–think Adrienne Monk crossed with a Soviet-era ladies’ swim coach–I used to pride myself on my ability to spend an entire evening polishing and honing the contours of an opening paragraph.
Even one-page essays–the kind I used to be able to shit out in my undergraduate sleep or dictate over the phone for my brother (who refused to read any novel beyond The Indian in The Cupboard)–became massive, week-long celebrations of their tortured opening sentences. “Nabokov’s persistent reference to the affective effect on the reader . . . ” That one once took me four days to create.
As time wore on, I became mired in an increasingly adamantine and esoteric wordscape. I took longer and longer to write even the most basic of papers. I lost touch with what I was actually trying to do–namely, write something that other people could read–and, instead, became fixated on creating a perfect, luminous document.
Within a matter of months, I retreated into a wordsmithing rapture and became problematically addicted to my own writing process and the vexed mental masturbation that accompanied it. I would spend days writing in my journal about how much I loved the Uni-Ball Roller Elite Series of gel-filled pens and my Bomber Jacket leather portfolio from The Levenger Catalogue, but I began to fail at actually producing a piece of usable text in “the real world.”
The first time it happened, I was able to beg off and get an extension. After all, my mom had just had a heart attack and my father had just been diagnosed with stage-four colon cancer. You’d have to be a heartless bastard not to excuse that double-whammy!
The second time it happened, I was scheduled to lead a three-hour graduate seminar based on a ten-page paper and a set of pre-circulated readings. At 2 a.m. the night before, I had exactly one page.
Eventually, I got to the point where I could produce no pages at all. I would just sit, paralyzed in a vast expanse of nothingness, listening to my own interior monologue: “How could you write this piece of crap you super-fucking idiot! Try that last sentence again. You can do a lot better than that.”
“OK,” my wise reader rightly asserts, “I get that you were blocked. But was it really an addiction? I mean, people get addicted to coke–not stuff that makes them feel like shit! Nobody gets addicted to writer’s block; it just happens!”
Mais, au contraire, mon fraire. Just as that embarrassing crush I once had on Shaun Cassidy demonstrates, addictions to negative things are always possible and, given the right cirumstances, can become culturally endemic.
Why do I know this? I know this because I am certain that if I polled 95% of the population right now, chances are they would not say, “I’m doing great! Fabulous. Never better. I’m 42, working 60 hours a week, and loving my life!”
No, most of us, I think, would admit to feeling like a version of shit–even if we couch it in politer language. And if we were really honest, we would admit that we are driving cars we don’t like, working at jobs we loathe, and buying the $14.95 chocolate fountain we don’t need at 3 a.m. the day after Thanksgiving on the small remainder left on the VISA card.
No, I think if we were really feeling good about ourselves, we might manage to do something more interesting with our lives–like solve the hunger crisis, build a vertical farm, or take the time to walk the dog without talking on the cell phone the whole time.
But instead, I think that most of us–myself fully included in this diatribe–are far more inclined to tap into our inner Angelina Jolie and, you know, cut ourselves just for the fuck of it. But, the problem with this cultural self-cutting, this negative addiction to feeling like shit, is that, over time, it creates a numbing situation where we unconsciously start to seek out shit-amplifying scenarios in a perverse attempt to feel more and more alive.
So, even though American Express already has our nuts in a vise with its rapidly escalating interest rate on the Blue Card, we begin to experiment with even higher levels of debt. Even though we know our coworker likes to explode about any trivial breakdown of the copier, we fail to alert the admin staff when the toner runs out and wait to see what happens. And, even though we know we shouldn’t flirt with our under-aged creative writing student and violate the “moral turpitude” clause in our teaching contract, we do it anyway just for the thrills, chills, and excitement.
In my view, we, as a human culture, have become a quieter version of Tyler Durden–the glycerin-manufacturing terrorist of Fight Club. We are mostly rubber-neckers who get our rocks off by setting train wrecks in motion and then watching everything blow up.
And for those of us who are writers, this trainwrecking often takes a very socially acceptable form and quite personal form called “writer’s block.”
For some, it starts out slowly and morphs into nothing more than inability to write except on deadline. For others, it gets over-engineered into a massive literary constipation that threatens to tank graduate careers, eliminate jobs, produce personal humiliation, and sever our connection to the one and only thing we truly love to do: write.
Looking back at my life, it is easy to see the unconscious need that created my own trainwreck of a blockage: I was bored to tears with everything. I was bored with my marriage. I was bored with my cats. I was bored with my muffin-top mid-section. And I was certainly bored with my graduate program that had totally failed to live up to my impossibly idealistic notions of what an Ivy League education ought to be: a kind of great mind sex where great ideas got discussed by great thinkers who drank copious amounts of espresso in wood-paneled rooms with paisley chairs.
It never once occurred to me that English graduate school was a rigorous and competitive job training program with a lot of other smart people who were willing to work way harder than I was at a field where no one, outside of its 2000 specialist-insiders, can understand it. And, rather than acting like an adult and modifying my massively stupid expectations that didn’t match reality, what did I decide to do to rectify the situation? I decided to create a little train wreck of writer’s block and watch what happened.
And when that minor blockage wasn’t enough of a fix for me, I upped the dose and became totally, massively, and awesomely blocked. And the intensely-negative, emotional rewards were rich: fear, anxiety, depression, panic, anger, disgust, guilt, and every other dark emotion you can dream up. They kept me dosed-up for years.
It was a gothic delight, and it was far easier than eliminating the cause of my boredom and dealing with the consequences of my addiction–a long path to recovery which has required getting a divorce, finding a new career, and reinventing myself as a lover while my ovaries approach the end of their shelf-life. But it’s been worth it.
However, lest I create panic in any of my loyal readers who see a shred of themselves in my story and fear that they, too, will need to do a massive life-overhaul–something like leaving their breadwinners to go forth into the STD-ridden world of Match.com–in order to cure their blockage, I want to assure them that there are plenty of less-drastic steps they can take to begin working with their negative addiction and regain some sense of release with respect to their writing.
Step #1: Notice when you feel bored but keep writing. This is not as easy as it might appear and is frequently undermined by trips to the refrigerator, object fetishization, errant surfing on the Internet, or begging your partner for sex.
Step #2: Realize when you are trying to set up a train wreck but don’t do it. Often, the easiest way to do this is to begin noticing other peoples’ train-wreck-inducing behavior–which is frequently appalling and much easier to detect than your own. Once you have become adept at spotting train-wrecks-at-large, turn your phenomenological gaze back home and notice when you are tempted to “spice” or “juice” things up. This often comes in the form of working too hard, starting new and useless projects, advising your children or friends about the ever-efficient ways in which they could be organizing their lives, or purchasing yet-another black cashmere sweater. At this point, become a total Reaganite and “Just say no!”
Step #3: Commit to stopping a runaway train in its tracks. While it’s easiest and best to stymie train wrecks before they begin, much of your rehabilitation will necessitate working with the train wrecks you already have in progress. These can be a bitch to stop, but it’s important to do so as they have the potential to derail both your life and the lives of those around you. Therefore, it’s important to commit yourself to detecting the potential for train wreck as early as possible and doing the unthinkable: throwing yourself in front of the train, refusing to budge, and accepting the fact that you may end up with major tracks on your backside. If you find yourself on a runaway express, deploy template statements such as these: “I really do hate to do this, but I am not able to make 500 tea sandwiches by Saturday” or “You know how much I love your mother and have supported her Children’s Project in the past, but my bipolar sister probably would not make a great addition to its board of directors.”
Step #4: Tap into a support group. After you have begun noticing your own train-wreck-making ability and ferret out the invasiveness of its fractal-like growth throughout most of your adult life, you might be tempted to spiral off the deep end. Because these revelations can be overwhelming, I encourage you to create a support group of other writers who are willing to do their own train-wrecking observations and provide support to you throughout this process. This often requires food, wine, and a group gathering at a writer’s home. (Make sure you DO NOT include any literary critics who have been tenured as they have, in effect, committed themselves to the biggest train wreck of all: a job in the Humanities.)
Step #5: Learn to live within a culture of train wrecking and keep writing. As you become sensitive to the train-wrecking way of life, you’ll soon see that the entire history of English literature–and, indeed, every other literature on the planet–is filled with nothing more train-wreck-inducing behavior. Humbert Humbert, Emma, Romeo & Juliet, the Wife of Bath–they are all train-wreckers par excellence! And we love them for it! As far back as you can go, all you’ll ever be able to see again are Adults Behaving Badly and Then Acting Surprised at the Consequences! As you will have surmised by this point, train wrecks are everywhere and, therefore, not really escapable. In fact, train wrecks are all around us and, therefore, need to be leveraged if they are to be survived. The best way to do this is to understand that train wrecks can be a great gift–often in the form of fresh, new material for your latest novel–provided you are not the one handcuffed behind the wheel and begging for Keanu Reeves to come to your rescue.