THE LITTLE DUTCH BOY'S GUIDE TO NOT WRITING

This summer, I put the finishing touches to a pair of novels that had been rolling around in the pockets of my mental overcoat like spare change. They're pretty good, I think. Of course, if I didn't think that, I wouldn't have mummified them in brown paper, tattooed them with stamps and sent them on that long uncertain journey to Editorville in the first place.

Next, I cranked out a few short stories for markets that had been patiently waiting for them all through my valiant struggle with the aforementioned novels, and I was pretty pleased with how they turned out. Then there were the interviews, reviews, nonfiction essays and sundry other tasks that demanded my time, not to mention family and friends waiting in the wings for me to burrow out of the deep dark hole that had claimed me all summer. That, I promised, wouldn't take much longer. The work was there to be done, and I was getting it done. In short, I had little to complain about.

Then everything came to a screeching halt.

The cursor on my computer screen seemed to be winking in mockery of this sudden, inexplicable dry spell. My head hurt; my throat was dry, and I could almost hear the bucket scratching at the bottom of the well from which my words had sprung all summer long.

Not to worry, I thought, even though it was hard not to worry, I'll just take the advice I give everyone else when they complain about this kind of thing. Which was: Don't let it consume you. Don't try so hard. Find distractions. This last was perhaps the easiest, for in my house, there are distractions aplenty. So, I went for walks, read some books, spent some more quality time with my wife and son than they're used to, played mindless video games, watched movies, caught up on email and web-wandering, took some pictures. In short, I did everything but write, and after about two weeks "vacation" from my own brain, I felt pretty damn good about myself and ready to show that vapid staring computer screen who the boss really was.

I sat, fingers poised above the keys, a big shit-eating grin on my face. And...

Nothing.

Nada.

Zilch. Not a friggin' word could I coax from my supposedly invigorated brain. Oh, the ideas and the words were still coming. In fact, after two weeks downtime, they'd piled themselves up against the dam wall and were tossing insults at the little Dutch boy and his hole-plugging finger. They were ready and willing to come exploding out, Dutch boy be-damned, but somewhere between my brain and that screen, something wasn't working.

But I wasn't worried. No, sir. Now I was just flat-out depressed. As I wandered aimlessly about the house, two pieces of wisdom kept running through my mind, taunting me with their implications. The first came from the movie Throw Momma from the Train, starring Billy Crystal and Danny Devito. (Yeah, I know. The words "wisdom" and "movie" aren't often heard in the same sentence these days). Crystal plays a writing teacher, and his send-off line at the end of every class was: "And remember: A writer writes...always."

Apparently not, Billy.

The second was a line I'd read many times and heard from the mouths of many professional writers. But the version that haunted me came from David Morrell: "Writing skills can atrophy over time. Writing can be unlearned."

Jesus.

That was all I needed, to wake up one morning, sit down at the computer and realize I couldn't write anymore, that I might never write again.

I don't mind telling you, the mere thought of that kept me awake for a week, kept me trying to write, and of course, the harder I tried, the more futile it seemed.

Even the ideas stopped coming, and while the crowd was still there shouldering the dam, the Dutch Boy had decided to put his finger to better use.

I sank into misery, and that in itself was scary, prompting all sorts of self-examination and cold clinical analysis. It also gave carte blanche to that detestable sneering voice we have to keep at bay as natural self-critics: Are you really that useless without writing? Maybe it's time to find a real job, sonny. Maybe this is your Big Hint that the world can get by just fine without your half-assed contributions to literature. Maybe you've run out of ink? What do you think? McDonalds, here I come? Hmm? Take your writing away from you, and what bloody good are you, Irish?

The most disconcerting thing about that voice is never being fully convinced anything it says isn't right on the money.

So there I was. Rock bottom. But as anyone who knows me can attest, I don't tolerate that kind of crap for long. I can't. I'm not wired that way. I don't like the thing I'm best at being threatened. I don't like my self-worth being questioned, particularly when I'm not entirely sure I don't agree with it. I don't like having to think about failure and what might happen next. So I gathered myself started thinking upward, inside of in and down.

Okay, so the spirit and the brain and the fingers were willing. Now I just had to drag this cumbersome meat sack o' mine back up to the light. But how?

Well, following my own advice to others hadn't worked. Turning to the 'Writer's Block & You" chapters in nonfiction instruction manuals wouldn't do any good (thanks Mr. Morrell), and calling other writers only reminded me of my own advice all over again: Read voraciously, watch a movie, seek distractions. Rinse, repeat.
No good. That had never worked for me (which is why I really should stop advising others to do it).
So, I decided to do what I recalled always doing on those thankfully rare occasions when my abilities went on strike.

I increased the pressure.

Rather than clamor to ease my workload when it was clear the engine had stalled, I took the opposite tack, and demanded more of it. I wrote to editors I'd asked to give me more time, and promised them stories within two weeks. I wrote to the director of an independent movie (based on one of my short stories) that's currently in post-production and told him I'd have his voiceover rewritten in about...let's say...two weeks. I wrote to the editor of a comic book press and told him I'd have his character bios to him in about...yep, you guessed it--a fortnight. I started accepting blurb and intro/afterword requests after putting them off all summer, and took on editing jobs I had told the authors I wouldn't be able to do until well into the fall.

As a result, as I write this, the dam is pretty crowded on both sides.

I guess the cure for the supposedly mythical Writer's Block is up to each writer as an individual to find. Use whatever works.

So did it work for me?

You've just read the answer.

The Dutch Boy now works at McDonalds.