I don't know about you, but when I get writer's block, there is no romantic elegance to it. It's a brutal, pathetic, disgraceful affair, and frankly, the only reason why I decided to share this is out of the selfish expectation that, by publishing this article, I will unblock myself a little.
Everything was going so well, perhaps too well
Despite never having had as much work as I have now, I had found a mind-bending rhythm of getting up daily at 4am to write. I'd just completed a promising pilot, been working hard at my substack and even added a pixel vanity checkmark next to my name.
And then suddenly: nothing. Done. Dead. Truly check-marked.
It's not that I'm not writing; I am, for hours every day. It's that I’m now crippled with the most vicious self-critic, and for the life of me, not a single sentence I write seems meaningful enough to be shared anymore.
I now have about ten unfinished and stranded blog posts, a novel written and rewritten to the point where my computer desktop only consists of Scrivener files named v15, v15final, v15finalfuckyoufinal, and so on... I also have two new screenplay ideas—but every time I touch any of these, I experience a form of mental breakdown.
Is inspiration gone? Is pleasure in the trash bin with all the discarded drafts? Am I doomed to become an embittered, barren old man?
I need help
I know the obvious answer: just take a break. But it doesn’t really work like that with me. For a start, I’m a workaholic; I must work, if I don’t I get even worse. And second, if someone falls from a horse, the best practice is to make them ride again straight away, not to take a break. Right?
I’m also coming out of such a burst of inspiration that it’s really disturbing. I have almost too many irons in the fire; maybe that’s the problem and I’m confused? It’s really nice not to put all your eggs in one basket, but it seems like there comes a point where too many projects just become a tangle.
It’s a shame, though, because I’m still stuck in that 4am rut, but that blessed time before the world actually wakes up is becoming tantalising. My only comfort is knowing that this is a common experience, and that, as always, this too will pass.
Sometimes you just have to let it go, I suppose.
Yet time is ticking…
Ultimately, the trigger for me is my fear of numbers, of time passing, and my foolish clinging to earthly goals and targets while, clearly, my soul just wants to potter about.
But one can also spend a lifetime pottering about... And by the way, there is nothing wrong with that; but I, I can’t. I cherish my own pointless goals; I enjoy empire-building and gaming at the grand table of vanities.
It’s so irritating to be profoundly aware of the pointlessness of anxiety while also knowing that this awareness just makes it worse... How I wish I believed in God sometimes.
My quest for meaning is nihilistic in the sense that I know I’m just looking for a glorious and vain way to distract myself on the way to my grave. Yet, I do need it physically. These moments of distraction are often very sentimental and therefore worth the effort. Although I despise nihilism as an idea, I can’t find a genuine way out of it, aside from the shared act of creation.
If writer’s block doesn’t matter, then nothing does, and if nothing does, I’m defeated; therefore, it’s the most important thing in the world right now. On the scale of pointless, it’s rather low.
I do realize that my outlook might not appear like the most cheerful, but actually, I can argue against this. I think I have a positive outlook on the void. I’m pro taking the void in stride and enjoying the ride; I’m pro embracing it and facing up to it, and personally, I think this attitude is more positive than pretending that everything is so full of meaning at all times.
Well… Until I can’t distract myself, that is. Until writer’s block.
A religious act?
I think the act of creation has replaced, in my life, the existence of God. I need that meditation of sorts, that sacred transformation of the pointless into a connection. This joint understanding makes life worth living somehow.
Shared, disarmed admission of pointlessness collapses nihilism, and ultimately I yearn for this.
To me, writing is like a daily sacrament celebrating life and death. That’s why when things block, I like to go way over the top in my reaction to it. This is not about low productivity or artistic frustration: it’s about being a monk deprived of prayer and experiencing nothing but yearning (and sexual frustration).
Unblocking
I do believe that sometimes the only way to tackle complicated problems is to divide them and start chipping away. That’s why I love blogging. Pressing publish on this essay, as dissatisfied as I am with it, will be a small dent in the monolith of my inner critic.
In fact, I’ve had a little fun writing this, somewhat, so maybe I’m done? Maybe a few of you will even connect with what I’m saying, and so the communion will happen, and my appetite for meaning will be satiated?
Maybe the wave of inspiration will smash back onto me, and I will be able to get drunk on it again, to ride it again and again, until I’m no more? How I yearn for it…
***
Well, as you can imagine, this article itself feels a bit pointless to me right now—however, it’s as good a way as any to ask you about your own experience with writer’s block. Perhaps that will help.
For me it feel ms like creativity is a wild horse that don’t want to be harnessed too often. What we call "writer’s block" is not the lack of any ideas, but our mind refusing to produce them in the same direction.
It’s like when you workout, the pause between each repetition of the movement is as crucial as the movement itself. Or when you sleep. Your brain also work during it, but in a different manner that allows you to use it again once you wake up.
The trick is to allow yourself to do something creative without any purpose. You just let the ideas flows as they want, you don’t chase them or shape them to have any usefulness.
That could be discussing with your friends about projects they are working on, or just listening to music and let the things come as they please.
Once that done, you file replenished and your mind can work again on a specific subject.
Remy, you don't fool anyone with this writer's block. Not after having written this paragraph: "My quest for meaning is nihilistic in the sense that I know I’m just looking for a glorious and vain way to distract myself on the way to my grave. Yet, I do need it physically. These moments of distraction are often very sentimental and therefore worth the effort. Although I despise nihilism as an idea, I can’t find a genuine way out of it, aside from the shared act of creation." But I guess it's inherent to being French to complain about life, and that's great, and I love it, and I'm here for more of your writer's block if it means getting these pearls of wisdom.