I was living in the West Village, my windows faced the street, and a tree outside marked the passing seasons as it changed colors and shed its leaves. I'd always hoped this neighborhood would spark my creativity, that I too would have my Bob Dylan moment on Jones Street. But looking back on my time in the West Village, I never experienced the creative renaissance I'd dreamed of. Expecting such a transformation was perhaps too much pressure, and pressure often stifles the natural flow of creativity. As an artist, I worry that I lean too heavily on the idea that pain will lead to great art, that heartbreak or major life transitions will somehow transform into creative break throughs. This expectation that artistic flourishing should compensate for genuine trauma, that's my real writer's block.
It's hard to admit that I've gone through periods where I tried to write every day and came away with nothing complete. Weeks would pass where the pressure to finish just one thing became so overwhelming that I couldn't get any ink from my pen. It was devastating, depressing, and terrifying. When I reflect on those times, I can't help but wonder what could have been. Was something lost in that absence, something important and close to my heart that never emerged? It's a terrible thing to wonder, a painful thought to sit with. Part of reconciling with those times is accepting that learning to navigate hardship is as important as learning to navigate prosperity. Regretting how I worked or treated myself in the past becomes an opportunity to grow into someone more capable in the future.
As writers, we often fall into the trap of believing each new piece must be our magnum opus. When we finally snap out of this unrealistic expectation, we might take a deep breath, but I frequently fall victim to this self-sabotage. It's not that we can't write; it's the self imposed belief that none of our ideas deserve to be put on the page. This feels especially harsh since, as writers, we've all experienced work we thought was mediocre, being received as exceptional. Writer's block is particularly difficult because it's physically and quietly painful. I dread the full-body tension that accompanies this distressing experience. While some argue that writer's block doesn't exist, accepting that view would mean denying my own lived experience.
Sitting down to write with the goal of finishing a song sets me up for failure, it tosses aside any real strategy, routine, or professionalism. Instead, treat yourself like a professional athlete, because writing is hard work. The best athletes are always prepared. Sure, if you have a spark of inspiration that carries your day, that's great. But what's your solution when inspiration doesn't strike? Have you prepared for the days when nothing flows organically? If you want to treat yourself like a pro, preparation for various scenarios is critical. Writer's block can greatly benefit you if you reflect on the experience and make proactive decisions on how to improve your process. Ask yourself: How do you generate new ideas? How do you organize them? If you had two hours to write something, anything, would you have a clear strategy?
Tomorrow is a new day, a fresh start. But I urge you, as I do myself, to prepare for the reality that tomorrow will either become creatively what you hoped for, or what you dreaded. If you succeed, build on the preparation that got you there, if you don't, use the opportunity to learn and revise.
The pressure I impose on myself is unfair, but it comes from a place of love. Writer's block is my reminder that love comes with hard days, and harder questions. Moments that require real and honest introspection.
Luke Girzadas