Blake Butler
I rarely think of myself as “stuck” while writing; more like at an impasse that requires trial and error to break its lock.
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I rarely think of myself as “stuck” while writing; more like at an impasse that requires trial and error to break its lock.
When I’m deep in the writing trenches and need motivation and inspiration, I find both in many places, often turning to books by writers I trust, no matter what genre.
Lately I’ve been hungering for language that accumulates, builds, and doesn’t mind the work of staying still in ways. Language that lends itself toward feeling and affect for experiences that are difficult to put into words.
Time and again, I have been waylaid from a book project by a political event. I’ve found myself in protest rallies when I should have been writing. But what do we write about, where do our thoughts come from, if not in response to what is happening in the world?
I know I’m stuck with writing when my hands reach for my hair. The goal? To work out the millions of knots that my coils have tied themselves into. Another go-to is binging on my latest favorite wheat-based snack, or dashing away from my desk for yet another handful of said snack.
Whenever I get stuck I don’t go to one single thing to unlodge myself. I might shuffle through one of my tarot decks one day or clean some fossils. Reading poetry can also do the trick (lately: Jennifer Moxley and John Wilkinson).
I record myself reading a poem while completing it, and in the process of the recording, I start singing. The goal isn’t to get the recitation right, but to bring song into the poem when it’s missing. This often gets me from one draft to the next.
It was early June when my dad, who was also a writer, passed away this year. Sitting in the hospital weeks before, beneath the florescent lights, I read him a few chapters from In Watermelon Sugar by Richard Brautigan, which he had given me when I was a teenager.
When I wrote my debut story collection, Good Women, I had moments where I ran into walls of uncertainty and froze. At these roadblocks, perfectionism began to guide me rather than intuition or craft. I balked. I felt pressure to search for something missing, something extraordinary.
When I’m stuck, I let myself be stuck. I don’t put imperatives on how many pages I need to generate or what being a writer looks like. I’ve learned not to fixate on the stuck-ness. I allow myself the breath and time to simply not write. So much of writing to me is about patience and allowance.