Why Writing Is So Hard: A Hypothesis

allworkandnoplay

Most days, it’s a real struggle for me to get started on writing even a paragraph in one of my stories. Once in a great while, I’ll be struck by some inspiration and then it’s just a matter of getting the words down as fast as I can, but that’s rare. The more normal case is something like this:

 I need to write something where X happens.

 [Write a word or two]

Huh, I wonder what’s going on in the news.

 [Half hour later, force myself to write another sentence or two]

Are there any good videos on YouTube?

I have to consciously force myself to stay on task and write something down. If I manage to do that, most of the time I hate what I’m writing up until I finish, at which point it starts to seem possibly decent. But the whole time I’m doing it, I feel like I’m doing lousy work, and moreover, it takes all my willpower to even do that.

Why is this? Writing is supposed to be what I like doing. No one is forcing me to do it—it’s what I want to do.  But then why am I strongly tempted to avoid doing it, like it’s a job or something?

At first, I thought maybe I was just a lazy bum. But I follow lots of hard-working writers on Twitter, and they frequently report this same problem. I even did a poll of my followers, and while the sample was small, 100% reported they procrastinated:

So, it’s not just me being lazy. Other writers face this problem too.

The simple and obvious explanation is that writing is active. You have to consciously do something to make it happen. Whereas reading the news or watching cat videos is passive—you just find your way to the site and put your mind on cruise control.

But this doesn’t totally explain it. One of the ways I procrastinate is by playing video games. And that’s not passive; I still have to press buttons and make decisions to get the outcome I want in the game.  Yet it’s far easier for me to play a game of FTL or computer chess than it is to write. I don’t have to will myself to play a game.

My next-door neighbor has had all kinds of hobbies over the years I’ve known him, from shooting guns to building model airplanes to mixing drinks to, yes, playing video games. And he doesn’t seem to need a huge amount of willpower to make himself work at any of his hobbies. Why is my hobby different?

Part of the problem is that I’ll write something down and then think, “Well, that’s not any good”. This feels unsatisfying. And at some level, I think procrastination is a defense mechanism. Skimming the sports headlines may not yield much satisfaction, but at least it won’t be as disappointing as writing something imperfect.

But why should that be disappointing? After all, no one else is going to judge me by the first draft. No one else will even know it existed unless I show it to them. So why am I bothered if it’s not right the first time? I don’t get discouraged if I don’t win a video game right away. On the contrary, losing a game just makes me want to try again.

Writing, unlike other activities, is more closely associated with having an audience. After all, if you’re just writing for yourself, why bother writing? You know the story already—the only reason to write it down is to communicate it to others.

That’s the heart of the difference: When I play a video game or exercise or any of the other things I do for fun, my only audience is myself. If I’m satisfied with my performance, that’s all I need.

We are trained very early on that writing is different. Writing is what you do when you want to tell other people something. As a result, when you write, you are subconsciously trying to please other people.

Ta-da! This explains the mystery of why writers procrastinate. Procrastination is something you do when you are assigned a task by other people, and writing feels like that because that’s how we’re trained to regard it. It’s the same reason we all procrastinated when our teachers assigned us to write a paper on such-and-such-thing-no-one-cares-about.

Some of the most common advice I’ve seen from successful authors is stuff like “Write for yourself,” “Ignore your inner critic on the first draft” and perhaps the most common, “Lose your fear of writing”.*

This advice always puzzled me. Of course I was writing for myself! Who the hell else would I be writing these weird stories for? And my inner critic? Who’s that? As far as I knew, I didn’t have one. The fear thing seemed the most sensible, although for me, the fear wasn’t so much of writing as it was of publishing.

But now I see what all those famous writers were saying: you think you’re writing for yourself, but you aren’t really. In your unconscious mind, you are still trying to figure out what the readers are going to think of what you wrote. It’s a deeply-rooted habit, probably one that evolution instilled in us—the societies where people could clearly communicate their ideas to one another were the ones that flourished.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t write so that other people can understand you. But the point is, that has to come later. First, you have to treat writing as a personal challenge between you and the part of your mind that wants to stop you from doing it. It’s like working out: you know it’s good for you, and you know you will feel great afterward, but you have to overcome the natural instinct that tells you it’s easier not to do it.

The precise way to do this can vary from person to person. You’ll discover the method that works best for you as you go along.

One exercise that I think can help teach how not to write for an audience is to just try writing stream-of-consciousness. For this post, I deliberately tried an experiment where I turned off my sense-making filter and just spewed forth whatever came to mind. This is what resulted:

Grey window skies empty noises and duahgter nothing al dhpauiw hope thjat move listen coffee  righ fjor wdesk need time hope sk

Sitting on a cold day that is grey and deporessing why am I doing this write exercise imagine plains vision skies weird black nebulous

This seems like incoherent babble, but it’s really not all that random. For context: I was sitting at my desk by a window on a cold grey day, drinking coffee. I could hear people outside talking and someone said something about a daughter.

For the second paragraph, the other people shut up, and I started to let my imagination roam, which led to visions of Lovecraftian weird cosmic horror, because that’s my favorite genre, or at least the one I’m most familiar with.

As sloppy and gibberish-filled as that is, you can see my thought process even through all the errors and downright nonsense. Which brings me to my point: as in many other fields, “true randomness” is actually pretty hard to achieve in writing. Your brain will work very hard to force you to make sense. Which is helpful in many other ways, but the problem is that our brains have become so good that they will try to prevent us writing anything less than the perfect sentence on the first try. That part of the brain would much rather procrastinate than risk writing something nonsensical.

This is what all those famous writers mean when they say “Write for yourself” or “Don’t worry about the audience” or “Ignore the inner-critic.” It’s all true, but it’s not specific enough, because when you are tempted to put off writing and procrastinate instead, you don’t realize you’re writing for someone else, or that it’s your inner-critic, or your fear of the audience. It feels like you’re just trying to write something that makes sense, and for some horrible reason, you can’t.

That’s because it doesn’t make perfect sense, and your brain hates that. But it’s okay. You can fix it later. Editors and beta readers will make sure of that.

So my advice is: don’t worry about making sense. In fact, I’ll go even further: actively try to avoid making sense on the first draft. Just put down the most basic, sub-literate version of what you want to convey. You’d be surprised how hard it is to not make sense—your unconscious mind will keep you at least within saluting distance of it most of the time. After that, you can just iterate until your visceral idea has been refined into something your readers can understand.

FOOTNOTE

* As Phillip McCollum has observed, fear can also be extremely useful for writers. But that’s fear of other things, not writing itself.

9 Comments

  1. You’re pretty much describing me here. In so many ways. I think the one thing you miss, however, is the impact of social media. The reality is that we need external reinforcement of what we do, no matter how introverted we might be or how much we claim to be “writing for ourselves.” That external reinforcement can be as simple as what you get on a video game. At some point, you either win or lose by some measure created by the gamemaker. That is external reaction to your role in the game. And with social media — whether it is a post on my blog, a tweet, or something on Facebook — we typically get almost immediate external reinforcement of our words on those platforms. With writing, it may be months, years, or never ever that we get external reinforcement. It is one of the drawbacks to all of this social media, we are turning into creatures that crave immediacy. As a result, it’s hard to see the emotional value in writing when we don’t get that immediate reaction.

    The other thing for me is that writing is hard. It does take effort. After years of being able to write quite a bit, I’ve reached the point where the day job and other aspects of my life are so draining, I just feel I have nothing left to expend on writing. Weeknights are about having dinner, surfing the internet for a bit, reading, and then falling asleep. Every day, I say I will write, if only for a half hour, but when it comes time … ah, well, what’s in the news, what’s happening on FB, and Twitter, and my favorite political blogs. Okay, I still have a half hour, I can write. Wait, maybe something has happened since the last time I checked FB, and I’ll check work email one last time, and I forgot to check CNN’s website. Yawn, I’m tired. And weekends aren’t much better. 😉

    Thanks for writing this. It’s good to know I’m not the only one that does this. I knew that, but it’s good to see it in actual words. It helps.

    1. Thanks very much for such an insightful and well thought-out comment. And yes, knowing you’re not alone always helps. Glad you liked the post!

  2. Great post. Writing is indeed hard, but I think it’s hard for different reasons to different people. For me personally, I’m eager to sit down and outline a project scene-by-scene. There’s no pressure to get everything down or everything perfect. It’s just a brainstorming session of sorts.

    I’m also eager for the revision part—from the second draft on. I love reconfiguring things into a prettier product.

    So that leaves the first draft. For me, this is where writing is hard. I feel so frenzied, wanting to get everything down at once and wanting it to be good. Of course, it’s rarely good—first drafts aren’t meant to be good—but that doesn’t keep us from trying. I have to turn the perfectionist voice off and just allow myself to spill the words onto the page. Sometimes that comes easily, and I can barely type fast enough. Sometimes it’s like pulling teeth.

    Of course, as you point out, procrastination is another piece of the difficulty puzzle, and it’s one I certainly haven’t solved yet!

    1. Thanks so much–glad you liked the post!

      My relationship with the revision process is complicated. Sometimes I think of (or editors suggest) a great idea, and then it’s really fun to implement. Other times, I’m just staring hopelessly at the page, thinking “How do I fix this?”

      1. Ha, yes, I know that feeling, especially after finishing my first book years ago with no outline. Now that I try to work out all the kinks first, I don’t face that feeling as much, but it still happens. At that point of frustration, I walk away from it and do something else. Inevitably the answer comes to me when I don’t have a pen or paper anywhere nearby. Then I frantically double thumb type it into my phone before I forget. 😄

  3. Wow, thanks for the footnote link! 🙂

    You’ve really thought this through, and like many of us, have come to the conclusion that we just have to try it all and see what works. And often the thing that works one time won’t work the next time. It starts to feel like a shell game.

    I’ve found that I personally loathe editing. Writing a messy rough draft always felt freeing at first, but I never wanted to go back and fix things. Seemed like too much work. So I picked up on a technique that Dean Wesley Smith calls cycling, which really just meaning hopping back and forth in the story, adding/deleting/correcting/etc as I go along. This seems to work for me most of the time. I don’t really worry about the small stuff like typos, awkward sentences, etc, but it also means that by the time I’m done with a story, I’m pretty much done with it. No big changes, and if I get the feeling that there should be, I just take note of it for the next story so that I can try and avoid the pitfalls then.

    I guess the key for me is maintaining the groove and if I find that I’m writing a section of the work that starts to bore me or I feel stuck, I have to jump to something to get me moving again…otherwise I can be stuck in the same spot for weeks and then I just am sick of the story at that point.

    Another thing I’ve found that helps is the Pomodoro technique. It forces me to focus for a period of time and only do one thing–No social media, no web surfing, etc. I find that I can get into the zone much quicker while doing this. It forces me to consistently redirect my wandering mind back to the task at hand.

    Anyway, another writer’s viewpoint! I hope you can find a method that keeps you going consistently.

    1. Thanks very much for the comment! Both these techniques sound quite good.

      When I’m editing I tend to do something similar to the “cycling” technique. Otherwise, just like you said, I get stuck on the opening page or two, continually revising them until I’m sick of the whole thing.

  4. I think your hypothesis is right on the money. That would explain why I can have so much fun daydreaming up a story, but the minute I sit down to write it, it turns into hard work and I start looking for any excuse to avoid it.

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