Choice is a fine thing in moderation, but an over-abundance of choice can lead to existential paralysis. I don’t believe in writer’s block any more than I believe in plumber’s block or accountant’s block: the best, in fact only way to overcome writer’s block is to pick up a pen and write, just as the best way to overcome plumber’s block is to pick up the tools and plumb. However, I do believe in existential paralysis — and much as I am pained to admit it, it may amount to the same thing as the fabled writer’s block in practice. This article is a home-made prescription for overcoming the existential paralysis that accompanies a seeming infinity of choices, and if the terminology works for you, perhaps it is a prescription for overcoming writer’s block as well.
I choose to write. Whenever I have free time and I am not writing, I always feel I should be taking up the pen or the keyboard. In an abundant and otherwise blessed life, this is the only thing I ever truly hunger for. This is not a comfortable compulsion, but things could be far worse; after all, I could have more destructive impulses, and besides which compulsions are not made for comfort. When I am writing, something opens up inside of me and I know intuitively that I am exactly where I need to be, doing what I need to be doing.
Of course, this is not to imply a state of bliss or Zen-like calm — far from it. Writing frequently makes me anxious, but then most things of consequence do that for me, which is a tedious and entirely personal cross to bear. What I mean to say is, I know from experience that the only way to erase the pressure of the compulsion to write is to write and as such I do this as often as I can. If only for the relief it brings.
I have said that I lead a blessed life, for which I am grateful. It is true. I have autonomy and agency in spades, a sound income, relatively good health, genuine freedom to concentrate on whatever I wish to concentrate on, and a reasonable amount of time and resources to do so. When sitting down to write I face an embarrassment of riches of possibility. I live freely in a liberal democracy with a (relatively) free press (Australia), and I am free to pursue any course of investigation or preoccupation I choose, whether fiction or non-fiction. I possess all the tools that I need to write, and my day job and personal life are never so intrusive or demanding as to erase the possibility of writing entirely from any given day.
When faced with such abundance, what does one choose to focus on? In a life I cannot help but describe as privileged, I note that I possess the same degree of sorrows and burdens as most people — my father died recently, which is a great cause for sadness, and I find that I struggle with a free-floating anxiety on a regular basis, which I both medicate and meditate to manage. But neither of these encumbrances or any other of my personal life’s challenges call for the exorcism of confessional or memoir — they merely exist as the landscape of my life, and do not define me or preoccupy my mind to any great degree. They are compelling enough, but they do not compel in and of themselves.
So in the midst of such freedom, under the burden of what I can only consider a normal amount of personal emotional baggage, I still feel I am compelled to write. This isn’t a choice of whether to write or not — that choice has already been made, by me, consciously and freely, without complaint. I choose to write. Instead, this is a question of facing into the headwinds of possibility and choosing which story or stories to tell, and making decisions about how to tell them.
It is about seeking out the navigational stars of guidance in an ocean of infinite possibility and plotting a course to take. It is about finding a literal, and perhaps literary, subjectivity in the face of what I admit is merely the illusion of total objectivity. (It feels like I could write about anything, but I know deep in my heart this is not entirely true.) It is about looking deep within, and carefully without, to find the personally compelling, and zeroing in on that. And then, perhaps, just getting on with it.
How do I do this, and how can you do this? I have been pursuing a programme of mindfulness meditation to manage stress and anxiety (the day job can be demanding), and it has many benefits, even if it is not perhaps the panacea to all of life’s ills as promoted by the now-ubiquitous mindfulness industry. The concept of anatta embedded in Buddhism, which (crudely, in my limited understanding — my apologies in advance to scholars and practitioners of Buddhism) is the denial of the actual existence of the self, soul or any ongoing ‘you’ within you providing continuity from moment to moment, I find to be a useful conceit. I have no idea if it is true, and don’t really mind either way — but denying the existence of the self in a framework of mindfulness meditation has its uses. Relief from burdensome mental habits and compulsive, corrosive, repetitive preoccupation with negative past and future possibilities is one such benefit.
Natalie Goldberg, in her seminal book ‘Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within’, has famously linked meditation practice to what she calls ‘writing practice’. This is a linking of mind and writing patterned by Allen Ginsberg in the first instance, and further inspired by her beloved Zen meditation teacher Katagiri Roshi, who suggested to her that she ‘make writing her practice’, initially for no more profound a reason other than ‘well, you like to write’, as he explained it to her. Goldberg has articulated a method of practice with simple rules and techniques that seek to connect writing to ‘first thoughts’; the transcription of ‘beginner’s mind’ musings that may or may not spark insight, but get words onto the page, regardless of their profundity, perspicacity or value.
I won’t outline the entirety of the method here, and I urge you to read ‘Writing Down the Bones’ for the full picture, but the simplest rules of Goldberg’s writing practice are to time the session and to ‘keep the pen moving’. Don’t edit or attempt to control what you write, and don’t seek quality or perfection — pursue any thought or random train of thought without constraint or restriction, but keep the pen or fingers moving at all times for the duration of the allotted time. It is simple, but I have found that it is a surefire way to confront the deadlock of existential paralysis. You write a lot of crap, but you write, and within the body of writing you will transcribe gems and discover threads of value.
I have an additional personal methodology, which can be summarised by the simple phrase ‘start anywhere and just get on with it’. Taking this attitude to writing practice frees me from needing to begin at the beginning, which of necessity would mean trying to work out where or what the beginning actually was, which would be an impediment to just getting on with the writing. In effect, it would be just another form of procrastination. I find that this ‘start anywhere’ approach works for my commissioned journal articles as well; I frequently begin them by starting the piece right in the middle, or end, or wherever — and it just seems to fall out naturally. Goldberg’s methodology teaches trust in the self and a useful loss of the need to control, control, control at all times. Just get on with it and it seems to work out in the end.
The final piece of the puzzle is a quote from the world of sport, which is an unusual source for me as I have no particular interest in sport at all, and rarely find it inspirational. I might need to rethink that, however, as this quote works for me at every level, and is from the genuinely inspiring tennis player and activist the late Arthur Ashe. He simply said:
“Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can”.
Dynamite. Combining this simple, humble and infinitely practical approach with Goldberg’s method of writing practice, and the freedom gained from the instruction to simply ‘start anywhere’, is the best way I know to puncture the membrane of existential paralysis brought on by an abundance of choice, and simply get on with it.
I hope this has been as helpful to you to read as it was to write. And now, I might just start anywhere and get on with something new.