residualmuses

[residualmuses]

Rehab for writing injuries

You’ve heard of “making writing a habit,” and you’ve tried, but the pressure to write fills you with horrible pain and dread. You spend all your time wishing you could write but somehow never writing. The “make it a habit” approach doesn’t work for you. But you still want to write, maybe even regularly. Is there nothing you can do?

Here is an alternative approach to try. A rehab program, as it were, for writers with a psychological “writing injury” that has destroyed their desire to write and replaced it with shame, anxiety and dread.

If you have a writing injury, you probably acquired it by being cruel to yourself, by internalizing some intensely critical voice or set of rules that crushes your will to write under the boot-heel of “you should.” “You should be writing better after all the years of experience you’ve had.” “You should be writing more hours a day, you’ll never get published at this rate.” “You should write more like [Hilton Als/Jeffrey Eugenides/Octavia Butler/Terry Pratchett/etc.].” “You should write faster/more/better/etc./etc.”

You know what, though? Fuck all that. Self-abuse may have featured heavily in the cool twentieth-century writer’s lifestyle, but we are going to treat ourselves differently. Because 1) it’s nicer, and 2) frankly, it gets better results. My plan here is to help you take the radical step of caring for yourself.

1) First of all: ask yourself why you aren’t writing. 

Not with the goal of fixing the problem, but…just to understand. For a moment, dial down all of the “goddammit, why can’t I just write?” blaring in your head and be curious about yourself. Clearly, you have a reason for not writing. Humans don’t do anything for no reason. Try to discover what it is. And be compassionate; don’t reject anything you discover as “not a good enough excuse.” Your reasons are your reasons.

For me, writing was painful because I wanted it to solve all my problems. I wanted it to make me happy and whole. I hated myself and hoped writing would transform me into a totally different person. When it failed to do that, as it always did, I felt like shit.

Maybe writing hurts because you’ve loaded it with similarly unfair expectations. Or maybe you’re a victim of low expectations. Maybe people have told you you’re stupid or untalented or not fluent enough in the language you write in. Maybe writing has become associated with painful events in your life. Maybe you’ve just been forced to write so many times that you can no longer write without feeling like someone’s making you do it. Writing-related pain and anxiety can come from so many different places.

2) Once you have some idea of why you’re not writing…just sit with that.

Don’t go into problem-solving mode. Just nod to yourself and say, “yes, that’s a good reason. If I were me, I wouldn’t want to write either.” Have some sympathy for yourself and the pain you’re in.

3) Now…keep sitting with it. That’s it, for the moment. No clever solutions. Just sympathize. And, most importantly, grant yourself permission to not write, for a while.

It’s okay. You are good and valuable and worthy of love, even when you aren’t writing. There are still beautiful, true things inside of you.

Here’s the thing: it’s very hard for humans to do things if they don’t have permission not to do them. It’s especially hard if those things are also painful. We hate feeling trapped or compelled, and we hate having our feelings disregarded. It shuts us down in every possible way. You will feel more desire to write, therefore, if you believe you are free not to write, and if you believe it’s okay not to do what causes you pain.

(By the way: not having permission isn’t the same as knowing there will be negative consequences. “If I don’t write, I won’t make my deadline” is different from “I’m not allowed not to write, even if it hurts.” One is just awareness of cause and effect; the other is a kind of slavery.)

4) For at least a week, take an enforced vacation from writing, and from any demands that you write. During this time, you are not permitted to write or give yourself grief for not writing. 

This may or may not be reverse psychology. But it’s more than that.

Think of it as a period of convalescence. You’re keeping your weight off an injury so it can heal, and what’s broken is your desire to write. Pitilessly forcing yourself to write when it’s painful, plus the shame you feel when you don’t write, is what broke that desire. So, for a week (or a month, or a year, or however long you need) tell yourself you are taking a doctor-prescribed break from writing.

This will feel scary for some folks. You might feel like you’re giving up. You might worry that this break from writing feels too good, that your desire to write might never return. All I can say is, I’ve been there. I’ve had all those fears and feelings. And the desire to write did return. But you gotta treat it like a tiny crocus shoot and not stomp on it the second it pokes its little head up. Like so:

5) Once you feel an itch to write again—once you start to chafe against the doctor’s orders—you can write a tiny bit. Only five or ten minutes a day. 

That’s it. I’m serious: set a timer, and stop writing when the time’s up. No cheating. (Well…maybe you can take an extra minute to finish your thought, if necessary.)

Remember: these rules are not like the old rules, the ones that said, “you must write or you suck.” These rules are a form of self-care. You are not imposing a cruel, arbitrary law, you are being gentle with yourself. Not “easy” or “soft”—any Olympic athlete will tell you that hard exercise when you’ve got an injury is stupid and pointless, not tough or virtuous. If you need an excuse to take care of yourself, that’s it: if you’re injured, you can’t perform well, and aggravating the injury could take you out of the competition permanently.

For the first few days, all of the writing you do should be freewriting. Later, you can do some tiny writing exercises. Don’t jump into an old project you stalled out on. Think small and exploratory, not big and goal-oriented. And whatever you do, don’t judge the output. If you have to, don’t even read what you write. This is exercise, not performance; this is you stretching your atrophied writing muscles, not you trying to write something good. At this stage, it literally doesn’t matter what you write, as long as you generate words. (Frankly, it would be kind of weird and unfair if your writing at this point was good.)

6) After a week, you can increase your time limit if you want. But only a little! 

Spend a week limiting yourself to, say, twenty minutes a day instead of ten. When in doubt, set your limit for less than you think you’ll need. You want to end each writing session feeling like you could keep going, not like you’re crawling across the finish line.

Should you write every day? That’s up to you. Some people will find it helpful to put writing on their calendar at the same time each day. Others will be horribly stifled by that. You get to decide when and how often you write, but two things: 1) think about what you, personally, need when you make that decision, and 2) allow that decision to be flexible.

Remember, the only rule is, don’t go over your daily limit. You always have permission to write less.

And keep checking in with yourself. Remember how this program began? If something hurts, if your brain is sending you “I don’t wanna” signals, respect them. Investigate them, find out what their deal is. You might decide to (gently) encourage yourself to write in spite of them, but don’t ignore your pain. You are an athlete, and athletes listen to their bodies, especially when they’re recovering from an injury. If writing feels shitty one day, give yourself a reward for doing it. If working on a particular project ties your brain in knots, do a little freewriting to loosen up. And always be willing to take a break. You always have permission not to write.

7) Slowly increase your limit over time, but always have a limit. 

And when you’re not writing, you’re not writing. You don’t get to berate yourself for not writing. If you find yourself regularly blazing past your limit, then increase your limit, but don’t set large aspirational limits in an effort to make yourself write more. In fact, be ready to adjust your limit lower.

When it comes to mental labor, after all, more is not always better. Apparently, the average human brain can only concentrate for about 45 minutes at a time, and it only has about four or so high-quality 45-minute sessions a day in it. That’s three hours. So if you set your daily limit for more than three hours, you may be working at reduced efficiency, when you’d be better off saving up your ideas and motivation for the next day. (Plus, health and other factors may in fact give you less than 3 good hours a day. That’s okay!)

Of course, if you’re a professional writer or a student, external pressures may force you to write when your brain is tired, but my point is more about attitude: constant work is not necessarily better work. So don’t make it into a moral ideal. We tend to think that working less is morally weak or wrong, and that’s bullshit. Taking care of yourself is practical. Pushing yourself too hard will just hurt you and your writing. Also, your feelings are real and they matter. If you ignore or abuse them, you’ll be like a runner trying to run on a broken ankle.

I know I’m going to get someone who says, “if you’re a pro, sometimes you gotta ignore your feelings and just get the work done!” 

NO. 

You can, of course, choose to work in spite of any pain you’re feeling. But ignore that pain at your peril. Instead, acknowledge the pain and be compassionate. Forgive yourself if pain slows you down. You are human, so don’t hold your feet to the fire for having human limitations. Maybe a deadline is forcing you to work anyway. But make yourself a cup of hot chocolate to get you through it, literally or metaphorically. Help yourself, don’t force yourself. If you’ve had a serious writing injury, that shift in attitude will make all the difference. 

In short: treat yourself as someone whose feelings matter.

Try it out! And let me know how it goes!

Ask a question or send me feedback!

[residualmuses]

Pixar’s 22 Rules for Writing

[residualmuses]

Name: Alex.

Username: @ AdaptableAlex

Gender: Fluid.

Sexuality: Fluid.

Traits: Shapeshifter that suffers from social and personal anxiety, with a fit body and fast reflexes, but not necessarily great strength.

Faceclaim: Andrew Garfield, but his face changes frequently, judging on storyline.

Fandom: Flexible original character. Mostly suited for Marvel.

Story: Alex has multiple background stories developed that can be used to fit different storylines, and he's open for new ones as well. But the one main component to his story is that he's a shapeshifting mutant who wakes up in his early twenties with no memory of who he is or, after shifting to the face of the person who finds him passed out, what he really looks like. He finds a note in his otherwise empty wallet that tells him his name is Alex, and that's all he has to go on. He's is forever on a journey to find his place in the world, as well as discover his past.

[residualmuses]

The story thus far: Noah Puckerman was living his life. He'd moved his hot ass out to the real deal - Los Angeles. He hadn't made many real friends, besides the partiers he shared an apartment with, but he was making his way. He hustled on the daily, had made a few pool connections, and even started writing a little bit. He was a Jew in LA.. with a screenplay, he was practically unstoppable. Hell, even his private life was going great. He'd banged Teri Hatcher (long story) and got his first tattoo (short story), and bought his first set of furniture even though the damn Ikea instructions still didn't make any sense three weeks later. Life also gave him a half-brother, who was just as badass as he was. Other than the fact that he was lonely as hell and Jake wanted him to move home, things were making sense for him. So, of course, he had to hit a bump in the road. It started with reconnecting to Santana Lopez. Not only was she a hot piece of ass, but she loved sex and being a jackass just as much as Puck loved it. They had drifted apart in their junior year.. Puck was trying to sleep with his baby-adoptive-mama and then every college girl he could meet, and Santana had decided to realize she was a skinny little gay in prime fooling around years. Then, she was on the path to college and he was on the path of being lucky he graduated at all. But Facebook and one funny video about cheerleading fails he puts on her page was enough to bring them back to talking, and eventually led to an invite out to New York for the weekend when her new living arrangement with Berry and Hummel got to be too much. Things got complicated as soon as Puck was forced to spend Friday with Kurt, the girls having shifts at the diner. Kurt was different, grown up, more confident. He also has an ass that reminds Puck of Quinn's. Any confusion would have gone unnoticed if Puck, Rachel, Santana, and Kurt hadn't played a game of absolutely wasted Truth or Dare that ended up in lap dances, stripping and one firm kiss between the two boys. Puck is in over his head quick, but Santana sets her sights on exploring the idea, and like always with chicks who've touched his dick - he's just along for her ride. It all comes to a head with Santana's crazy idea for entertainment. A club, a hotel room, too much alcohol, a gay guy, and a gay girl. Add in an apparently bisexual ex, and.. well, Puck would have called it a shit show, but it actually turned out to be a lot of fun. A bit awkward at times, but fun as hell. And Puck learned a lot more about himself than he expected. Kurt learned a lot about Puck, too. Ultimately, Puck goes back home after his trip, reconnecting with Finn and Jake, the two brothers in his life. But as Santana reconnects with her old college flame, Teagan July, and Puck's screenplay gets bought by a movie company, things change. He gets to know Kurt long distance and explores his own sexuality on his own, and with Finn deciding to make something of himself in college, he decides maybe he should try his time in the Big Apple. Twitter Cast: @ BoaPuckerman @ PorcelainPan @ SleazyLopez @ TeaganJuly @ AwkwardInsights @ MegaStudJake

[residualmuses]

Down to Ash

Bam, bam, bam.

Derek had to admit - the hammering was soothing. Fixing up the loft after the now decimated Alpha Pack reeked havoc on them was just the kind of physical labor he needed to get his head on straight. He had a destroyed wall, busted windows, a damaged support beam, and that didn’t even touch the amount of water damage on his and the two floors beneath him that thankfully weren’t inhabited. But cleaning it all up was practically therapuetic. It distracted him when he needed it to, but it also could fall to the back of his mind when he was ready to start sorting out the copious amounts of issues on hand in his life.

He didn’t have a pack anymore.. he came to terms with that. Cora was still here and by his side, though their relationship was hardly functional. He hadn’t seen her in over five years, hadn’t spared her much thought because when he remembered her there was too much pain. Now she was here and she was damaged and she was angry and she was disappointed. Maybe not as disappointed as she was in the beginning.. he had saved her life and became a stronger Alpha because of it. She was still angry and traumatized from her past though, just as much as he was himself. They were two puzzle pieces who barely fit together before, and were now singed and broken and trying to click so hard that it was just hurting themselves more. He didn’t know how to be an older brother anymore, not a good one.

Erica and Boyd were safe, at least. It didn’t look like they’d survive for awhile, and not even trying to push them away like he did with Isaac helped. Thankfully, Deucalion’s threats to kill them if Derek didn’t do it himself never came to fruition. But now they were trying to be his Betas again without even knowing what the word meant. They didn’t trust him or want to learn from him as much as they now knew what it was like to be packless and were scared to be alone. He couldn’t blame them, and even if he’d never say it aloud, he wasn’t sure if he was meant to be their alpha. He’d done a shitty job of it so far.

Then there was Scott.. an enigma that set Derek’s werewolf mind on edge. He was an Omega, but he was strong. One of the strongest Derek had ever seen, perfectly in his element. Derek had watched with his own eyes as Scott had broken a mountain ash line through sheer will power alone. He even had a following of his own, a pack, even if it was just a human, a hunter, a banshee and a werewolf. It was because of his moral compass, and something like that was needed for Derek’s left hand Beta. A guide for decisions, something he doesn’t find in torn creatures like Peter. Scott, however, had no interest in being a part of Derek’s pack. Derek doesn’t blame him.

Every damn werewolf in this town was a mess. Even the twins from the Alpha pack were still hanging around, Omegas and alone. He had a feeling they would come to him soon, try to convince him that they would be assets to his pack. Just like Erica and Boyd, the twins know better than to be packless. But how could he ever let them in? He needed the fire power, but he couldn’t trust them. Nobody should.

Slowly, as he cleaned and he built and he avoided any serious topic of conversation with Cora, he came to the conclusion.. he had to try harder. He had to be better. A better brother, a better friend, a better leader.. a better Alpha. If he had any chance of leading these wolves, of actually taking charge of this town that his family once owned, bring it peace and make it a safe place again, he had to change himself and become better. He didn’t know if it was possible with how damaged he was, but he would make himself a stable pack. Or rather, he would fix the one he already has.

He’ll fix his apartment, then he’ll fix his pack.

Bam, bam, bam.

[residualmuses]

Theresa Sterling never meant for it to go this far. She never really meant anything in her life to go as far as it did. She chose to go off her medications, but she never meant to never take them again. She allowed her boyfriend to convince her to try meth, but she didn't want it to escalate to her being gone while her son cried in the next room. She quit her jobs repeatedly, unable to handle the pressure or talk to the people, but she never intended on her son getting arrested for stealing food. And she let herself fall in love with a married man all those years ago, but she never meant to kidnap his child. If she had been honest, for awhile her head had gone a bit dark. It was as if she had wished so badly to be with him, to have his child, to have a life with John Stilinski that she almost believed that the child was hers. He was small, with brown hair and brown eyes, and covered in moles just like she -and John's wife - was. It was almost to good to be true. But then she was running, hoping her dreams wouldn't be taken from her, only to realize that she had gotten the child but no father. And in her new life, gaining sympathy with the story of being a frail woman who had run from an abusive ex-husband with nothing to her name, she had started to believe maybe the boy, named Stiles as a not too obvious nod to his father, was actually hers. Maybe she hadn't miscarried. Maybe the drugs hadn't ruined her dreams. John had just been so nice to her, you know? He was sympathetic, never once looked down on her. He was so fresh on the force he was still so determined to prove himself, to do good in the world. And that translated to him being there for her every step of the way as she realized she was pregnant and pleaded for help to get away from the drug dealing father. And then, after months and months of him protecting her, of his wife helping her through the hardest six months of her life.. she hadn't meant to relapse. It was only synthetics, anyways. She didn't think it would actually effect the baby. And then her son was gone and John had been so disappointed in her, in a way that made it hard for her to breathe properly. Then she'd heard that his wife had gone into labor. It took a few years, until Stiles was talking and walking and reminding her of John - and Claudia - more and more everyday, before she was able to admit he wasn't her child and she had fucked up. But the more she thought about bringing him home the more terrified she was. How would she live without him? Even as she kept tabs on the Stilinski's she couldn't bring herself to do the right thing. Even after Claudia's obituary was posted, after John became Sheriff, after Stiles got arrested and she found weed in his room. And then she was left, her boyfriend's large stash in front of her, and Stiles just months shy of eighteen. He was going to be an adult. But even now she couldn't do it. She was a coward and a fool. But before she took as big of a hit as she could in the hopes of never opening her eyes again, she wrote her darling son a note.. because she may have screamed and hit and she may have put too much on his shoulders, but she loved her son.. and he deserved to know. Dearest son, The first thing I need you to know is how much I love you, how much I've always needed you, and how I never meant for this to go this far..