The Difference Between Writer's Block And Being Stuck

I haven't been writing as much as I was several months ago, and the fact that I haven't been is simultaneously both a source of inspiration and consternation for me. On the one hand, any time I start to feel like I'm too busy to write, or life is too frustrating, or whatever, I can tell myself, "hey, asshole, you mowed through 50,000 words in thirty days. You wrote for a month and a half, EVERY SINGLE DAY, without stopping." It's kind of cool when you can be your own personal hero, since, shit, you already achieved it once, what's stopping you from doing it again?

On the other hand, it sometimes makes me feel like absolute shit that I made it through half of my book in thirty days, and then it's taken me almost seven months to make it through the second half. So there's a bit of give and take going back and forth there.

I've been trying to figure out why the writing has been so difficult lately, why it just hasn't been happening as much. The glib, superficial, and fucking annoying answer would be because I'm not trying, because I haven't been sitting in front of a blank word document and a blinking cursor. But I hate glib, superficial answers. Even if they're correct, they're not terribly interesting. So let's assume that there's an interesting reason and explore it. Together.

I think I have a problem with ending stories. I say this, because I'm on what is more or less my third manuscript now. I finished the first one. I made it to about 75,000 words or so on the second one before I finally lost all motivation to keep at it. And although I'm still plugging away at the third one, it's only gotten more and more difficult the closer I get to "being done." In both cases, I just had no idea how the story was supposed to end. With "Fallen," I'm still not entirely sure, although I haven't given up and I even have a good idea about where to go next. Hopefully, "next" will bring me closer to the end.

Why is it hard to finish stories? I have no idea. Maybe it says something about me. Maybe it means I have trouble letting go. Entirely possible, but I've had more than a little bit to drink tonight (I was writing, damn it!) and don't really feel like playing armchair psychologist on myself. I'd much rather jump right into a tangentially related topic.

I would certainly describe my situation lately as "being stuck." Typically, being stuck is what other people call writer's block, but the term writer's block annoys the shit out of me, so I don't use it. I don't know why the term bothers me so much; I suppose it might evoke images of pretentious, preening aspirants who make sure that they write in coffee shops on their laptops so people can see them. The kind of person that would say "artiste" instead of "artist." Even when I still had a working laptop, I can count the number of times I worked on my novel in a coffee shop on one hand... and that's including after you chopped off four of my fingers.

My usual solution to being stuck is to just think about the book a lot. I'll think about it in the shower. I'll think about it while I'm driving to work. I'll think about it while I'm working. And driving home. And eating. And brushing my teeth. And while I'm falling asleep. You get the idea. Basically, I spend all of my time thinking about it, and for some strange reason, that thinking about it justifies to me that I haven't written a word in days or weeks. "Well, it's not like I'm not working!" my lazy brain protests. "Look at all the time we've spent thinking about this!"

And yet, there are times, times like tonight, in fact, that I realize thinking about it like I do is somewhat pointless. It doesn't ever seem to solve my problem. It doesn't help me get "unstuck." Typically, trying to force myself to write through the frustration does the trick. And on some occasions, like tonight, talking out the problem with my constant reader (my mom; she's the only one who gets to see the raw, unedited work in progress) solves the problem. It's not even the fact that I was expecting her to tell me how to fix the problem. Rather, as I explain what the problem is and what I want to do, and what the "being stuck problem" is keeping me from, as I try to make her understand, I find that I know just what to do next. It's really quite uncanny. I spent about two hours tonight talking to her about writing, and when it was over... well, I don't have an ending for my story. But I did finish a chapter that I've been working on for like three weeks.

So... thanks Mom. I appreciate it.

Tomorrow, I'm going to this writing conference thing. Part of me is glad that I'm doing something that will (hopefully) advance my career as a writer. Maybe make some connections, maybe learn something new. The other part is fucking furious that several of my geek idols, including Wil Wheaton, Felicia Day, and John Scalzi, are going to be in Phoenix this weekend for the Comic Con, and I won't be attending.

Seriously. I have to choose between my art and my lifestyle. It's a cruel, cruel world that I live in. I expect you all to understand and bestow sympathy upon me accordingly. Preferably in the comments. And preferably without being sarcastic.

I know, I'm asking a lot.