What I Write When I'm Incapable of Writing

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It is a truth universally acknowledged that a writer with unlimited time on her hands will manage to do anything but write.

At least, it’s my truth.

Whenever my schedule is brimming with activity—books to narrate, actors to coach, friends to see, chores to do, appointments to make, and all of life’s miscellany—I think to myself: If only I had unlimited time to write. Then a week dawns like this one, in which I have nothing but free time stretching out before me like the yellow brick road, punctuated only by the occasional commitment, full of possibility and promise…

And I barely manage to write a thing.

Suddenly everything else seems more urgent. I must iron my clothes! I must go grocery shopping! I must take a walk, go to the gym, answer emails, scroll through Instagram, berate myself for not being more productive while I sit on my couch unable to move under the weight of all that possibility and promise that I’m wasting by scrolling through Instagram. I stay up later, wake up later, sleep more heavily, wander around in a fog. I stare at my stack of unread books. I stare at the stack of books I read last year to research a project I’m currently avoiding writing. I stare at my calendar, anticipating weeks when I won’t have this much time at my disposal, imagining my future self regretting having squandered all these valuable hours.

I start to question what the hell I’m doing with my life.

I know I’m not the only person who goes through this. I’ve discussed it with many a fellow writer. For most of us, deadlines can combat inertia, but self-imposed deadlines don’t often work for me; I’m too aware that I’m the only one holding myself accountable. At the same time, the idea of having an ‘accountability partner,’ as many writers do, makes my skin crawl. I don’t want anyone monitoring my progress. I feel ashamed enough about its stagnation without extra eyes on me.

I’m also aware that my standards for myself are very high. Generally speaking, I am a person who gets things done. If I decide to do something, I feel compelled to do it immediately. Unsolved problems and incomplete to-do lists drive me bats. Patience is not a virtue I come by naturally. Waiting is an art I will spend the rest of my life trying to master. As a recovering overachiever and self-confessed perfectionist, I am unforgiving of any lack of productivity in myself, even as I encourage loved ones to rest and rejuvenate, to take their time. I am constitutionally incapable of spending an entire day doing nothing.

In fact, swaths of unstructured time seem to slow my cognition. Maybe it’s decision fatigue: I spend so much time wondering what I should do next, I fail to make a decision about what I want to do. And I berate myself about writing in particular because I know the stories that fill my mind and heart will never appear in print if I fail to confront the blinking cursor on the blank page. If I don’t write them, they won’t exist. If I don’t write them today, I might not have time tomorrow.

Isn’t that an awful lot of pressure? says a voice in my head that might be my Higher Self. Do you imagine thinking that way is going to HELP?

I wish I were not so impatient. I wish I could be less self-critical. I wish I could give myself more grace. I also wish I could channel ideas straight from my head onto the page without having to go through the troublesome process of converting them into words. I can see so vividly the project I’m avoiding writing: I can see it as a finished product, a living thing, a series of scenes that sail by so quickly I can hardly make note of them, let alone write them out in coherent detail. Toni Morrison’s well-worn words float up to me: “If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.”

I want to, Ms. Morrison. But I’m afraid.

There’s the rub: fear. It underlies everything. Fear of inadequacy. Fear of failure. Fear of peeling back the layers of my mind and finding it empty. Desire to do a subject justice collides with doubt in my ability to even scratch the surface. Conviction that my ideas matter crashes into belief that I have nothing of value to say. Certainty that I’m capable of writing anything I set my mind to explodes into an inferno of faithlessness: I am no one, I can produce nothing, I might as well go back to bed.

My only consolation at moments like this is the knowledge that they don’t last forever. A week ago, I soared home from an evening with a new friend high on fresh air and laughter and plans for my writing that seemed not only attainable, but inspiring. Within days, I was languishing on the couch, studying French grammar instead of penning English sentences. Given that I’m writing this on Tuesday for a Saturday post, it’s quite possible that the winds of change will already have blown through my mind by the time you read this, scattering the fog, sweeping up dust, clearing a new path forward. I have, after all, spent the last hour writing these words. Which is not nothing.

Maybe one day I’ll learn to forgive myself for frittering away my unstructured time. Maybe I’ll even discover that the frittering is a necessary step in the creative process. (I’m sure some guru out there is dying to tell me that.) For now, I might just make yet another to-do list—one in which writing does not come last.