The Writing Life
The Voices In My Head and Other Nuisances
“When something can be read without effort, great effort has gone into its writing.”
— Enrique Jardiel Poncela, Spanish playwright and novelist
It’s Mental Health Awareness Month, but before I get into why writing is not always good for my mental health, I want to know one thing: Who comes up with these designated months?
Why is February not just Black History Month, but American Heart Month and National Bird-feeding Month?
Why is September National Honey Month, and why is November National Novel Writing Month?
There probably are reasons why September is National Pain Awareness Month and October is National Pizza Month. I just don’t know what they are.
OK, now that we’ve got that on the table, the therapy session is open. I have one overarching fear when it comes to writing, and it is simply: What if, one day, maybe soon, maybe tomorrow, I just run out of words, tapped out like an empty keg? Then what? What if I open the laptop one day, maybe soon, and the blank screen is staring at me and I am staring right back, just as blank?
I am sure this sounds completely neurotic, and I am totally willing to admit that it is at least partially neurotic, because, after a half-century or so of putting ink to paper and fingers to keyboard, is there really a chance that not a single word will come to me? It is just not plausible, but the thing is, plausibility is irrelevant when an irrational fear is working you over. If you are agoraphobic, terrified of being anywhere but your own home, you’re not instantly going to go to a mall on a Saturday before Christmas just because you know on some level that your fear is not grounded in reality. It feels real, and that’s all that matters.
The fear of being out of words is different from writer’s block for me. They are close cousins, for sure, but my writer’s block most often sets in when I’ve finished reporting out a piece (or a book) and have a trove of compelling material and then it’s time to sit down to write. That’s when panic can set in, when I have a familiar, insidious voice telling me, “So you’ve got all this wonderful/poignant detail and anecdotes and scenes and quotes. Now what? Where are you going to begin?
Do you even have any idea where to begin?
Do you think there’s even a chance you will be equal to this task?
I hate this voice deeply, and have worked hard over the years to either make it go away, or rob it of its power, mostly by taking the cue from Eckhart Tolle and The Power of Now and realize that just because I have a negative or self-critical thought doesn’t mean it’s true and it doesn’t mean I have to heed it. I have a choice. I don’t have to pay attention to it.
This is my kind of choice.
Of course, it’s not always so easy to make the self-affirming choice. Often a battle ensues. The toxic option tells me, “You can’t do this and you won’t do this, and you should probably consider a new line of work, like becoming a plumber.” (The plumber thought actually pops up quite often, even though I barely know how to use a snake and most plumbing repairs I’ve undertaken have only managed to make the problem worse.) The non-toxic option, not surprisingly, is much gentler: “You can do this and you will do this. You always do. You don’t have to listen to this garbage. You’ve been through this a hundred thousand times and have gotten through it in every instance. So take a breath and just write a sentence. And then write another sentence. Soon you will be on your way.”
Of course, while this battle is raging, I am writing no words. I am stewing. I am brooding. I am wondering if anyone has ever started a plumbing career in his 60s.
I am on my way to paralysis by overanalysis, and again, it’s almost always at its worst when I know I have good raw material to work with, and I must honor that material by writing a story worthy of John McPhee or Wright Thompson or Laura Hillenbrand or some other nonfiction icon. A little over 20 years ago, I wrote a piece about a horrific, pre-dawn crash on Interstate 95 that killed four members of the Yale baseball team and seriously injured five others. They were coming back from a night out in the city, and they did the right thing, arranging for a designated driver, but the driver of a tractor trailer lost control on a dark, icy stretch of road near Bridgeport, Conn., triggering a multi-car crash that turned a festive night of fraternity fun into an unspeakable tragedy. John Stuper, the former St. Louis Cardinal pitcher and Yale coach at the time was as devastated as a person can be, but was still brave and generous enough to share his feelings with me. (Imagine a stranger approaching you on the worst day of your life and asking you questions about it; this is the part of reporting I loathe.) I also spoke to classmates and family members of those who died. I visited the historic Yale baseball field, where Babe Ruth once played. It was all crushingly sad, and after talking to people and feeling their pain, it felt as if I had suffered a loss myself. I can’t honestly tell you how long it took me to get started on that story, but it was a long time. I did the stewing thing for a day or two, ran a few options up the proverbial flagpole for how to begin, and hated them all. So I stewed some more. I probably was in a fetal position at some point, but I don’t have a photo to prove it. What freed me, ultimately, was that I was writing for the New York Daily News and newspapers have these things called deadlines, and they are unforgiving. So as my deadline approached, I began to get the calls from my editors (“Wayne, we need this. Wayne, when are you filing?”), I said a prayer for clarity and the ability to throw a high, hard one straight at the toxic voice, and you know what happened?
I actually wrote a sentence. And then another. They weren’t perfect. They aren’t supposed to be. That’s why they are called first drafts. So you go back and edit about six or 10 or 12 times and you omit needless words (thanks, Strunk and White), pare quotes and massage clunky transitions. I stuck with it and soon I had a 2,000-word story.
It is linked below. Is it perfect? No, far from it. Would I change some things? Absolutely. But I believe I told the story as best I could, and honored the lives that were lost and the grieving loved ones they left behind. As we near end of National Mental Health Awareness Month, I feel pretty good about that.
As I began reading the story of the Yale baseball players I am reminded of what makes you and Alex such gifted storytellers tellers. You both paint visual images using words, drawing the reader fully into the scenes you have deftly painted. Thank you.
Very similar to the process I go through when attempting to compose a piece of music.