Ratika Deshpande
Last year, while I wrote a lot, I also went through long phases where I couldn’t find the time to write, or didn’t feel like writing, until the state of not-having-written became too much to bear. When I did sit down to write, I couldn’t. The built-up frustration of the time away from my pen and paper had created blockages in my mind. This has happened enough times now that I’ve begun to notice some patterns in what does help when the words finally start flowing.
Writing regularly kept things sorted inside my head. So when I returned after a break, I couldn’t focus on creating something new because there was all of this other stuff—worries, tasks, insecurities—vying for catharsis. They wanted to be shaped into sentences and be given some meaning. So I had to first dump everything from my head to do some unclogging and make space for creativity.
I also had to give myself time to find my way into a piece of writing. Writing skills are like muscles; they stiffen if not used for a while, making our words stumble and slip. But the stumbles and slips are like warm-up. You have to let yourself write several paragraphs or pages before the words start flowing again. It’s not a sign that you’ve lost your skill or that writing would now always be difficult; it’s just a sign that you’ve been away for a while.
Maintaining our writing muscles includes both reading and writing. When we take a break from either or both, things slow down. We forget a little what beginnings and endings and dialogue and description look like. We might have to make false starts, discard stuff.
Just like the beginning of a piece might need to be deleted, pieces you write in the beginning might also need to be discarded in their entirety. This is how I’ve come to understand the famous advice to “kill your darlings.” After a break, every word that we put on the page feels precious. But quality comes through quantity. I used to be very possessive about my drafts but I’ve learned that ideas are always abundant. I’ve also learned to trust my mind, so letting go has become easier. There will always be more words.
Sometimes, it helps to look at the books that made me want to write, or the books I wish I had written. Pulling out those titles from my shelf and taking them with me to my writing table has become a ritual of sorts. As I sit with the blank page, I flip through these books, rereading certain sections or my marginalia, and soon I’m reminded of what I love about these particular authors, why I chose the form or topics I did, and what are the various ways in which one can play with words. I want to do this too, my mind thinks, and that pushes it to write. What gets written doesn’t remain as important then—the delight is in the process of creating new sentences. That joy, I’ve found, is necessary to get back into writing after a rough period.
And the process is not just about writing down words; there’s a link between the physical environment and the writing process, just like cleaning the house and putting up fairy lights is a reminder that Diwali is here. It takes five minutes to prepare tangibles like a clean desk, a new document, a comfortable seat near the window, and calm jazz hop playing in the background. Once the environment is ready, it acts as an invitation to create.
The tools that you use also are part of the physical process of writing—the position in which you’re sitting (or standing, or lying down). Sometimes, I need to fill my fountain pen with black ink and write in my notepad. Sometimes, I need the speed that typing provides. Each piece has a different rhythm, each state of mind too. I go with what I feel most like doing. The point, when returning, is to return. Completion can wait for a while.
After you’ve cleared your head, created an inviting environment and chosen your tools, what do you write about? Having no direction frustrates me; I like being driven by a topic. Here, brainstorming helps. I used to be a devotee of mind-maps, but lately, I’ve been making a lot of lists. They’re easy and quick; it’s always tempting to add another item. I just need to choose a topic or a theme, and let the words come.
Lists act as reminders; they allow connections to flow. Sometimes, I’ll just have single words. At other times, phrases will emerge. On a few lucky occasions, the points will each stand on their own but still be connected, and I’ll have, without planning for it, a draft for a list essay.
The above are things I’ve figured out through trial and error. I didn’t do everything each time I got back to the page, because every return is different. The first few times, I struggled because I tried to do everything perfectly. I didn’t like what taking a break did to my writing, so I felt that I should establish a system that will prevent such frustration. But the decision to do it right from now onwards only exacerbated it.
Our contexts and habits keep changing and we place unnecessary pressure on ourselves by trying to find a single, final solution to help us when the writing gets difficult. Writing doesn’t have definitive answers. The methods aren’t fixed. We should allow ourselves to adapt to and focus on writing in the present, rather than worrying about preventing future blockages and returns.
All this to say, there will be good times and there will be bad times. Since each is different, we must tackle them differently; there are no uniform solutions to the nebulous process of making art—if it were all predictable, we wouldn’t do it.
Bio: Ratika Deshpande (she/her) just finished her free, online book on the art, craft and business of writing. You can support the project here.
