Lack of inspiration

[*Flutterbies*]

I'm really struggling with a lack of inspiration to write... normally I have loads of ideas but lately nothing. Complete writers block - any tips on how to move past it?

[Alice in Wonderland]

Listen to music? I dunno... a lot of my writing is influenced by song so that's what I'd do.

[Crazy Ivan]

I kind of just wait until it stops. Usually I sit down one day and think, "Hey, I actually think I can write something!" It just happens.
Of course, unless you can somehow make this happen today, this is not a good piece of advice for those who are in a time crunch, so perhaps my post isn't what you're looking for...

[Domoviye]

Try some writing exercises. They're easy to find on the net, and sometimes they do help.
Good luck.

[TWErvin2]

While your "block" is active, work on editing a first draft of a piece. Outline or plot something, instead of writing prose. Read a good novel or anthology of short stories, paying attention not only to the story but study the plot, characterization, dialogue, tone--things like that. Things you can improve upon in your writing.

This way, while you're not making specific progress on a piece, you're still making progress in the writing arena.

Terry

[onyxprop]

write without worring about spelling, grammer or format or envisioning a person reading it. Once you start thinking this piece has to be perfect writer's block will kick in.

[Stinger]

I don't know. I don't believe in inspiration. It's a ugly word to me. I think writer must sit down, f*** himself up, build his story word by word.

[Sayso]

I had a case of writers block last year and branched out into writing poetry instead of my usual stories. I saw the block as a way of my brain saying 'Take a break, you've worked me hard, give me a rest'.

Another thing I once heard that you could try, would be to write about the writers block. You're experiencing it so write down how it makes you feel and what it's stopping you from doing. After all any writing is writing!

You'll get through it easier if you relax and not worry about it I think. :)

[Torana]

Another thing you could try is get a scrapbook and just write anything in it that comes to mind, whether it is just words, a sentence or two or even do a bunch of pictures. Absolutely anything, I have done this many of times.
Also try the music thing, it works for some people, also researching the topic that you are writing about may help, reading a book that is in some way related to your story can often help out.

Well hope that helps in some way. Goodluck with it and try not to stress over it.

~Torana

[mammamaia]

how a mother of five can suffer from lack of inspiration, is beyond me!... ;-)

i had 7 and found plenty to write about... my only problem writing-wise then, was that i had no time to do it! :-(

'inspiration' is everywhere... in what you see/do/hear... on the tv, in the papers, even 'on the street where you live'... stop waiting for it to find you and just look around...

[Evelyn]

"Writing is easy - you just stare at a blank piece of paper until your forehead bleeds."
- Gene Fowler



What I do is just write.

Anything.

Anything at all, just to get words on paper (or on screen). Whatever my thoughts are at the moment, or all about how I'm not having any thoughts.

If I were trying to break a block right now, I might write:

"Raining. I can tell by the sound of the passing cars. The cat is snoring like a little pig again. It's cute, but I wonder if he has adenoids or something. Can cats get adenoids? What are adenoids, anyway?...."

(With luck, that might inspire me to make notes for a really bad story about a cat who wanted to become a pig. Then I might decide it would be more interesting to have the story be about a pig who wanted to become a housecat, and...)


The idea is just to get the words flowing, to get the 'writing' part of your brain warmed up and going. Then later on you can start sneaking in whatever it is you *wanted* to write about :)


If even randomly jotting down your thoughts seems impossible, you might try completing one (or more) of the following sentences:

I hate my ex because....

I like chocolate because....

I hate (that politician I hate so much) because...

I like sex because...


If you can get one word down, you can do two. If you get two words down, you can do two more, and be well on your way to a sentence. And if you can write two sentences...

..well then, heck, maybe you're not blocked any more :)


- Evelyn


PS. If you're stuck about working on a fiction piece, it may help to play with questions like:
- What's the worst thing that could happen to your main character?
- What's the best thing that could happen to your main character?
- What's the weirdest or most interesting thing that could happen to your main character?
And, once whatever it is happens, what's the worst/best/weirdest/most interesting way he or she could respond?

[*Flutterbies*]

how a mother of five can suffer from lack of inspiration, is beyond me!... ;-)

i had 7 and found plenty to write about... my only problem writing-wise then, was that i had no time to do it! :-(

'inspiration' is everywhere... in what you see/do/hear... on the tv, in the papers, even 'on the street where you live'... stop waiting for it to find you and just look around...

Whose the mother of five? If you mean me... they are misscarried angels.

Thanks for all your advice x

[Kincaid]

Whenever writer’s block gets the best of me, I find that I can pull the coolest stories out of simply observing the things that go on around me on a daily basis. I might see someone bending over to tie their shoe, speeding down the street in their car, or even just sitting and smoking a cigarette. These things don’t usually spark an entire story…but parts. Give it a try.

[Handguns For Hearts]

Music. Listen to it.

That is my suggested solution.

[wordwizard]

exercise is key. Gets the blood flowing and gets you out of the sluggish mind phase.

[mammamaia]

so sorry to hear of your losses, flutter... i assumed [wrongly] that you were merely referring to your named living children as angels... i lost one, between #s 6 and 7, but never got to the naming stage...

hope the rest of my advice was helpful, at least...

love and extra hugs, maia

[Peter]

If you're having problems coming up with ideas, maybe you could improvise the story as you go along. I recently read an essay which discusses a couple of techniques for this.

Here's the link.

http://www.galloway.1to1.org/Hamsun.html


Also, here are openings to four short stories which use these techniques, to give you an example of how they work.




Three raps at the door. His eyes opened and blinked as they met the sun rays streaming in through the slight gap between the curtains. ‘Mister Brown?’ called somebody - a girl’s voice.

‘Just a minute.’ He squinted at his wristwatch. 9 o‘clock. He walked to the door and opened it, poked his head out from behind it.

‘That‘s your breakfast.’ She held out the tray as if for approval. A boiled egg and a plate of toast, a wee pot of tea.

‘Thanks, that‘s fine, thanks.’ He took it and shut the door, poured a cup of tea immediately and carried it into the bathroom. He was hot and sweaty and needed a shower. He stared at himself in the mirror. He was quite looking forward to the day. Hearing the girl‘s accent made it even more so. After the shower he started on the grub, ate all the toast but left the egg. He finished the pot of tea then shaved. As he prepared to leave he checked his wallet. He would have to get to a bank at some point.

(’Home for a couple of days.’ - James Kelman)



I wake with the cold, tight-headed, empty sense of an impending family day. Annual leave is precious and it galls me to waste any of it with cousins' brats, my foul auntie and my mother's inevitable tears after a few glasses of Asti Spumante.

There's an unpleasant and unfamiliar odour in the bed beside me. Rolling onto my back, I feel too warm. The side of my thigh suddenly touches flesh, the slight contact eliciting a grunt from someone at my side. Gently retrieving my leg, I lie rigid, trying to recall something, anything. It's not until I hear the burr of light snoring that I can bear to look. Extremely hazy recollections of the latter part of the office party make this almost unbearable.

Who the hell is that? There's a teenage boy in my bed. A smelly angel with a dirty face. I haven't been in bed with a teenage boy since the neighbour's son used to babysit when I was nine. What the **** is going on? Afraid to move or breathe, I wonder if this is what being scared-stiff feels like. It's not just the fact that my bedmate could be anyone – a sleepy burglar, a sensitive rapist. It's trying to remember what happened and none of it explaining this.

(’The Happening‘ - Laura Hird - http://www.barcelonareview.com/35/e_lh.htm



John came back from the kitchen with two cans of beer and sat down along the settee from the boy. ‘The first time I met your mother,’ he said, ‘I was doubled up with pain at the foot of Leith Hill Walk.’

The boy looked up from the comic book he was reading.

‘I hope you‘re not going to embarrass the laddie,’ said Freddie.

'Not at all, not at all. I never did embarrassing things in these days.'

‘Not like now, eh!’

John sighed, tapping the bottom of his can. ‘Give us a break will you Freddy? I‘m telling the boy his family history here, let me get it out, eh?’

‘Aye John, go on there, sorry on you go.’ He peeled the ring pull off and lifted the beer to his lips.

John looked at his can for a second, then put it down on the floor at the end of the settee.

(’Doubled up with pain.’ - Duncan McLean)



Twatt’s looked closed as we turned in off the Lochside road, and started down the rough track.

‘There’s no lights on‘, said Mr MacAndrew.

‘No cars outside‘, said Mrs MacAndrew.

‘Just wait‘, I said. ‘There never are lights. Never cars either.’

‘So how do the staff get here, out in the middle of forgottenhood?’ said Mr MacAndrew.

‘They walk,’ said Catherine.

He didn’t seem to believe her, and craned his neck to peer out at the roadside weeds and the long grey grass of the fields.

‘What’re you looking for, dad?’ said Catherine. ‘A tube station? A helicopter landing pad? A bus stop?’ I laughed.

The track opened out into a wide gravel courtyard with buildings on three sides. ‘The staff all live on site,’ I said.

‘In situ,’ said Mr MacAndrew. ‘In tenebris. In aeternum.’ He sniffed. ‘In extremis.’

(’Twatt‘s Tearoom‘ - Duncan McLean - http://www.scottisharts.org.uk/1/artsinscotland/literature/features/archive/shortstorytwattstearoom.aspx )