Dear Friend,

 

It’s finally, finally here! Spring has reared her lovely head in the Northeast at long last. The Bradford pears and forsythia are blooming. The azaleas are awakening. Tulips adorn the median on Park Avenue. Good times.

 

Of course, the warmer weather also brings that nasty little phenomenon known as “spring fever.” After the dreary winter months, forcing yourself to stay productive at your computer can prove all but impossible.

 

Seems like a good time to discuss writer’s block—spring fever’s not-so-distant cousin.

 

This month’s ezine discusses the best way I’ve found to ward off this literary vampire.

 

What works for you? Please share your tips with me, and I’ll pass them on in future issues—with full credit, of course.

 

Until next month.

 

Mistina

 

 

Ernest Hemingway and Literary Vampires

 

We all have to put fingers to keyboard or pen to paper and string words together. Maybe it’s a memo to the boss. Or a note to Mom. Whatever.

 

In short, we’re all writers.

 

I spent hours as a teenager creating poetry, plays, short stories . . .you name it. But when a teacher assigned a writing project, my fingers froze.

 

Once I had something at stake, I couldn’t perform.

 

Sadly, this hasn’t changed in the last two decades.

 

Despite the pleasure I get from finishing a project, I’d rather tear out my fingernails than start writing something that matters (i.e., someone else will read it).

 

Fear of failure stops me in my tracks.

 

This same fear is often what makes people say, “I can’t write.”

 

That’s fine. We all have things that we don’t like doing. If you’re a writer and you waste a week playing Spider Solitaire, you’ve got a problem. Likewise, if your boss says on Monday she wants a five-page report by Wednesday, you don’t have time to indulge your dread.

 

The secret to getting over this hump? Let yourself write badly.

 

Think of your first drafts as ugly ducklings that you will rewrite into swans.

 

The underlying phobia is that you’ll write something that sounds stupid and all the other kids will laugh and point.

 

Big deal. We’ll talk about that in a second.

 

Just get the words down in all their clumsy, misspelled glory. Thumb your nose at your inner critic, who bears an uncanny resemblance to your seventh-grade English teacher.

 

Ernest Hemingway said, “The first draft of anything is [doggy doo].” (So I paraphrased.)

 

He was talking about his own stuff, too. In fact, the man rewrote the ending to A Farewell to Arms 39 times.

 

How can we expect to turn out perfect first drafts when literary giants can’t? (Maybe a few can and do, but they don’t receive many dinner invitations from their peers.)

 

• Lower your expectations. Don’t focus on quality yet. Write down anything and everything that comes to mind.

• When you’re done, hide the evidence. Tuck your notebook under the mattress. Protect your document with a password. (If someone goes to extreme lengths to uncover this stuff, you have bigger issues.)

• Walk away. Give yourself some time to refresh your perspective.

When you get back to your draft, you may wince at some of the things you wrote. But you’ll likely surprise yourself with how much of it you can salvage.

 

Try it. And let me know how it works out.