How to Beat, Cheat, and Swindle Writer's Block in 6 Steps

Like any writer or blogger I've had several bouts in the ring with writer's block. Just this week, in fact, I've spent far too much time staring at a blank word document as the typing bar appears and disappears like the computer is impatiently tapping it's foot while waiting for me to write something, ANYTHING.

Watching the sky look like a person trying to smile but crying anyway I was suddenly hit with inspiration like a cold fish slapped across one's face. "Hannah, you fantastic fool!" I cried. "You have writer's block, people have been asking you how to cure writer's block, and your blog is even named writer's block. THE ANSWER IS OBVIOUS: You need to go make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and that might give you an idea for your next blog post!" One classy pb&j later I was hit with yet another cold fish of inspiration and well, here I am.

Since you obviously stumbled upon this while searching for the solution to writer's block (that, or you googled "How to beat, cheat, and swindle someone" in which case...get help) the first thing to realize is that everyone who writes deals with writer's block. It doesn't matter if you write novels, screenplays, or automatic cheese grater operator manuals; even the greatest authors experience idea constipation.

"But Hannah," you accuse, "Isn't writing about writer's block only because you can't think of something else to write cheating?" 

...


Be quiet and lets pretend you didn't make that completely accurate observation. As this person who is apparently a writer but I've never read once said,

“Writing about a writer's block is better than not writing at all” 

― Charles Bukowski, The Last Night of the Earth Poems

So sit back, keep your smart aleck comments to yourself, and learn, young writing padawan.

1. STOP.

Staring at that endless blank piece of paper will only drive you insane and give you a blinding headache. Put down the pencil, turn off the computer, and...

2. Go Do Something.

It doesn't matter what, only that you go and DO. Take a bike ride, a bath, or if you're into petty larceny, someone's handbag (though this is not recommended if you don't want to end up writing on prison cell walls.) Basically any activity that will distract you from your dilemma and refresh your brain with new material. Leaving the house and going out among people can really help. Scary, I know, but worthwhile. 

3. Read.

The ultimate key to writing is reading. Reading a well-written novel subconsciously builds your vocabulary as well as installing the patterns of story lines and sentence structures. Not to mention that the right book can hold your breath and attention for hours. 

4. Brainstorm.

When you've spent a few hours or days living life elsewhere come back to that paper, sit, and write out everything that comes to your mind for the next 15 minutes. Random words, sentences, half-baked ideas, let no thought be left behind. When the times up sit back, re-read your paper, and briefly wonder if you're insane. 

5. Form an Idea.

80% of the time you will have at least the fetus of an idea after brainstorming. If the case of Writer's Block is particularly stubborn then repeat steps 1 - 5. Occasionally it just takes time. If you do have an inkling tackle it from out of the bushes so it can't get away then begin to expand upon it via writing.

For example: The scribbled words "Pooh Bear" and "sadness" become "Emo pooh bear" which in turn sparks the idea, "What if Pooh Bear turned emo?" and you begin to write a story. Voila, the brainstorm formula. 

6. Lather, Rinse, Repeat. 

Writer's Block is like a wandering kitten. It comes, it goes, it tunnels into your pantry and refuses to leave for weeks living off of cereal and baked beans. It...it....this metaphor is exhausted. And so will you be if you battle Write's Block. A ray of hope in this is that when you do break the writing barrier if you continue to write often you can stave of blockage for a long time. Eventually you will improve as a word weaver to the point that you don't need that spark of inspiration, you will create it. 

Go forth and write, m'dears. Since I have a wildly exciting social life I'm going to go spend my Friday night as I often do: making dinner, dancing, and singing about cold fried rice to amuse myself. 

May all your goldfish be golden,

Hannah

Once Upon a Time and Some Nasty Watercress

This is my apology for being gone so long. I have brought you a hedgehog.

So I realize its been a few days since I've blogged. Er, a few weeks actually. But thats not important! The important part is realizing that i'm back now and that putting down the pitchforks and disbanding the angry rioters is the wisest course of action. Please?

Good then. So now that you've settled down I feel I owe you something big to make up for my blog silence. And, just to let you know, I have been quite busy these past few weeks. Here are some of the things that I have been doing instead of writing:

- Went to McDonalds for some late-night taters with a group of friends dressed in full, swashbuckling pirate regalia.

- Ate a bell pepper for the first time in about 7 years.

- Spent a Chemestry class taking a equation word problem about a balloon and made it into a tragic drama full of sweeping human emotion evolving a little boy and his blue balloon that ultimately ended in its popping. (The balloon, not the boy.) Thank goodness my teacher has a good sense of humor.

- Ran about 54 or so miles. Not all at once of course.

- Opened blank blog posts, lost interest, and closed them again.

- Went to choose my 17th birthday cake, as usual couldn't decide which one to get, and thus got two birthday cakes. Sometimes it really pays to sit on the fence. And to be the Birthday Commander.

Since i'm getting back to this whole writing groove and I owe you for all those miserable hours of having no new Hannah Hoo to read, I shall tell you a brief impromptu story. Right here. No forethought. Here goes.

Once Upon a Time...

There lived a little girl who loved to explore and hated the taste of watercress. Naturally when her parents loaded their herd of wild children into the dusty pick-up truck for their weekly Sunday Brunch at Grandma's house, Quincy dreaded the inevitable egg salad sandwhich that would be served. Sure enough, the moment the children peeled themselves off the cracked vinyl an army's worth of crunchy egg salad on soggy bread was shoved towards them.

Shuddering, Quincy mulled over a chunk of bread and discreetly deposited the egg salad sandwhich into the closest hiding place; her sister Alice's decorative umbrella folded under the table. Amidst the layers of voices and fluttering of children it was a simple matter for Quincy to escape. She felt like a spy creeping down the moany hardwood halls on the toes of her mary janes. Holding her breath easily in the too-small floral church dress, Quincy slithered around decorative doilies and up stairs until no one could hear her running through the halls and undiscovered rooms.

Sure to check for trapdoors under throw rugs and rooms behind bookcases, Quincy ascended from one level of the house to the next. Mostly all she found was boringly legal and ordinary; a splintery pencil, a wayward roller. But she finally found a taste of adventure in the attic.

Obviously the attic hadn't been visited by humans for several years. Quincy felt like a snowman in a snowglobe of dust. Every move she made resurrected a ghostly wave of white particles that puffed her chocolate hair white and paused on her eyelashes. Like most little girls, however, Quincy cared not. All she wanted was to find an adventure. And that she did.

In the attic, behind the file boxes, under the spare curtains, inside an antique dress form, Quincy discovered a clam shell. When she plucked it from the starchy cotton of the dress form's innards it overflowed in her small hands. There was something about it that made Quincy sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that she had found something special. Maybe the way the marbled surface of the shell had the faintest glimmer at the edges, like the essence on a butterfly's wings. Or how it smelled not of mothballs or baby powder like everything else but like raw, crumbly sea salt.

Quincy set the shell on a trunk and tucked her skirts under her knees. Her stomach shivered in anticipation and she ceremoniously gripped the edges of the shell and opened it. The room was filled with silence and even the dust held it's collective breath.

The shell slid open like praying hands unfolding.

Quincy gasped and stared into the sky.

Not the sky outside the attic window, but inside, framed within the shell. Not a painting either but a real piece of sky, sun rise on one end of the expanse and stars on the other. It seemed as if someone had trapped the entire sky in one sea shell, every last bit spread out and alive. A kite moved, airplanes drew their trails, stars went  about their destined courses and occasionally fell. Quincy was in complete awe. She sat their turning the shell this way and that and finding new details at first hidden. The only thing that could draw her from her trance was a muffled scream from the front yard and Alice's voice, apparently after opening her umbrella surprise, screaming, "QUINCY JANE! GET YOUR SORRY PANTALOONS HERE THIS VERY INSTANT!"

Quincy reluctantly shut the shell and tucked it back into the dress form. Maybe Sunday Brunch wouldn't be so bad next week after all. Even with the watercress.

Right-o...so that wasn't much of a real story but it was all I could think of at the moment. And its getting super late and I feel ill. So farewell, sorry for the wait, and read you next time! Oh, and sorry it took so long to get the pictures. I DO have a life. Sometimes.

Goldfish Balloons,

-Hannah Hoo

Always Bring a Banana to a Dance. Always.

I dived, like a little kid into a ball pit, into the mass of duvets on my bed. Careless, I flung my purse behind me into a corner of my room. There might have been a crash and the sound of cracking glass, but I ignored it and threw my heels after the purse. Was that a cat yowling? Strange, since we don't own a cat. But whatever. I was sinking into a sleepy fog of post-dance.

There are all sorts of pain. There is the pain of closing a car door on your hand: Bad. Or the pain of singing a hymn of sorrow as I flushed my dead goldfish (creatively named Rainbow. Hey, I was like 6!) down the toilet: Bad. Or even the pain that comes when you are reading a book that reads like a dictionary of long words you don't know and weighs as much as a scaly armadillo: Bad. But their are the good kinds of pain, too. Like the pain of laughing so much your face aches at the end of the night. The blisters on your feet (covered in Buzz Lightyear band-aids) from dancing yourself senseless. Or, best of all, the pain of loving your crazy friends so much it hurts. Or maybe that pain was just when Jimmer elbowed by ribs while twirling...

So if you are a wonderful human being (or alien, Dr.Who has opened up so many possibilities ;) then you read that blog post before this one about getting ready for a dance. Well, you'll be glad to know that everything fell in line and I had an amazing time in my high but still surprisingly comfortable heels. Here is a picture my friend Stephy (her blog is http://misschiefmadness.blogspot.com/) 's Dad took of all my friends and I dressed to the nines. (Or, at least the eights.) I know its hard to look at that much beauty at once, look away from the screen if you feel faint.

Voila! Left to Right: Gab, Caity, Steph, Caleb, Laurel, Moi, Abby, Heather, Brandi.

                       No, this is not a cabaret  monkey. He is Steph's brother Caleb with his Dr.Who props.

Thanks, Mr.Steen!

The dance was held at a posh banquet hall. The tables were decorated with candy-corn centerpieces and the food was pretty good but the theme really confused me. Instead of the usual fake-flower trellis they had a photo backdrop of a lit up city. In front was a plastic potted plant and a park bench in a strip of astro-turf. Ok, but what was the theme supposed to be? The Bum I Once Loved? Maybe Once Upon a Mugging? Enchantment at the Bottom of a Brown Paper Bag? 

The room was definitely split into different people groups that occasionally mingled then reformed. There was the tightly knit crop circles of dancers. One corner was the "Tall Awkward People Who Hate Dances" designated corner. Correction, "Mostly Tall and A Lone Short Person" corner. Do super tall people have a dancing phobia I, as a medium-height person, am not aware of? Or a fear of hitting their heads on chandeliers? When it comes to dances short-to-medium people really do seem to be Fun Size. 

The rest of the people were in minority groups. There was the pacing chaparones/photogrophers, the couples that stayed at their table fondling each other all night, and that one kid who circled the dance floor looking at people's feet. Sketchy as an etch-a-sketch and almost worse than the couple prairie-skirt grinding. Almost.

So all and all, a fun night with my friends boogeying and taking cheesy pictures in the photo-booth. Before I end this blog post with the merciful click of the publish button, let me say this.

Guys: Stop being such chickens! Ask a girl to dance. It doesn't have to be romantic, you can ask a friend. If you are a true gentleman, maybe you could ask one of the awkward, shy, or maybe not so pretty girls to dance. Seeing a guy being a gentleman will melt a girl's heart more than any pick-up line or a smooth move ever will.

Dancing on Crushed Candy Corn,

-Hannah

(P.S. The post might seem slightly disjointed because my STUPID, STUPID computer erased everything and I had to re-write it. One day, laptopy, you're gonna end up being recycled into a egg-slicer. Just you wait.)