“For a minor level stuck—a piece of dialogue too on the nose, a telling detail that just doesn’t tell—I stay at the desk. I stare at the wall; I look out the window
at the birds. And then, I fire a spreading burst of words at the page. It is in fact, surprisingly successful, particularly if you are willing to edit dispassionately the next day. Supposing, however, I have achieved a greater level of stuck—piano in a stairwell stuck—I get up from the desk because I know—from long practice—that no amount of pushing will do. I wash the dishes, which have gathered in the sink; I go for a walk; I perform some task that requires attention but not specific thought. Then there are of course the days of slough and despond when writing a coherent sentence seems about as likely as riding a unicorn to Shangri-La (smart money on the unicorn). My strategy here may not be helpful. I lay on the nearest couch and moan like a donkey. I advise only one thing: Put the manuscript down and back away slowly, admitting, finally, that you don’t know what you're doing. What matters is that you give yourself a break. You see, you are a writer, part of a special tribe, whose one great qualification is that not a single one of us knows what we’re going to do until we actually do it. DeLillo said he doesn’t know what he’s thinking until he sees it on the page. Keats said something fancy about negative capability that we should all know. But I’ve always liked what Beckett said and consider it a sort of writer’s prayer: ‘Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.’”
—Sunil Yapa, author of Your Heart Is a Muscle the Size of a Fist (Little, Brown, 2016)
Photo credit: Beowulf Sheehan