Charlie the Dog isn't just sleeping--he's busting paradigms.

Welcome to the second installment of Well Put: stuff I’ve read online that’s worth sharing.

I’ve got some good reading material for you guys. Get ready.

First of all: are you feeling stuck?  Trying to solve a dilemma you can’t figure out? Go to sleep!

CAN'T REMEMBER HOW PENS WORK. (Photo by Eden Kennedy)

Oh, friends, I am stuck. Trapped in Writer’s Purgatory. No ideas. No inspiration. No ability to write complete sentences. Send help!

It’s been going on for weeks, now. I start sentences and delete them; I pace around and sit and then jump up to pace some more. I decide to simply jot down thirty ideas, whatever comes out, la la la, because surely that will give me something. But no! I have nothing. NOTHING! Everything rings hollow and false as soon as I write it down. My shoulders are killing me, probably because I’ve been keeping them up around my ears. I’ve been snapping at my husband and son and pets. I stalk around the apartment, banging cabinets open and inhaling all the snacks. I am a delight.

I used to despair when I got this blocked. Oh, who am I kidding–I still despair. I’m despairing! I am trying, however, not to despair with quite as much gusto as I once did. Because  when you go through this enough times, you begin to notice a pattern. And mine is this: I tend to feel blank and used up and terrible just before a burst of productivity and a breakthrough or two. I get frustrated and then more frustrated and just when I’m about to start screaming, something happens. So. Maybe that will happen this time. Maybe something’s going on, in this brain of mine. Maybe it’s not ready for me to gain access to it yet.

The most common mistake any beginning writer makes is talking about the book (story, etc.) they’re writing (or thinking of writing). It’s natural to want to tell someone you’re close to what you’re working on. It is also a bad idea. Finish a first draft, at least, before you talk about your work.

I don’t discuss what I’m writing until I’ve gotten all the way through it. I have to at least be satisfied that I’ve written it out before anyone else can know what it is. I don’t tell anyone–not my friends, my relatives, even my husband. This can be hard. People want to know what you’re writing; they’re excited to hear about it. Tell them you’re superstitious. Or deny you’re working on anything at all. (Maybe don’t lie to loved ones. But acquaintances, sure. Lie away!) It’s that important.

Here’s why: in the beginning, your confidence will most likely not be shaky at best. The last thing you need is to hear yourself telling someone else what will sound to you like the most boring/unlikely/terrible story in the world. You’re not a good judge right now, and anyway all stories can sound bad if you sum them up in a few words. What if James Joyce was struggling through Ulysses and explained it to one of his pals? “This guy, he walks around Dublin. It’s going to be good, though. I know I’m not making it sound great.” His friend raises a skeptical eyebrow and BAM Joyce gives up and all of history is changed and the rest of us don’t have to pretend we’ve read Ulysses.

Even if you share your story with someone who’s excited about it and incredibly supportive, any input she gives might throw you off your game. “That reminds me of this great book I read last year!” (You hear: “You are unoriginal and should give up.”) “You should put in that character you wrote about in your last story–I loved her!” (You think: “But I don’t want to put her in but maybe I should? Or I should give up.”) “I love that story and you are perfection!” (You decide: “I am in fact pure crap and if I write this she’ll find that out, so forget it I give up.”)

Most importantly, though, the urge to tell a story can dissolve once it’s told. Be aware of this. It’s the urge that will keep you going in the beginning. It will keep you working hard to create something people will want to read and understand. Once you tell it, in whatever form, it’s out there. It’s no longer alive in you.

There’s a reason you want to tell this story, and you deserve to respect that, and to see it through. Share it with the outside world, and you’re likely to dismiss it, or lose the need to write it at all. Believe me, I’ve talked out too many stories. It’s a great way to avoid actually doing the work. Don’t let that happen. Keep it to yourself.

Sure, working as a penguin can be tiring. But think of the material! Photo by Toshihiro Oimatsu

Many years ago, before I had Henry, I decided I was done with working in an office. All I wanted to do was write, and there I was, wasting my time, working…for money! Oh, the folly of it! I told myself that the reason I wasn’t getting any writing done is that I didn’t have enough time. Time for loafing, and letting my mind drift. Time to imagine. To allow the muse to descend and grant me her magical powers. I was unclear on what a muse was but I was pretty sure things got magical. Sure, I had time after work, and before work, but I was tired out from my draining day job, and I liked to sleep in, and never mind all that–my future as a novelist could never happen as long as I was working. I need to immerse myself in the writing life!

You maybe can see how this went.

"And we shall lump Grace Paley together with Judith Krantz!" "Agreed!"

Welcome to the first installment of Well Put: stuff I’ve read online that’s worth sharing. This will be a monthly feature, so let me know what you think!

First, Meg Wolitzer takes on the ghettoization of female authors into that dark corner of the bookstore labeled “women’s fiction.” This is scathing, smart, and more than a little infuriating.

A writer’s own publisher can be part of a process of effective segregation and vague if unintentional put-down. Look at some of the jackets of novels by women. Laundry hanging on a line. A little girl in a field of wildflowers. A pair of shoes on a beach. An empty swing on the porch of an old yellow house.

Compare these with the typeface-only jacket of Chad Harbach’s novel, “The Art of Fielding,” or the jumbo lettering on “The Corrections.” Such covers, according to a book publicist I spoke to, tell the readers, “This book is an event.”

Onto happier news: In response to my last post about Lethem and Auster’s makeout session, reader Betsy commented: “Stick with the interviews with women authors.” Duh, I thought. Duh, ME. How are the women managing to find the time to write? And lo, just this week there appeared an article on Charlotte Rogan, first-time novelist:

…she is on the verge of literary success with a critically praised debut novel, “The Lifeboat,” a harrowing tale that Ms. Rogan began shaping more than a decade ago while she was living in Dallas raising her triplets, who are now in college. More than two years ago, Ms. Rogan pulled the manuscript out of a drawer, practically on a whim, and sent it to an agent, who put it in the hands of an editor at Little, Brown & Company. A few months after her 57th birthday, Ms. Rogan signed her first book contract.

Hooray! (Also, I checked, and the cover of her book does not feature shoes. We’re moving on up!)

Finally: Anne Lamott on finding the time to write–or, more accurately, taking back the time you currently spend on stuff that’s less important (like Twitter, or vacuuming):

I often remember the story from India of a beggar who sat outside a temple, begging for just enough every day to keep body and soul alive, until the temple elders convinced him to move across the street and sit under a tree. Years of begging and bare subsistence followed until he died. The temple elders decided to bury him beneath his cherished tree, where, after shoveling away a couple of feet of earth, they found a stash of gold coins that he had unknowingly sat on, all those hand-to-mouth years.

You already have the gold coins beneath you, of presence, creativity, intimacy, time for wonder, and nature, and life.

On that note: I’m off to enjoy Spring Break with my family. Happy Easter/Passover/whatever else, everyone!

When Henry was little(r) and I had no time to think or shower, let alone write, I was convinced motherhood had killed my writing mojo. I kept trying to cram in writing time, usually before sunrise, but I would fall asleep on my laptop and then wake up hours later, having only written BBBBBBBBBBBB for twelve pages.

And then I read this interview between Jonathan Lethem and Paul Auster. I read this seven years ago, mind you, and I still remember it–especially this bit, because it was such an epic bummer to read.

I'm not entirely clear what's going on here. But it's me and Eden!

Eden and I began working on Let’s Panic About Babies, oh, three years before we sold it. It took a while. This is why, if you ask us, say, how many months we worked on the book, we cry a bunch and then hold each other close until the bad memories pass. Here’s how it went. (Eden: According to Alice.)

Oh, look who it is! I should add that I’ve (graciously) invited Eden to contribute, seeing as how she wrote most half of the book.

First, we pitched the idea of a fake pregnancy book to our (then) agent, who hated it. “No one wants to panic,” she told us. “But…but that’s the joke,” we whispered. She remained unmoved. We parted amicably and found a new agent, who was enthused at first but then sort of stopped calling us back. (Eden: If your agent doesn’t return your calls, it doesn’t mean you suck, it means you’re probably not a good fit for each other.) (Alice: Or that secretly you suck worse than you even could have imagined in your worst nightmares.) We found yet another agent. She loved the proposal and wanted to sell it. We figured we’d be published authors in a matter of months. Weeks, even! (Eden: We had blind confidence on our side!)

Charlie the Dog is hiding his cone-shame from us all. If only he could write it out!

Writing, sometimes, is kind of like throwing up.

WAIT WHERE ARE YOU GOING. Come back!

Stay with me, here. If you’re nauseated, sometimes you’re not going to feel better until you…purge. Get whatever’s troubling you out there. (This is the new euphemism I’m going to use for throwing up. “I got the troubling thing out there! All over the back seat of this cab! Oh, this driver’s going to get a big tip.”) It might be unpleasant; you might think you’re going to die–but in the end, you’re going to feel better. But until that moment, if you’re anything like me, you’ll expend a lot of energy trying to deny that whatever is about to happen, is, well, about to happen.

Don't believe in the wall, and it will go away. Photo by Ratanasirigulchai.

It’s easy to say “there’s no such thing as writer’s block,” which is exactly why I’m going to say it.

There’s no such thing. There really isn’t. Just because it’s imaginary, however, doesn’t mean it can’t mess you up.

Here’s the deal, O blocked one: you’re not blocked, you’re panicking. You may not even be aware that you’re panicking, but it’s there somewhere inside you, and all your creative energies are busy creating doomsday scenarios wherein you’ll never write another word again. No wonder you can’t write a thing.

Committing to a public reading is an excellent (and terrifying) way to get your work done. Photo by Jan Merlich.

I would never get any writing finished without a deadline.

Oh, I’ll work. I’ll noodle around and write a paragraph or two and then give myself a high five for how productive I’m being. But when the time comes to get actually get my work finished and in shape enough to show the public, something needs to be at stake. Money. My good name. The well-being of a litter of puppies. SOMETHING.