Praise for Writing from the Inside Out

"Dennis Palumbo's wise, compassionate and funny Writing from the Inside
Out tells us something that remains a secret in the writing business: Find a
subject as a writer that holds your attention so strongly that you forget
yourself-and you're already in the money."

-Aram Saroyan, poet and novelist

"Finally, a book that will not only help us become better writers, but better
human beings. In Writing from the Inside Out, Dennis Palumbo speaks with a
wise and authentic voice about the trials and joys of both the writing
experience and life itself Filled with humorous stories and practical,
compassionate advice, he feels like the best friend every writer wants and
needs. Both a provocative and completely comforting read."

-Earlene Fowler, Agatha-Award-winning author of Seven Sisters

and Mariner's Compass

"Eminently practical advice on how to untangle the mysterious vines of the

creative process and successfully continue the journey, and it flashes with that
rarest of things-wisdom."

-Richard Setlowe, author, The Sexual Occupation of Japan and The

Black Sea

"In Writing from the Inside Out, Dennis Palumbo talks to you, befriends you,
gains your trust and then, because he is so convincing and effective, teaches
his readers how to capture and become comfortable with the writer's life-the
pain, joy, struggle and reward. He is the perfect teacher and companion for a
writer in need of support and inspiration."

-Lee Gutkind, editor, Creative Nonfiction, and author, Many

Sleepless Nights
 Writing from the Inside Out

Transforming Your Psychological

Blocks
to Release the Writer Within
Dennis Palumbo
 For
Lynne and Daniel,
with love
 Contents

Foreword ix

Acknowledgments xiii

Introduction 1

Part One THE WRITING LIFE

Writer's Block 15

Your "Baby" 19

Inspiration 23

The Buddy System 26

It's Alive! 29

Your "Precious Darlings" 32

Writing Begets Writing 35

Part Two YOU ARE ENOUGH

Simple, but Not Easy 45

What Really Happened.... 49

"For I Have Done Good Work" 53

On the Couch 57

"You're No John Updike!" 61

 Part Three GRIST FOR THE MILL

Envy 69

Faith and Doubt 72

Fear 75

The Judge 79

Double-Barreled Blues 82

Myths, Fairy Tales, and Woody Allen 86

The Long View 91

Part Four THE REAL WORLD

The Pitch 101

Rejection 105

That Sinking Feeling 108

Reinventing Yourself 112

Deadline Dread 115

Three Hard Truths 119

Part Five PAGE FRIGHT

Gumption Traps 127

Procrastination 130

Patience 134

Perspective 138
In Praise of Goofing Off 141

Writing about Dogs 145

Going the Distance 148

Part Six THE REAL WORLD, PART II

Agents 159

Home of the Heart 163

The Unknown 167

Lately, I Don't Like the Things I Love 171

Ageism 175

Part Seven HANGING ON

Commitment 185

News Flash: Writing Is Hard! 189

Burnout: A Modest Proposal 193

A Writer's Library 197

A Stillness That Characterizes Prayer 201

Part Eight DISPATCHES FROM THE FRONT

Phone Call from Paradise 211

The Idea Man 216

I've Cone a Long Way on Paper 220

Loneliness 223
Larry: A True Story 226

Conclusion 239
 Foreword

Be warned:

This is not a how-to book. It offers nary a rule, formula, nor recipe that
will allow you to turn out a best-selling novel or a fabulous, million-dollar
screenplay. Just as well. In the end, most million-dollar screenplays turn out
to be threemillion-dollar screenplays, once the inevitable rewriting frenzy
begins and other hands are called in to rescue the formerly fabulous million-
dollar screenplay.

It is not that handy-dandy kind of book and that is just as well. Never
before have so many of the smugly expert advised so many of the seemingly
inexpert on how to write successfully and on how to become rich and
anonymous (screen and television writers can reap sizeable financial
rewards, but they rarely get anything like famous). The pages that He ahead
provide far more valuable insights and practical tools for the working and/or
would-be writer. Instead of a how-to, what Dennis Palumbo has written is a
how-come hook.

A veteran of the writing wars himself, Palumbo brings fresh insight into
the whys and wherefores of the numerous dilemmas each writer faces, or, at
times, refuses to admit. He encourages the wanna-bes and the already-ares to
confront their concerns, to recognize what lies at the heart of them, to
ultimately turn their demons into constructive, liberating collaborators.

The dreaded writer's block? Dennis Palumbo's take on the subject is as

novel as it has proved successful for a good number of those who have had
the good sense to seek his counseling. What he offers is not a one-size-fits-all
cure, but rather an understanding of the sort of writer's speed bump that can
sometimes seem the size of a mountain. By leading the sufferer to the
underlying truth of his or her particular form of this creative cramp, Palumbo
lays the groundwork for a way not around the problem, but one that goes
right straight through it.

Procrastination? Doubt? Fear of failure? Loneliness? You name it; Palumbo's

been there, done those-in his own writing career and in his artful advice to
others. (Even in the act of writing this brief curtain-raiser, I have (1)
procrastinated finishing it until the very last second of my deadline, (2)
doubted that I was the best choice for this assignment, (3) been dreading how
awful it would be to fail, not writing terribly well about this terribly well-
written book, and (4) thought how lonely it was today-as it is every working
day-to sit down in my solitary room without one person there to say "good
morning" to me.)

For years, I was convinced that I could not write alone, that I needed a
partner or to work as a member of a staff, surrounded by multiple partners. I
had no faith in my ability to produce material on my own. What this wise,
accessible volume makes crystal clear is that no one writes alone, that our
superficial appearance merely represents the outer limits of the complex,
teeming population that resides in each of us: the brave, the fearful, the
confident, the unsure-the braggart worrier who sits not beside but within
anyone with the temerity to pan for the gold that lies hidden in the blank
page or the monitor.

Early on, Palumbo promotes the concept of the Buddy System, the idea
that every writer needs someone who has gone through what you're going
through; someone who is happy to serve as an ear, a shoulder, a kindred
spirit. Someone who gets it: the work you're doing, the town or medium in
which or for whom you're doing it, someone who has been to the same
meetings, been given the same notes by executives, stars, directors, editors,
whoever (probably word for word the very same notes you were given by
someone else about a totally different piece of work). Most importantly, you
need to get someone who gets you. Dennis Palumbo's Writing from the
Inside Out, with Dennis serving as a thoroughly knowledgeable,
compassionate companion, makes him not only a useful friend but one who
is userfriendly as well. He is the buddy every writer dreams aboutthat is, if
writer's block isn't keeping you up all night.

Larry Gelbart
 Acknowledgments

The author would like to thank the following people, without whose help and
encouragement this book could not have been written:

Lisa Chambers and Richard Stayton, editors of Written By, the magazine
of the Writers Guild of America, in which much of this material first
appeared;

David Gorton, Ph.D., Bernard Brickman, M.D., and Jeffrey Trop, M.D.,
for their support and insight; Robert Stolorow, Ph.D., and the members of the
Thursday night consultation group, for helping to make me a better therapist;
Chris Jackson, Don Maass, and Stu Robinson, for their professionalism and
guidance;

Neill Hicks, for the title to Part Five;

And to all my friends and colleagues, including Fred Golan, Mark Baker,
Richard Setlowe, Linda Marsa, Hoyt Hilsman, Peter Levitt, Michael Parth,
Linda Venis, Mark Schorr, Bill Shick, Susan Pembroke, David Levy, Lee
Gutkind, Blayne Phillips, Jim Carolla, Darryl Hickman, Lolita Sapriel, Al
Hutter, and many others, with my sincere appreciation and gratitude.
 Introduction

It's 1978. I'm in a tiny cabin off the beach in Carmel, California, and I'm
literally about to bang my head against the wall.

I've been here almost a week, having sequestered myself in this single
room, six hours north of my home in Los Angeles, to write a screenplay, my
first. The deal's been made, the producer and studio anxiously await the first
draft. Four years, a different studio, countless drafts (by myself and an
additional writer), and dozens of ego-wrenching creative clashes later, the
finished film, called My Favorite Year, will be released.

But that's a long way off, down a road I can't even sce. Right now, in this
lonely cabin, whose "rustic" charm has long since faded, there's no big
Hollywood movie. There's not even a script. There are only eleven or twelve
bad pages, strewn about the room, two wastebaskets filled with crumpled
paper-and me.

My head hurts. My shoulders ache. I pace back and forth, rereading the
same dozen pages—

Which, not surprisingly, doesn't make them any better.

I have to face it: I'm blocked. Stuck. Hate every word I've written, and
have no idea how to make myself write any more.

I glance at the desk clock. Another twenty minutes gone. Lost. Wasted.

The electric typewriter's hum has gotten louder, as if with growing

impatience. But I don't dare shut it off. What if I never turn it back on again?

Finally, filled with equal parts shame and self-pity-has anyone suffered so
much?-I bolt from the cabin, telling myself I need fresh air. The beach is just
beyond, latticed with shadows as the sun begins to dip.

A walk on the beach. Perfect, I think. Outdoors. A change of scene. Just

the thing to clear my mind, get the gears working again.

And, thankfully, no tempting walls to bang my head against.

Writer's block. Procrastination. Loneliness. Doubt. Fear of failure. Fear of

rejection. Just plain ... fear.

What do these all mean? What does it say about you if you struggle with
these feelings on a daily basis?

It's means you're a writer. And that's all it means.

I ought to know. I've been a successful writer for over twenty years, and
I've spent more than my share of time grappling with most of these feelings.

Now, as a psychotherapist specializing in creative issues, I work with new,

struggling writers, as well as some of the most successful in the country.
Screenwriters, novelists, TV writers, journalists. From the unknown to the
famous, from the unpublished and not yet produced to the long established
and award winning. And what do they all have in common?

See above.

The problem is, most writers don't believe this. What they do believe is
that if they just read the right how-to book, took enough writing seminars,
got the best therapy, etc., they could get rid of their doubts and fears, their
"negative" feelings and behaviors.

Or, as one of my writer clients expressed it, "I want to just shove all my
anxieties, that pain and fear, all that crap out the door. Then I could sit down
and write."

But write about what? Those very feelings we yearn to dispel are the raw
materials of our writing, the stuff from which everything we write-including
even our desire to write-emerges. Rather than shoving them out the door, like
unwanted guests who are wrecking the party, I say invite them in. They are
the party. Or, rather, there's no party without them.

Most how-to books, workshops, and tapes promise to rid you of "negative"
behaviors, to impart tips, tricks, and techniques to help overcome your
personal defects so you can write. Intentionally or not, they validate the
belief that who you are is not enough. That there's some other way you need
to be, some improved version of yourself you need to become.

Which is why I've written this book. If there's one principle that guides my
work with writers, one message I fervently want to impress upon you, it's
that you-everything you are, all your feelings, hopes and dreads, fears and
fantasies-you are enough.

And, further, that all good writing starts from where you are now.

Which brings me back to that cabin in Carmel.

It's two days later, and I'm still nowhere with the script. The cabin just feels
like a jail cell. I could walk on the beach again, except I now hate the beach.

I've accumulated even more crumpled paper, scenes begun and halted;
begun again and then pulled angrily from the typewriter. Page after page
wadded into a ball, then tossed through the opened window into a trash
dumpster repositioned there for just this purpose. I'm getting quite accurate at
this. Over-the-shoulder tosses. Left-or right-handed. Eyes closed. Shoots.
Scores!

The dumpster slowly fills with paper. Trees have died in vain.

I'm beginning, I think, to panic.

I feel foolish, stupid, anxious that I've led people to expect something from
me that I can't deliver. Like I often felt as a kid.

Just like when I was a kid. I can almost see that kid, right here and now in
the cabin. I can see him, sitting on the edge of the bed, feeling deflated.
Ashamed.

I wish I could rescue him. I wish someone could. A hero. Like in the
movies.

This brings another image to mind. And now I smile. After all, it was the
thing that had given me the idea for the movie in the first place.

It was back in Pittsburgh, and I was an adolescent listen ing to my Dad

talk about Errol Flynn, his favorite movie star. This was in the late 1950s and
early 1960s, when you could still see old movies on the Late Show.

I remember how often my father would sneak into my bedroom to wake

me at some ungodly hour and get me up to join him in the living room.
There, we'd press our faces against the TV screen so we could hear-the
volume was barely audible, so we wouldn't wake Mom and catch hell; after
all, it was a school night! There, on the old Magnavox, we'd watch Errol
Flynn in The Adventures of Robin Hood or The Sea Hawk.

As I sit in the cabin now, tears form in my eyes: so many memories of my

childhood, and movies, and my father communicating with me the only way
he knew how; a kaleidoscope of yearnings, failings, ups and downs, hero
worship versus reality.

I see, with sudden clarity, what the screenplay is actually about.

Then, abruptly, my memories shift to just last year, in L.A., and my first
actual writing job, on the ABC sitcom Welcome Back, Kotter. I was twenty-
five years old, one of the new kids on the staff, which was just as exciting
and terrifying as it sounds: learning to write, dealing with office politics,
desperate for models, mentors, saviors.

Just as the lead character in my movie is the new kid on staff at the 1950s
variety show he's working on, the one whose guest star that week is a
matinee idol modeled after Errol Flynn....
 I see again, as memory fragments cluster in my mind, as my yearnings
from childhood and my experiences on the sitcom's writing staff weave
together, what the screenplay is all about.

And now, the cabin is no longer a cell, no longer lonely. It's crowded with
memory, feelings, regrets and hopes, people, places, events; and my sudden,
urgent desire to get this all down.

So I begin typing, still in fits and starts, still as unfocused and unformed as
the roughest first draft.

But I'm writing.

And the more I mine the emotional landscape of my own life, the more I
risk allowing the myriad feelings, ideas, and enthusiasms to emerge, the
more I trust the raw materials of my inner world, the better it gets.

This is not a how-to book for writers, in the sense of promising to help you
write that best-selling novel or Oscarwinning screenplay. It's an attempt to
acknowledge and address the real emotions that writers live with every day.
It's about winning the "inner game" of writing, if you will; how to thrive in-
and not just survive-the writer's life.

From my years as a screenwriter and novelist, and the past decade's

experience as a therapist working with writers, I'll try to illuminate and
explore some of the underlying issues involved with writing:

That which keeps us from writing versus that which compels us to write;

My belief that we, as writers, need to embrace the very things that so many
books and workshops urge us to deny or overcome;

That rather than try to dispel our sometimes contradictory, often painful inner
feelings, the goal is awareness and selfacceptance;

How we might better learn to coexist with the entire range of feelings we
experience as writers;
And, ultimately, how to challenge the shaming and selfdefeating meanings we
give to our negative writing experiences, such as

"If I'm stuck, I'm not a real writer."

"If I can't figure out the ending, it means my idea must be lousy."

"Successful writers don't get anxious about their work, so there must be
something wrong with me."

"If this story gets rejected, it means my family was right about me all
along."

It's only by knowing who we are, and accepting this with compassion, that
we grow as people-and as writers. Moreover, if some feeling, painful or not,
is in us, then it's in our readers, our audience. The investigation and
acceptance of our authentic experience, and our willingness to write from
that place, are what make the end result compelling, funny, true.

I'm taught this lesson every day by the clients with whom I'm privileged to
work. Their courage, humor, and perseverance-often against powerful forces
either within themselves or in the marketplace-are an inspiration to me. Their
stories, while disguised or amalgamated in these pages to protect
confidentiality, are nonetheless accurate testimony to the enduring struggle
and triumph of the artistic life.

I hope this book does service to them, and to all those embarking-for the
first time or the hundredth-on the writer's journey.
 Part One
THE WRITING LIFE

A writer is someone for whom writing is more

difficult than it is for other people.

-THOMAS MANN

Many years ago, I spent an extended period of time in a small town in

Massachusetts. As always, I found the New England countryside both
exhilarating and soul soothing. Especially in the fall, when the leaves have
turned, the air has a snap to it, and the sloping hills seem as old and
untroubled as sleeping monks, downy-soft foliage gathered about their
shoulders like holy robes.

I spent almost every morning of that vacation walking along quiet dirt
roads, past old farm houses and barns, and across ancient covered bridges.
Soon I found a favorite spot, near a pond fed by a brisk-moving creek. There
stood an old, venerable water-wheel, ceaselessly turning, weathered beams
creaking. Water sluiced down a valley formed by twin two-by-lours, quickly
filling buckets that hung from rusty wire mesh. I became fascinated by the
water-wheel's repetitive toil, the slow, steady orbit of its wooden spokes, the
soothing sound of the water that propelled it. It must have been a hundred
years old, and yet still did its work.

During my daily visits, that water-wheel came to symbolize something for

me, some notion of constancy, purpose, the wheel of life in its unending
journey back to itself.

Many times since then, in my work as a writer and therapist, I've thought
about that water-wheel and its significance as a metaphor for the writing life.
I've thought about the lessons it has to teach about longevity and the virtues
of constancy and craft; perhaps, too, about how sound construction and
clearness of purpose transcend the vagaries of fads and fortunes.

What constitutes a writer's life? That depends on the writer. There are as
many ways to shape and maintain a writing life as there are writers
themselves. Some writers work full-time at their craft, either indifferent to or
unhampered by financial concerns. Many writers teach, or hold down a
succession of day jobs to support their writing. The poet Wallace Stevens
famously retained his job as vice-president of the Hartford Insurance
Company throughout his notable career.

However you envision your writing life, whatever compromises and

sacrifices you make to sustain it, you share with every other writer similar
concerns, problems, and frustrations. Hopefully, you also share in the
particular joys, both personal and professional, that a dedication to writing
can bring.

In this first part of the book, I'd like to talk about some common aspects of
the writing life, the kinds of issues and concerns most writers face, and
perhaps offer you a new way of thinking about them.

Not quick fixes. Not solutions. Just a different way of thinking that treats
you and your struggles at writing with compassion, hope, and the sure
knowledge that you're not alone.

This could take some time. I see this part, like the book itself, as a journey,
similar to the one each writer undertakes, wherein understanding
accumulates, wherein true awareness emerges from experience, wherein
things in general go deeper, not faster.

Which brings me back, I guess, to that old water-wheel, and to that one
morning, toward the end of my stay, when I watched it operate for a full ten
minutes before finally understanding how it worked. That it's not the
velocity, but the weight of the water in each bucket, that turns the wheel.
 Writer's Block

My new client sat slumped in his chair, face drawn and tired. "I'm here
because ... well, dammit, nothing's coming.... Not a page, not a line.... I'm
totally blocked!"

I nodded sympathetically. But it took everything I had not to extend my

hand and say, "Congratulations!"

Let me explain. After all, prior to becoming a therapist, I spent almost

twenty years as a screenwriter. I know all too well the maddening frustration
of writer's block: I've endured the sleepless nights, the emotional and
intellectual fatigue, the insidious undermining of creative confidence. If
someone had tried to tell me back then that all this was good news for my
writing, I'd have decked him.

And yet, in a way, someone did. I was on assignment from a major studio-
an adaptation of a difficult novel by a famous author, and trying to make it
work as a linear screen story was twisting me in knots. Page after page, scene
after scene ended up in the wastebasket. I felt that old familiar feeling, the
one I mentioned earlier: namely, like I was banging my head against a wall.

And then I had a very particular, very vivid dream. (Given how disturbed
my sleep was at the time, I'm amazed I hit REM long enough to have one,
but I did.) In this dream, I was standing in a broad field while an old-
fashioned biplane buzzed me from the air. The famous novelist was leaning
out of the plane, gesturing toward the rope ladder that swung from beneath it.
He yelled for me to grab the end; all I had to do was jump up and reach for it,
but my feet were planted on the ground. All I kept thinking was, I can't
reach, it's too high, I can't...

When I woke up, I knew immediately why I was stuck on the screenplay.
 I had so much respect for the author, I felt unworthy to adapt his novel. As
long as I felt this way, I couldn't do what I needed to do-discard much of the
middle of the book and totally remake the material for the screen. Which
would make it mine.

The problem, I realized, wasn't with the story. The problem was my
relationship with myself as a writer. Who did I think I was, anyway? That
seemed to be the question. As I struggled to answer it, a funny thing
happened with the script. The words started coming again.

That was many years ago, but I never forgot it. Since then, as a therapist,
I've worked with literally hundreds of writers struggling with writer's block,
and I've begun to conceptualize it differently.

For one thing, there's the semantic problem. Calling it a block invites
writers to break through or overcome something-something obviously
negative-that's impeding the forward momentum of the writing. But if our
first impulse upon encountering something is to break through it, we forfeit
the opportunity to examine it, to find out what, in fact, it is.

In other words, maybe we should stop banging our heads against the wall
long enough to see if it really is a wall.

What if, instead, "writer's block" is a signpost, a harbinger of an

impending transition or passage (kind of like the monolith that keeps
appearing in 2001: A Space Odyssey)? If we think of our writing skill as a
fluid, dynamic thing that grows in subtlety and depth as we gain in
experience and self-trust, isn't it possible that what feels like a block is
instead the balled-up tension presaging another growth spurt?

Imagine it like this: You, the writer, stand on one plateau, staring across a
chasm at another plateau at a slightly higher elevation. You want to make
that creative leap to the next plateau, but your fears and doubts hold you
back. No longer satisfied on the lower plateau, but not quite able to make the
jump to the next, you're frozen in midleap, in the tension between where
you've been and where you're going.
 What exists in that tension-old beliefs, self-concepts, past writing
experiences, etc.-is what needs to be explored and understood. For example,
perhaps you're afraid to discover, if you were to complete your writing
project, that you're not as gifted as you'd hoped. And that this would confirm
your life-long fear that your goals will always exceed your talent. Some
perceived inadequacy or defect might become revealed, exposing you to
shameful self-recrimination. Is it any wonder, in the face of such fears
(conscious or otherwise), you'd stay frozen on that lower plateau?

Thinking about it this way, you might be able to see the block for what it
is: a self-protective mechanism, one probably "installed" in your childhood,
that's continuing on in your adult life. The same risks of self exposure, of
shame and potential humiliation, that might have been present in your early
years may well reemerge as you try to write. And that same defense
mechanism you learned as a child-shutting down emotionally, suppressing
your natural creative expansiveness-will also reemerge. Only you'll call it
writer's block.

Here's another example, from my private practice: I once had a novelist

client whose block, when we finally were able to understand it, had a very
specific function: Throughout my client's childhood, his Socialist father
raged against all authority figures, the "big shots" who kept the little guy
down. Now, as a writer whose work was slowly bringing him some
recognition, my client had feelings of anxiety and dread; at a level below his
conscious awareness, some part of him felt he would betray his late father's
ideals by becoming too successful, by becoming a big shot, one of those men
for whom his father had nothing but contempt. For this writer, being blocked
was a way to forestall this; if he couldn't finish his work, he wouldn't become
rich and famous, thus severing a deeply felt tie with his beloved father.

Invariably, once a writer fully experiences and integrates the lessons a

block has to teach, his or her work deepens in richness, emotional truth, and,
often, personal relevancy. Moreover, the next time such a block appears, the
tools are available to explore it, understand it, and work through it until the
writing starts flowing again. And another plateau has been reached.
 So give yourself a break. You can get there from here, not despite your
writer's block, but because of it. It means you're ready-or, probably, more
than ready-to make that important next step in your writing.

And that sounds like good news to me.

 Your "Baby"

I'm often asked what my main goal is when working with creative clients. Of
course, this question has many answers, depending on what issues my client
brings into the therapy session. But among the myriad goals, both
professional and personal, that we strive to address in our work together, one
salient concern seems to emerge: that the client develop a benign relationship
with his or her talent.

What do I mean by this? To answer, let me ask a question: Do you treat

your craft, your writing talent, the way you were treated as a child?

For example, if you were subject to intense criticism and judgment as a

child, are you as critical and demanding of your writing?

Or maybe your parents needed you to be the perfect little boy or girl, to
not make any mistakes. Do you subject your writing to the same conditions?
As parents often need a child to be perfect to enhance and maintain good
feelings about themselves, do you require perfection from your writing to
validate you?

I'm often struck, in session with clients, at their displays of rage, disgust,
and disappointment with their work. As though, if they could just threaten, or
cajole, or reason with their writing talent, it would come around in some
way.

I once had a client, frustrated with new pages of a novel she was writing,
bring them into my office just so she could tear them into pieces in front of
me. She hated her work and what she felt it "said" about her.

As we explored her feelings, what emerged was the memory of countless

caustic, disdainful outbursts from her father, who made it quite plain how
disappointed he was in her. Now, as an adult, the meaning she gave to her
own work when it disappointed her was that it exhibited the same
unworthiness as she apparently had, and deserved nothing less than her
contempt.

What got me thinking along these lines was something that happened to
me many years ago. Driving home from a party, I realized I'd left my best
jacket back at the home of my host. Angry with myself, I turned around and
headed back, the whole time cursing myself under my breath for my
stupidity and forgetfulness. You'd have thought I'd committed the crime of
the century. Over a jacket, for God's sake.

Then suddenly I stopped, as though hearing myself for the first time. I
imagined myself at six years old, sitting in the seat next to inc, and that the
child had left his jacket at the party, and I'd been speaking this way to him.
The angry, shaming words turned to ashes in my mouth.

I never forgot that moment, and I see it played out in similar fashion every
day in my practice: writers who berate their talent when it doesn't perform up
to their expectations, writers locked in an antagonistic, adversarial dynamic
with the "child" that is their writing.

Ironically enough, these same writers often refer to their novel or

screenplay as their "baby." Except, who the hell would treat a baby the way
they treat their work?

If your six-year-old came to you with a drawing he did in art class, would
you respond by saying, "You call that a picture? If that's the best you can do,
maybe you ought to think of another line of work. And, besides, how do you
think it makes me feel, having a kid who draws so badly? I'm embarrassed to
call you mine."

How enthusiastic do you think that six-year-old would be about showing

his next piece of work to you?

The preceding scene sounds ridiculous, of course, and unbelievable-but

many writers engage in a similar interior dialogue with their work every day.
 This brings me back to what I believe is a fundamental goal for every
writer: to develop a benign relationship with his or her talent.

As a writer begins to accept and trust himself or herself, it becomes easier

to accept and trust the writing that emerges and see what it has to teach, no
matter what he or she thinks of it. Like a loved and valued child, the work
will have the freedom to explore, risk, make mistakes, take wrong turns,
whatever.

And for you, the writer, every scene, every page doesn't become your life
and your death, the determiner of how okay you can feel about yourself that
day.

Ultimately-like a caring, supportive parent who's pleased merely because

the child drew a picture at all-for the writer a good scene becomes one you
write, a good story one you finish.

And a good day at the word processor is one where you just show up and
do it.
 Inspiration

One of my favorite moments in Neil Simon's play The Odd Couple occurs
when Oscar invites the Pigeon Sisters down for dinner, and a reluctant Felix
is trying to make conversation with the ebullient young women. Asked what
he does for a living, Felix tells them he writes the news.

"Really?" says a Pigeon. "Where do you get your ideas?"

Most writers know this question, having been asked it by friends, family,
casual acquaintances, and every repair person who visits the house. Getting
"the idea," or the inspiration to tell a story, is part of the lore of writing, the
mythology of literary creation.

When asked how she got the idea for Harvey, playwright Mary Chase
replied, "I looked up from the breakfast table one morning, and there he
was."

This is the kind of story that can give new (and not so new) writers an
anxiety attack: the belief that a milliondollar idea just "comes to you," that
the lucky few are visited by the spirit of creativity and originality. Even
Shakespeare, in his prologue to Henry V, implores the gods to inspire him:
"0 for a Muse of Fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention-"

Most of us, when having breakfast, rarely encounter an invisible six-foot

rabbit. Or a Muse of Fire, for that matter. We encounter the blank page, the
empty computer screen.

The idea of "inspiration," as it's commonly understood, does a great deal

of damage to writers. For one thing, it devalues craft, which I think is the
most important part of writing. It also, as I've cautioned before, reinforces the
notion that the writer himself or herself is somehow not enough. That some
special talent or knowledge or divine gift-something outside of the writer-is
necessary.

What makes any discussion of inspiration so difficult is that writing is

such a special, intangible, fragile processand, at the same time, a demanding,
back-breaking, often unforgiving task.

Inspiration, by its very nature, cannot be grasped or looked for, and

certainly not commanded to show up. It emerges, unbidden; embedded, I
believe, in the deepening layers of craft a writer develops.

I often recommend a book by George Leonard called Mastery to my writer

clients. It's a short, simple defense of the concept of "practice," of craft for its
own sake. Leonard contends that the peaks of achievement, whether in the
arts, sports, or any area of endeavor, come from a love of the day-to-day
practice of the thing. Because the truth is, in any consistent endeavor, you
spend most of the time not on the peaks but on the level ground, where you
rarely see any noticeable improvement. If you just live for, or get pleasure
from, the peaks, you never grow. Love the craft, the practice of your art, and
the peaks will come.

I conceptualize inspiration in the same way. Learn the writer's craft, write
regularly, grow to love the practice for its own sake-and inspiration will
either come on a particular day or it won't, but you'll have prepared the way
for it.

The professional writer, the true craftsperson, understands the pragmatic

wisdom of Leonard's advice. As Albert Morovia said, "I pray for inspiration
... but I work at the typewriter four hours a day."

That's fine, you may be saying. If you're a poet or a songwriter. But what
about writing that has deadlines, impatient producers, that has to meet the
sometimes formulaic demands of film and television?

Okay, let's look specifically at screenwriting. Though in many ways

perhaps the most pragmatic of literary tasks, even it lends itself well to this
approach. As your craft attains depth and consistency, as you master the tools
of storytelling and character, you create an environment available to the
nuances of inspiration-even within the strict narrative and commercial
confines of the form.

Moreover, you may develop, as Leonard suggests, the understanding that

the true love of something comes from the doing of it, not from its more
obvious fruits. As one of my clients put it at the end of a long personal
struggle to accept the ups and downs of his writing career, "Love the process,
not the pay-off "

Given the shifting winds of fortune that accompany any writer's life, the
smart money is on craft, practice, the doing of the thing.

If inspiration shows up, so much the better.

 The Buddy System

At the end of Arthur Conan Doyle's The Sign of Four, Dr. Watson announces
to Sherlock Holmes that he's decided to get married. "Honestly, I cannot
congratulate you," Holmes replies, in his usual sharp-edged manner. He then
tells Watson quite bluntly that all the marriage means to him is that he's
losing a partner.

I'm reminded of that scene from the novel because of something similar
that happened recently to one of my writer clients. His best friend, also a
writer, had just announced that he was moving back East to work in another
business. Though these two were not writing partners, they'd met here in Los
Angeles years ago, become friends, and had taken turns supporting each
other's careers. For my client, his friend's upcoming move was a devastating
loss.

"He was that one guy I could call up at 1 A.M.," my client explained. "The
one you could bitch to about anything in this business, and he'd know exactly
what you were talking about. The one you could always count on to be on
your side, who never lied to you-except those times when you needed a
comforting lie, if you know what I mean."

I know exactly what he means. It's what every writer really needs, maybe
more than an agent, a computer, or even a shrink. What every writer needs is
a buddy.

Remember the buddy system? When we were kids in swimming class, we

were always advised to swim with a buddy. When teachers lead school kids
across the street, isn't each child instructed to hold hands with another child?

The buddy system recognizes the need for support in navigating new
developmental stages or mastering new physical skills. Even as adults, we
acknowledge the need for this kind of help when learning a new task. Scuba
instructors require that students dive with a buddy. The same goes for
learning to rock climb, skydive, a whole range of sports.

Even when it's not officially named as such, the buddy system helps us get
through the thornier patches in life. In high school, what is double-dating but
an excuse to do a new, frightening social event with the security of a friend
having to go through it with you? The same holds true for politics. When
attempting to reach the highest office in the land, every presidential
candidate has a running mate. A constitutional requirement? Maybe. I say it's
the buddy system in action.

In Hollywood-perhaps, next to politics, the thorniest patch of all-writers I

know seem to gravitate naturally toward a buddy. This is usually, but not
always, another writer; someone who understands the vocabulary of the
town, the particular joys and pains of pitch meetings, rewrites, and
development deals.

Someone who, to put it simply, gets it. And, more important, gets you.

When I was a screenwriter, my best friend-a writer and director-performed

this service for me, as I did for him. We'd call each other after bad meetings,
replaying the events and offering encouragement. He was the only one I'd let
read an unfinished script I was struggling with, confident that he'd be incisive
and supportive in just the right measures. He knew my writing style and
sensibilities so well, he'd know exactly where I was trying to go with the
scriptoften, before I did. And, according to him, this was something I was
able to provide him as well.

Though they may not think of it in terms of a buddy system, most of my

writer clients have this same kind of relationship with at least one other
person in their lives. The one friend who offers clarity in difficult, confusing
situations. The one person who tells you when you're "way outta line." The
one whose "bullshit indicator" you trust completely. The one you can call at
1 A.M. The one person in an often wrenching, contradictory, heart-breaking
business that helps you feel less alone.
 Agents come and go. So do assignments, good ideas, flush times, and lean
times. But for a writer, the buddy systemthe long-term, ongoing relationship
with that one intellectual, emotional, creative soul mate-is a treasured
constant.
 It's Alive!

Earlier, I suggested that writers need to develop a benign, fluid, mutually

sustaining relationship between themselves and their writing process.
Instead, writers often think of their work as a disappointing child to be
shamed or bullied into performing, a hunk of stubborn matter to be beaten
into shape, a recalcitrant creature to be broken into dutiful (and respectable)
profitability.

Certainly the marketplace reinforces this notion. Films, television, and

published fiction have never been so derivative and premise driven. Each
new movie, new novel, new TV series is more high-concept than the last.
The goal-oriented requirement to hammer the chaotic impulses, yearnings,
and half-formed ideas in your head into saleable product has never been
more intense. To think otherwise is to seem unrealistic, a dreamer, a fool.

Or, worse, an artist.

The problem is, such success in the marketplace-while desirable within its
own context-can't be achieved by simple will. Writing that produces prose
that people want to read and film footage that people want to see emerges
from the irreducible, personal aspects of the writer's interior life. (And all the
how-to books and writing software in the world cannot alter this fact.)

In other words, to the extent that you view your writing as a living thing, a
process by which you are engaged in a kind of moment-to-moment dialogue
of discovery and reflection, this is the extent to which you have a chance to
produce vivid work, work that people respond to, work that sells.

The idea of the writing process as a dialogue, an interactive exchange

between artist and artifact, is not new. Recently, author and academic Robert
Grudin, in his book On Dialogue: An Essay in Free 77hought, expressed the
concept quite well: "The moment you have committed a sentence to paper,
the paper declaims that sentence back to you, as another person might. The
assembled letters on the page are other than you: yours, yet not wholly yours,
for by writing them in language you have entered a forum that is shared by
your whole culture. As your manuscript grows, your relationship with it
becomes more complex.... You may assert that it is under your control, but
you forget the controls it exerts on you: The fact that as a writer you are
simultaneously a reader, being pulled and pushed by what you have done."

What Grudin underscores here is writing as a living thing, a dialogic

process, in which you and your writing create together that which is being
written. Until, at some point familiar to all writers, you might come to a
scene where a character-call him Bob-is to say or do something, and you
stop, thwarted, because you know Bob wouldn't say or do that. The character
has taken on a life real enough to conflict with your carefully predetermined
plans for him. As temporarily inconvenient as this might be, the smart writer
knows this is a good thing. It means the work is alive.

That, ultimately, is the writer's risk, and paradox. To succeed in the

marketplace, he or she has to risk setting aside marketplace concerns long
enough to stay engaged in organic contact with the writing process in all its
permutations, its myriad enthusiasms and disappointments. Which is what
makes it such an exciting, terrifying, and amazing business, and not for the
faint of heart.

As Grudin says, "You cannot package and distribute living ideas. You
cannot manage them; they manage you. To interact with living ideas you
need a mode of understanding, a method of interpretation, that is open,
generous, forgiving, unpunctuated." In other words, like dialogue at its
bestfree, spontaneous, deepening in insight and imagination.

Just as this kind of interaction with another person informs, enlightens,

and emboldens us, so can a sense of our writing process as an ongoing
dialogue between ourselves and our work keep it fresh, alive, and potentially
compelling to others.

More important, conceptualized this way, our work process contributes to

our growth both as writers and people.

To put it another way (and giving Grudin the last word), "If my
relationship with a text is dynamic enough, I am rewritten by what I write."
 Your "Precious Darlings"

Every writer has them-those great lines of dialogue, that particularly vivid
descriptive passage, the one stubbornly insistent joke that never fails to crack
you up whenever you insert it into a scene, whether it belongs there or not.

I'm talking about what William Faulkner called a writer's "precious

darlings," those favorite phrases or sentences or even whole scenes that-no
matter how well written, how ground breaking, how personally
aggrandizing-simply don't work in the piece you're writing. They're either
repetitive, or beside the point, or distract from the tone and/or narrative flow
of the story. For whatever reason, they've got to go. Blue-penciled out. In
Faulkner's famous advice, you've got to "kill" them.

But, boy, they die hard! I remember, during my years as a TV writer, one
joke in particular that I just loved. I originally wrote it for an episode of the
ABC series Welcome Back, Kotter. It didn't get past the first rewrite. I
resuscitated it again for a screenplay I did a few years later. The producer
hated it, and out it went. I swear, for the next ten years or so, I tried to shoe-
horn the damn thing into almost every script I wrote. It was like the Flying
Dutchman, the Brigadoon of jokes that kept reappearing out of the mists. The
Joke That Wouldn't Die.

Even I knew, after typing it in (and crossing it out) over a dozen times,
that there was something perverse in my continuing to try to make use of it.
Yes, I thought it was funny-though, now that I recall, it wasn't that hinny.
But there was something else going on . . . and it wasn't until recently that it
occurred to me what it might be.

A writer client of mine was describing a descriptive passage she really

loved, one that she'd used in a number of short stories (whose editors had
deleted it), and that she was determined to use again in a novel she was
writing. As we explored her seeming unwillingness to discard this precious
darling, we discovered that a number of deeply felt meanings were associated
with this particular piece of writing. In her mind, it was the first "strikingly
original" (her words) description she'd written, the first that made her feel
less derivative of the writers she'd always admired; the first thing she'd
written, in fact, that made her feel "like a real writer." Given these powerful
feelings of validation for both her craft and ambition, was it any wonder
she'd be loathe to "abandon" the words that had provided it?

As I thought about this, I came to understand why writers often report the
need to continue submitting magazine stories that have been repeatedly
rejected, or pitching the same movie or TV series idea year after year, despite
having failed to find a buyer. The meaning these particular stories or ideas
have for these writers lies much deeper than their artistic worth: It has to do
with the associations the writer makes with them. Maybe it was the first
comedy the writer came up with, confirming that he or she indeed was
capable of doing so. Maybe the novel represented the first time the writer
revealed some intensely personal aspect of his or her own life, and a sense of
loyalty to doing so keeps the writer steadfastly committed to seeing it
published.

Even in my case, with the Joke That Wouldn't Die, I finally found a hint of
the underlying cause of my apparent unwillingness to just let it go. Thinking
back to my days as a staff writer on Welcome Back, Kotter, I recalled one
writer-producer whose joke-writing ability really dazzled and intimidated me
and whom I desperately wanted to impress. And though my joke didn't make
it past the first rewrite (it didn't belong in the scene and was a good cut), this
guy had found it hilarious. He even mentioned to me the next day how much
he'd liked it, and how sorry he was we'd had to cut it.

Now, as I reflect back with some embarrassment on all those times I tried
to slip that joke into some poor script in which it didn't belong, I think I
understand more about that joke's staying power with me. After all, it had
made one of my joke-writing idols laugh; it had represented my entry into
that august company of writers I admired; it had evidently proven, at some
level below my conscious awareness, that I was funny. No wonder I'd been
so faithful to it in return. I owed it, big time.

Maybe you can remember that the next time you're having a tough time
killing a precious darling. Don't be too hard on it, or on yourself. And when
you do finally have to kill it-and you probably will-make it as painless as
possible. Some part of yourself, small though significant, may be going with
it.
 Writing Begets Writing

So far, we've talked about (among other things) writer's block, the buddy
system, and the sad fact about killing your precious darlings. All of which,
however, are subsumed under what I modestly consider the One and Only
Cosmic Truth of the writer's life.

It's a maxim I repeat to my clients so often that it's in danger of becoming

a mantra-or, at the very least, a bumper sticker. Not exactly earth shaking, or
even that original, it goes like this: Writing begets writing.

Simple enough, and I think quite able to stand up under rigorous

examination. Regardless of the issues a writer struggles with-creative blocks,
procrastination, fear of failure, etc.-the very act of writing tends to stoke the
energy, continue the flow, direct the current of further writing.

Writing begets writing. If you're stuck on a difficult scene, write it

anyway. Write it badly, obviously, burdened with cliches. Write it in verse.

If you're frustrated at being stuck, or angry at yourself for your artistic

limitations, write about that, as a journal entry, pure stream of consciousness.
Write out your obsessive, self-shaming thoughts as a Dennis Miller-inspired
rant. But write about them.

Or, if you're in a productive mood, give those angry, self-critical feelings

to a character in your script or story. If there isn't a likely candidate, invent
one. There is one, anyway: you. Your anguish and doubt, fears and
frustrations, are as elemental and vital to what you're writing as any character
or plot point. Might as well make use of this fact.

Writing begets writing. Just as worrying begets more worrying. Obsessing

begets more obsessing. Pacing back and forth begets more—
 Well, you get the idea.

When you risk writing from where you're at, you set in motion a whole set
of internal processes. The first rotten sentence you write has a life you can
inhabit, evaluate, cross out. To be replaced by a second, hopefully less rotten
sentence. Maybe a good piece of description, a nice turn of phrase, a sharp
line of dialogue.

Then again, maybe not. But it doesn't matter. Just keep going. Write the
scene, let the characters talk to each other. As novelist and screenwriter
William Goldman reminds us, some scenes you write are just "sludge." But
they're important connective tissue. They keep things moving. Links in a
chain. Weak links, perhaps, but you can always go back and strengthen them
later.

With what? The knowledge that you've written, for one thing. Because
writing doesn't just beget writing. It also begets-and reinforces-the reality
that you can write. That pages will accumulate.

Carl Jung said, "Neurotics are people who refuse to suf fer." He was
referring to people who respond to life's painful events by obsessively
reliving them, or blaming themselves for not preventing them, or wishing to
be someone to whom such things didn't happen-all to avoid truly
experiencing the grief, disappointment, and sense of loss that such events
evoke.

From the writer's standpoint, "refusing to suffer" means that relentless

worrying and obsessing, however painful, are experienced as potentially less
painful than what might result from actually doing . . . that is, writing. (In
other words, excessive ruminating isn't just a type of procrastination. It's
actually a form of self-protection.)

Is it painful to write badly? Hell, yes. Is it more painful not to write, and
leave yourself open to shaming, self-critical meanings that you have to carry
around every day? I think it is. Because any writing that gets done, good or
bad, means you're on the path, struggling with your material, on the job,
being a writer.
 Harold Clurman, the famed theater director, was asked once if he lamented
the number of bad plays on Broadway. He said, "No, bad work is the manure
from which good work emerges."

Believe me, we've all written manure. But, as Clurman suggests, that's
okay. It prepares the ground, nourishes the soil. It's part of the writer's
foundation, the layers of experience and craft, like strata in the earth. To push
the metaphor to the limit, bad writing-like manure-is as inevitable as the sun
and the rain, and just as important for growth.

Every hour you spend writing is an hour not spent fretting about your
writing. Every day you produce pages is a day you didn't spend sitting at a
coffee shop, bitching about not producing any pages.

So pick your favorite quote. Jung or Clurman. Analyst or artist. It all

comes down to the same thing.

Writing begets writing.

Not writing begets ... well, not writing.

You do the math.

 Part Two
YOU ARE ENOUGH

When the last dime isgone, I'll sit out on the curb
with a pencil and a ten-cent notebook, and start the
whole thing all over again.

-PRESTON STURGES

It's a growth industry-the hundreds of books, tapes, and videos available on

the craft of writing; the multitudes of conferences, seminars, and workshops
(some of which I've taught myself over the years); the teachers and coaches
and gurus promising to reveal the secrets of the "can't-miss" premise, the
"never-fails" plot structure, the "you-can't-help-but-love-'em" lead characters.

But in the cacophony of instruction and inspiration competing for the

writer's ear, it seems to me a quote from Ray Bradbury emerges from the din.
"There is only one type of story in the world your story."

In all the writing classes I've ever taught, that was always the first quote I
put on the blackboard. And now, as a therapist, the essence of that quote is
what underlies my support for clients struggling to write out of the depths of
their own particular truths, no matter how painful or contradictory.

I recall an incident, years ago, when I was screenwriterin-residence at San

Francisco State University. I was working with a group of young writers-to-
be, one of whom had just read a scene from his script, a political thriller, to
the rest of the class. Unfortunately, the scene-in which the hero is trapped by
bad guys in a dingy back alley-was flat and unin-volving, though the writer
clearly had talent. Moreover, the writing itself seemed tentative, careful.
 I asked the writer what would happen if, instead of his hero, he himself
were the guy trapped in that alley.

"You mean, if that were me?" He suddenly became quite animated, as he

described the sequence of scary, funny incidents that would befall him. A
scene emerged that was unique, and particular to a very specific sort of
individual-a guy like himself. A human being.

"But this guy's gotta be a hero," he said afterward. "Like in the movies."

"He is," I replied. "Your hero."

The problem with this student's scene was his attempt to portray what a
hero should be like. The writing seemed tentative as a result of the tension
within him caused by the effort to exclude his own feelings, doubts, and
impulses, as though they were inappropriate for a movie hero.

The irony-and the point of Bradbury's quote-is that all writing is

autobiographical. Even the student's attempt to write a hero "like in the
movies" revealed an aspect of his autobiography; namely, his belief about
how a hero needed to behave.

Like it or not, our writing reveals who we are.

The story doesn't matter. The genre doesn't matter. Even if you're writing a
historical novel about Sir Francis Drake, your autobiography informs that
story: your own attitude toward heroics, what sources you choose to
research, vague memories of some pirate movie you saw as a kid, your
fantasies about the "freedom of the seas" or whatever. Even your concern
about whether or not your novel will be commercial is part of your
experience writing it.

On the plus side, it's one of the paradoxes of writing that the more
particular and personal a detail in character or story, the more powerfully its
impact generalizes out to the audience. (The specifics of Rocky Balboa's life
in the first Rocky film were shared by few in the audience, I'm sure, but
everyone understood what he meant by "going the distance.")
 I repeat: All writing is autobiographical. The more you can accept and
acknowledge this, the greater the extent to which you can mine your own
feelings and experiences to give shape and texture to your work.

Of course, to write from this place, the core of who we are, is damned
hard. Often the results are just painful, ambiguous, unformed. Maybe there's
something wrong with me, the writer thinks. Maybe I'm not enough.

That's why writing seminars and workshops flourish; why how-to books
on writing are perennial sellers. Intentionally or not, they validate our belief
in some key or technique that ensures success; something outside of
ourselves that we need to learn or to become.

And, yes, every writer needs to learn story construction, needs to develop
craft. But the most important thing a writer needs is the awareness that he or
she is enough. That one's feelings, enthusiasms, regrets, hopes, doubts,
yearnings, loves, and hates are, in fact, the raw materials of one's writing
talent.

"There is only one type of story in the world your story." Which means
only you can tell it, no matter what form-thriller, romantic comedy, sci-fi
adventure-it takes.

This reminds me of another quote I like, from Ralph Waldo Emerson, a

pretty fair writer himself. He said, "To believe that what is true for you in
your private heart is true for all men-that is genius."
 Simple, but Not Easy

Now I want to talk about the most important thing a writer must know how
to do-which, for lack of a better phrase, is just to get out of his or her own
way. Or as cellist Pablo Casals said about playing music well, "Learn the
notes and forget about 'em."

Simple, isn't it? You have a story to tell, plot beats to tell it, characters to
live it, and the will to write it. (You may even have a deal to deliver it.) All
you have to do is get out of the way and let the writing happen.

Like I said, simple, right? Hmmm ...

As a former teacher of mine once remarked, "It may be simple, but it ain't
easy."

For years, as a writer, I struggled to get out of my own way, without really
understanding what that meant. The phrase always had a kind of down-home,
common-sense, don't-make-such-a-big-deal-out-of-it quality that made me
frustrated with myself for my difficulty in achieving it. (Similar to my
response to the advice to just "be myself" whenever I was anxious about
some upcoming interpersonal conflict. Again, simple but not easy.)

As it's generally understood, getting out of your own way implies

somehow putting aside the anxieties and doubts, ego concerns and career
pressures, mental blocks and critical inner voices-pick your favorite pet term-
that stand between you and the effortless flow of writing. As though, if you
just did enough therapy, or meditated enough, or manifested enough positive
energy, you could disavow all the "stuff' that gets in the way of your
creativity.

If only, in other words, you were different from who you are.
 Because the simple fact is, we do bring our "stuff' to the writing, stuff that
runs the gamut from the ridiculous to the sublime, the irritating to the
overwhelming. Some writers can't get past their fear of failure; some struggle
with a nagging sense of inadequacy regarding their talent; some feel the
pressure of being unknown and thus feeling powerless (or even, ironically,
the reverse: Norman Mailer once talked of the feeling of creative paralysis
that came over him after he'd achieved fame. "It wasn't just me sitting down
to write," he said. "It was Norman Mailer sitting down to write. I had to live
up to him.")

Add to that the relationship issues, financial pressures, marketplace

fluctuations, and sense of isolation that writers must contend with on a daily
basis-and suddenly the amount of stuff you're supposed to put aside in order
to get out of your own way starts to feel like a veritable mountain of personal
baggage.

That's because it is. Each of us lugs around enough baggage to warrant the
name Samsonite. It's the trait we share with every other human being. Our
stuff is who we are. Our hopes and fears, loves and hatreds, fantasies and
habits and prejudices and favorite movies and the way we tie our shoes and
whether we like asparagus and on and on and on. That's us. Human beings.

One particular subset of human beings, those who write, have all the same
stuff as the rest of the tribe, except for the need and desire to write about it.
We may call what writers write stories, or scripts, or novels, poems, or songs.
But what writers really do is write about their stuff, in a language or medium
or form that makes what they write understandable to others. In other words,
stuff talking to stuff.

Now comes the paradox. If I, the writer, get out of my own way-that is,
put my stuff aside so I can write-what's left to write about? My stuff is the
raw material of my writing.

In fact, I'll go out on a limb and just say it: There is nothing but stuff.
Which is great, because that means I'll never run out of raw material. As long
as I'm a human being, I have an inexhaustible supply.
 Wait a minute. I began by stating that the most important thing a writer
had to do was get out of his or her own way. Haven't I just challenged this
statement? No. I'm challenging the conventional view of what that means.
From my perspective, a writer who invites all of who he or she is into the
mix-who sits down to work engulfed in stuff, yet doesn't give these thoughts
and feelings a negative connotation; who in fact strives to accept and
integrate whatever thoughts and feelings emerge-this writer has truly gotten
out of his or her own way.

From this standpoint, only by labeling a thought or feeling as either good

or bad, productive or harmful, are you potentially getting in your own way,
restricting your creative flow.

Getting out of your own way means being with who you are, moment to
moment, whether you like it or not. And then being with your liking or not
liking it, and writing from that place.

Whew! As I said, simple but not easy.

 What Really Happened. . . .

As you know by now, I believe all writing is autobiographical. No matter

how seemingly removed in time and space from the reality of your own life,
you're writing about yourself. Even your impulse to tell a particular story
arises from an aspect of your interior world.

That said, I want to recount an interesting session with a writer client

whose short story was getting repeatedly rejected. The story was based on a
powerful event from her childhood, one that we'd explored often in therapy-
which had in part prompted her to use it as the basis for a work of fiction.

She sat now in my office, depressed and bewildered. "I don't understand it.
The last two editors I sent it to said they loved the writing, and the story. But
they hated the ending."

"Maybe you need to look at it again. Rethink it."

"You mean, change it?" She looked up at me, confused. "But I can't. It's
what really happened."

Her response reminded me of the classes I'd taught years before on turning
autobiography into screenplays. Often, students would mine incidents from
their own lives and turn them into narratives that failed to provide a
satisfactory resolution to the story. No matter how compelling the
autobiographical source material, the story didn't work as a story. To which
the student invariably replied, "But that's the way it really happened."

"No," I was always tempted to say, "that's your experience of what

happened."

There is no objective truth in any event, insofar as the meanings we derive

from it. The event is always remembered through the filter of our particular
feelings, prejudices, and needs. Every memory serves, however
unconsciously, our own agenda. The truth in autobiographical writing resides
in the self-experience of the writer, not in any objective rendering of the
events. (As someone once said, reading Freud doesn't teach you about man;
it teaches you about Freud.)

So, in terms of fiction based on personal experience, to be slavishly

devoted to the truth is impossible, on the one hand, and may be detrimental
to the narrative, on the other.

Yes, all writing is autobiographical. And a creation, an imaginative act.

The moment an incident from your own life is conceptualized as having
possibilities as a story or script, the incident begins to change. Let's imagine
an incident: say, the time your Aunt Betty, making cookies in the kitchen,
cried at the sudden news of her son's death, but kept making the cookies,
hands shaking as she kneaded the dough, because they had been his favorite.

Now, as the impulse to use this incident for a story arises, something
happens. Your imagination and craft-even your desire to use the incident-
renders it no longer merely a memory from your past, but a story to be
shaped. Events are changed, truncated, altered in sequence; people-or, as
they should now be called, "characters"-are combined for clarity's sake, or
even eliminated. Emphasis is shifted, so that the incident's narrative forms a
cohesive whole, with a set-up that builds with mounting intensity to a
(hopefully) powerful ending.

In other words, what started as a poignant moment from your childhood

has become a scene in your novel or screenplay, and therefore fodder for the
sometimes ruthless demands of aesthetic and craft. Cookies too cute?-make it
something else. Why not needlepoint, which would get Betty out of the
kitchen (which is good, because you already used the kitchen for the big
divorce argument scene). Besides, if Betty's in the living room, Mom can be
present. Hell, if Mom's there, the news of the son's death doesn't have to
come by phone. She could tell Betty-Jesus, what's that like, having to deliver
such awful news? Hmmm ... maybe this is really Mom's scene, not Betty's.

And so it goes. Memory becomes scene, grist for the creative mill. And yet
no less meaningful for the writer, regardless of the permutations, because the
original spark, the artistic impulse that latched onto that memory and saw its
potential, came out of authentic feeling. The story's ultimate form is
irrelevant to the process of mining autobiographical material for fiction.

As my client struggled with the idea that narrative concerns might demand
that events in her memory be altered or reshaped, she realized she felt a
profound need to be loyal to what really happened. It took her a while to
reconcile the demands of storytelling versus the requirements of loyalty to
her personal history, to the people in her life whose stories she was, after all,
appropriating for her own ends.

Which is, as I told her, what writers do.

Case in point: I was only three years old in 1954, and I grew up in an
Italian household in Pittsburgh, not a Jewish one in New York, but that
family in My Favorite Year was my family.

Was and wasn't. That's what writers do.

 "For I Have Done Good Work"

At the end of part one, I presented a belief of mine that underlies much of my
work with writer clients; namely, that writing begets writing. As a corollary
to this belief, I also feel strongly that the work itself-the practice of the craft
of writing-must be its own reward.

I'm not referring here to some sort of abstract, intellectual ideal. When I
say the work should be its own reward, I mean that in the most concrete,
pragmatic way. The rewards, while often private and intensely subjective, are
nonetheless real: the satisfaction of artistic growth; the realization of one's
vision; the engagement with one's interior world, and the creative
expansiveness enjoyed by communicating this world to others.

In short, happiness.

The preceding definition of happiness might strike some as unusual, but it

makes perfect sense to me. Robert Louis Stevenson once wrote, "I know
what happiness is, for I have done good work."

Admittedly, this can be a tough concept to grasp in a markctplacc obsessed

with financial success. We tend to judge a work-novel, film, TV show-
successful in terms of its "numbers," not its intrinsic qualities, nor even the
level of satisfaction and enjoyment it supplies its readers or audience. For me
to suggest that you-or anyone, for that matter-should think about a creative
work based on the subjective experience of joy the writer derived from doing
it seems, well ... nuts.

And that's okay with me. We live in the real world, after all. Marketplace
concerns are valid and irrefutable. Their impact on the life of a writer is
tangible and important. Just ask a screenwriter who's been in script
development for over a year and has just been replaced by another writer.
Just ask a TV writer who's been sweating out a particularly brutal hiring
season, only to end up unemployed. Just ask the novelist whose publisher has
cut back on its proposed book list, nullifying author contracts and asking that
advances be returned.

It's neither possible nor desirable to transcend the demands of the real
world. But the writer's life has its own set of demands, equally valid and
important, that must also be attended to. In fact, if they are ignored, "good
work," as Stevenson referred to it, rarely emerges anyway, so there's no
product to sell to the marketplace.

What does a writer's life demand, or require? To my mind, the most

important requirement is the true, personal engagement with the work itself,
the sheer love of the practice of one's craft.

When asked the secret of contentment, a Hindu sage replied, "Absorption."

For a writer, I believe, the secret of contentment lies similarly in absorption
in the work, in fully inhabiting that secret place co-created by you and that
which is being written. In so believing in the reality of the world of your
book or script that what happens in the narrative seems as inevitable as the
sunrise, and that how the characters act seems to emerge from their own
inherent truthfulness. The workflows, to borrow a term from author and
researcher Milhaly Csikszentmihalyi, as though it has a life of its own.

Which, of course, it does. A life you've given it. And that's the point.
When I watch my novelist clients struggling with the reality of their
publisher's indifference, or share my screenwriter clients' fears about what
seems to be a shrinking feature film market, I'm always struck by the
sobering fact that writers rarely have a sense of their own power. The "life"
that writers give to story and character-that, in fact, they provide the fields of
publishing and entertainment in their entirety-comes solely from the power
residing within the writer to challenge himself or herself creatively, to
explore his or her own subjective world of experience and imagination. This
is as much a gift as it is a talent, and if writers themselves don't respect it,
who will?

As writing begets writing, so does good work, I believe, beget happiness.

Certainly, if happiness is defined as emerging from an authentic connection
with oneself and one's work, between oneself and one's purpose. For writers
today, to be true to such an ideal places them at the end of a long line of
artists, a literal "chain of being," that stretches back to the first artists. This is
a tradition that honors writers as truth-seekers, explicators of the wealth of
human feelings, chroniclers of our aspirations and failures. As such, this
makes writers (and the lives they lead) difficult, contrary, even dangerous.
And frequently unemployable, out of fashion, the wrong sex or color, or just
plain "not what we're looking for."

Marketplace requirements change with the seasons. Fads come and go. But
good work, from which writers have for centuries drawn sustenance and
power, is a private matter, a kind of "secret of happiness" residing solely in
the artist's heart.

And it's yours to discover, if you choose to, every time you write.
 On the Couch

Every once in a while, a writer client will come into my office and announce,
"Well, I heard the other day on the radio that we're all crazy."

"Who's crazy?" I ask.

"Us. Writers. Artists in general. This shrink was on some talk show on
NPR, and he said it's been proven that we're all manic depressives."

"I'm confused. Do you mean that because you're an artist you're manic
depressive, or does being manic depressive cause you to be an artist?"

"He said it could be one or the other, but it could be both. What do you
think?"

"I think I'm gonna skip the next NPR pledge drive."

Apparently, it's in fashion again-the notion that the creative impulse, with
its accompanying emotional difficulties, is merely the product of a
psychological disorder. The current favorite diagnosis for artists, particularly
writers, is bipolar disorder-a condition that used to be called manic
depression.

The most recent book to make this argument was the influential Touched
By Fire, by Kay Jamison. But the idea that writers are of a single and highly
neurotic personality type goes all the way back to-who else?-Freud. In the
1950s, a fellow named Edmund Bergler (credited, by the way, with inventing
the term writer's block) wrote many books on the subject. His explanation for
the reason that writers write? "Psychic masochism."

(My friend Al Hutter, a psychoanalyst, not only objects to Bergler's

theories, but laments how often he got them into print. As Al puts it,
"Unfortunately, the only person who writes about the term `writer's block'
but appears never to have suffered from it is Dr. Edmund Bergler.")

Obviously, the idea that the artistic impulse is inevitably the product of a
psychological condition is not new. After all, history is filled with examples
of the tormented artist stricken by melancholy, going on drunken binges,
cutting off an ear, and generally behaving-as we therapists like to say-
inappropriately. But to infer that some kind of "craziness" underlies creative
endeavor, or, even worse, that the impulse to create is itself an indicator of
some condition is just plain wrong.

First, to whatever extent a therapist believes in the validity of diagnostic

labels like "bipolar," one thing is clear: Labels exist for the convenience of
the labeler. How helpful they are to the artistic person is debatable.

(I recall a radio interview with a family therapist who claimed that 98

percent of Americans were co-dependentI found this as helpful as saying that
98 percent of Ameri cans walk around on two feet. Ascribing a label to an
entire group renders the label superfluous.)

Second, claiming that the creative impulse comes from any one source-
whether mania, psychosis, or the moonis both ludicrous and potentially
harmful. Ludicrous because it's oversimplified and inconsistent with the
lived experience of countless artists. Potentially harmful because it
undervalues the mysterious, indefinable aspects of the creative act.

I'm reminded of a quote by H. L. Mencken, who said, "There is always an

easy solution to every human problemneat, plausible, and wrong." The
tendency to see a writer's emotional (or even creative) struggles solely in
terms of their being a problem-and thus potentially solvablebetrays a
profound narrowness in scope, imagination, and appreciation for the hidden
ways of the artistic heart.

A similar narrowness of vision underlies the current fervor for defining the
creative person in pathological ways and seeing his or her artistic struggles
not as the manifestation of the chaos from which creativity emerges but as
symptoms of a particular neurotic type.
 The point is, yes, perhaps Van Gogh did suffer from symptoms that we
might label manic depressive. But what is also true-and certainly more
important-is that he was incredibly talented. Both facts can coexist, without
one necessarily causing the other.

As always, I'm struck by our desire to take that which defies explanation
and try to reduce it to some kind of rational terms. Whether residing in the
rules of all the howto books on writing currently in print, or emerging from
the latest analytic theories, or championed in studies from the academic
community, we seem to need to make sense of creativity, to isolate its source
in some concrete way.

And we always fail. Its magic continues to elude us. Thank God.

The novelist John Fowles put it best: "For what good science tries to
eliminate, good art seeks to provoke-mystery, which is lethal to the one, and
vital to the other."
 "You're No John Updike!"

Finally, let's talk about the major obstacle to sustaining a belief that you are
enough: namely, comparing yourself to other writers.

Not a week goes by in my practice that I don't hear a client sing the praises
of some work he or she has just read, accompanied by the following lament:
"I'll never write anything that good! I'm not talented enough [or smart
enough, funny enough, deep enough, etc.]. I mean, who am I kidding?"

I remember one client in particular, who was hard at work on a movie

thriller, comparing his script unfavorably to Chinatown. "Let's face it," he
said. "I'm no Robert Towne."

It reminded me of the vice-presidential debate a dozen years ago in which

Dan Quayle, in defense of his perceived inexperience, compared his
qualifications for high office with those of John F. Kenncdy. To which his
opponent, Lloyd Bentsen, famously rebutted, "I knew Jack Kennedy, and
you, sir, arc no Jack Kennedy!"

Fairly or not, Bentsen struck a nerve, because comparisons are one of the
primary ways in which we evaluate and discern. It certainly echoes the
horrible comparisons to others that most of us endured as children in our
families, or at school. We live in a competitive culture, after all, and thus we
soon join our parents, teachers, and society at large in comparing ourselves to
our peers, our rivals, our leaders, the famous.

Writers are as competitive as any other group, if not more so. In fact, in
my experience, the only thing that changes over time is the name of the
person the writer is comparing himself to. For years, it was Robert Towne or
Neil Simon or Stephen King. John Grisham's name has come up a lot in my
office, particularly the year he was also named one of People magazine's
"Fifty Most Beautiful People." Clients have routinely tormented themselves
over the talents (and careers) of such diverse writers as Joyce Carol Oates,
David Mamet, the two Armes (Tyler and Rice), John Le Carre, and Sue
Grafton.

As of this writing, the specter of TV writer David E. Kelley comes up

most often among clients seeking to make themselves miserable, and for
three very good reasons: He's a fast writer, he's a successful writer (the
creator of Ally McBeal, The Practice, and Chicago Hope, among others), and
he's married to Michelle Pfeiffer.

In my view, comparing your career with that of some well-known,

accomplished writer is a waste of time, not only because it adds to the
shameful self-recrimination most struggling writers already endure, but
because it misses the point.

When my client, the guy writing the mystery script, said, "I'm no Robert
Towne," my first response was to agree with him. And then to go on from
there to what his concerns were really about.

The reality is, every writer can't be Robert Towne, or John Updike or
Preston Sturges or Ernest Hemingway or Jane Austen. For one thing, those
writers beat you to it. They're them. That job's been filled.

More important, they're not the writers you're really in competition with.
No matter how successful you are, no matter your level of talent, your true
competition is yourself.

Think of it this way: Maybe every writer can't be Proust, but every writer
can be a better writer. Comparing yourself to others not only deflates and
devalues your own efforts, but actually mitigates against the very thing that
has the potential to improve your writing-the private connection to your inner
world of experience, that wellspring of authentic feeling and desire from
which the impulse to write arises.

When I say that your true competition is yourself, I'm referring to your
willingness to engage daily with what's going on inside you, your courage to
dig deeper, your passion to know what it is you really think and feel and to
find creative expression for it.

I'll go a step further. I would argue that, painful as it seems, it's actually
easier to endure feelings of inferiority than to challenge yourself to grow as
an artist. In fact, in my own life, when I'm tempted to devalue my work in
comparison to others', I've learned to see it as a red flag, a kind of warning
beacon alerting me to look back at myself and see where I might feel stuck,
unmotivated, uninspired. Invariably, if I explore my working process
honestly, I'll find that comparing myself to others was triggered by a lack of
excitement or commitment to what I was working on.

Yes, we live in the real world, a world of competition and yearning and
loss, where on had days the temptation to compare yourself to others is
almost irresistible. But if you really look at what you're doing-hopefully,
with compassion as well as insight-you'll see that your only competition,
your true challenge, is to be who you are, and to write from that place.

Which means, okay, maybe you're no John Updike. But when you're
writing from a place of excitement and authentic feeling, who needs to be?
 Part Three
GRIST FOR THE MILL

All serious daring starts from within.

-EUDORA WELTY

Feelings are information. Writers, like all craftspeople, depend on

information to further their work. At the end of the last chapter, I talked
about the danger of comparing your work with that of other writers. But what
about the feelings underlying such comparisons? Feelings like envy, doubt,
and fear?

In my view, such emotional colors are as much a part of a writer's palette

as his or her ideas, dreams, and memories. Whether referred to as raw
materials, the stuff of life, or grist for the mill, the meaning's the same. We
inhabit and co-create with others a world of feelings, painful and pleasant,
exhilarating and depleting. Every important detail of our lives is dotted with
emotional reference points, layered with attitudes and prejudices, shadowed
by joy or regret.

In a word, information. To the extent to which a writer can access this

information, and own it, this is the degree to which his or her work compels
the reader to keep readingto continue exploring, in tandem with the writer,
the commonality of their experience as fellow human beings.
 Envy

We might as well start here, with envy. I'm thinking about a screenwriter
client I saw recently. Despite some of the gains he'd made in therapy, he felt
his work was continually undermined by his envy of other writers.

He'd had to stop reading the Hollywood trade papers, he told me, because
seeing the deals being made by others angered and deflated him. He'd grown
increasingly selfcritical about his work habits-normally a source of pride and
satisfaction-since hearing rumors about a well-known screenwriter's
penchant for "knocking out a script" in a week. It had reached a point where
learning of a friend's having lunch with a studio executive or potential new
agent could trigger a depression.

None of these feelings were unfamiliar to me. During my own

screenwriting career, it almost seemed as though envy was the ocean my
friends and I swam in, including my friends who wrote novels or poetry, or
did magazine work. To me, envy was the dirty little secret of the writing life.
Except it was the worst-kept secret I'd ever known.

For some, of course, hearing of another's success was a spur to greater

efforts. For others, the result was often a crippling paralysis.

It took me a long time to understand, and to accept, that envy is a natural

by-product of the achieving life. Throughout our childhood experiences in
our families, and then our schools, and ultimately in the adult world, we
strive to achieve in a matrix of others who strive to achieve-such that
comparison is not only inevitable, but often the only standard by which to
measure that achievement.

With time and maturity, we hopefully develop the selfawareness (and self-
acceptance) to measure ourselves by more internal monitors; to enjoy the
expression of our creative talents for their own sake.

But we also live in the real world and need the validation of that world.
For a writer in a commercial marketplace, that means enduring intense
competition and the almost daily spectacle of others enjoying extravagant
rewards in fame and money, all while negotiating the often gut-wrenching
peaks and valleys of one's own career.

In other words, that means living with envy.

The key to surviving envy, as with all feelings evoked in the stress of the
achieving life, is to acknowledge it. By that, I'm not referring merely to the
fact that you're envious, but also the meaning that you give to it.

If a writer sees envy as a sign of some kind of moral weakness or character

failing-a view often engendered and reinforced in childhood-the effect on his
or her work can be quite debilitating.

Equally harmful is seeing one's envy as a disparaging comment on one's

work. I once had a client try to disavow her envy of another's success, lest
she experience it as confirmation of a lack of faith in her own writing. "If I
let myself feel envy," she said, "it means I don't believe in the possibility of
my own success."

Another client bravely insisted that "envy is counterproductive." So

terrified of anything that might derail his firmly held belief in "positive
thinking," the meaning he gave to envy-as well as any other "negative"
emotion-was of an insidious obstacle on the tracks of his forward
momentum.

Only by investigating what envy means to us can we risk acknowledging

it. It's just a feeling, like other feelingswhich means it's also information, as I
said previously. If nothing else, envy informs us of how important our goals
are. It reminds us of the reasons we undertook the creative life in the first
place, and challenges us to commit once again to its rigors and rewards.

So the choice is yours. You can deny your envy, or celebrate it. You can
talk it to death among your friends, or suffer in silence. Or, hopefully, you
can accept it with humor and self-acknowledgment, and perhaps explore
what its meaning is for you.

But one thing I know. For a writer, to coin a phrase, nothing's certain
except death and taxes. And envy.
 Faith and Doubt

A misspent childhood watching Saturday morning cartoons has left an image

indelibly imprinted on my memory, that of a character torn by indecision-a
conflict between doing right or wrong-being prodded by a tiny angel
whispering in one ear, an equally tiny devil whispering in the other.

Since these stories were aimed at kids, the ethical dilemmas were usually
pretty clear-cut, such as whether or not to tie an oversized napkin around
your neck and eat your costar. However, there was still an almost theological
impact to seeing funny talking animals--rabbits, ducks, and "puddy cats"-
with competing imps sitting on their shoulders, caught in some Warner
Brothers version of angst.

This image occurred to me again recently, when I came upon something

written by Lillian Smith. "Faith and doubt, both are needed, not as
antagonists but working side by side, to take us around the unknown curve."

Often, working with writers, it almost seems as though little twin entities-
one named Faith, the other Doubt-sit on their shoulders, whispering their
respective messages, like those winged imps in the cartoons.

The animated image of these imps is of two competing forces, of which

one must inevitably win out. And, of course, one is represented as
unequivocally better than the other.

With writers, it's frequently the same. We all want faith to win out over
doubt. We want faith whispering constantly in our ear-inspiring us,
encouraging us, instilling hope. And make no mistake, these are
blandishments every writer needs; it's too daunting a task otherwise.

The mistake, I think, is to strive to banish doubt, to see it as the enemy.

Just as courage has no meaning without fear, faith has no meaning without
doubt. They're the yin and yang of all aspiration.

As writers, we naturally long to sequester our doubts and fears, to disavow

pain and worry. Unfortunately, to vanquish doubt is to leave the domain of
the human being. Conversely, to embrace both one's doubt and faith, one's
fear and courage, is to relate to the totality of the human experience.

The paradox of struggling with doubt-as with all socalled negative

feelings-is that only by inviting it in, exploring and illuminating its
meanings, can we be enriched as writers. The plain fact is, the more willing
you are to mine the landscape of your own doubts, the truer and more
recognizably human your characters will be. (And the more impact your
characters' faith, if such is their destination, will have.)

Keeping the tension between faith and doubt alive within you, without
either falling prey to blind optimism or succumbing to despair, is not easy.
We veer so often in one direction or the other that, in their exaggerated
forms, faith and doubt can look like two sides of the same coin.

"But how can that be?" you might be asking. Faith and doubt are so
different, such opposites. Not necessarily, not when taken to extremes.

Let me give you an example. Picture two clients, both struggling writers.
One is full of confidence, with the faith of a saint in the ultimate success of
his career goals. He feels great about everything he writes. All he has to do is
wait for the literary world to discover him.

The second client is full of doubt. He took a writing class at a local junior
college, but quit after just two meetings. He won't show his work to others
because "they'll probably hate it." He's just wasting his time trying to write,
because the odds against success are so huge.

Faith and doubt, two sides of the same coin. Whether a writer subscribes
to one or the other, he or she is engaged in a kind of "magical thinking" that
leaves him or her out of the equation. In writing, as in all aspects of life, an
unquestioning faith is the same as unwavering doubt-both are belief systems
employed to try to protect a person from the complicated, sometimes
contradictory, always unpredictable ebb and flow of actual experience.

"Faith and doubt, both are needed...."

Which brings us back to those Saturday morning cartoons. The truth is, if
we each had imps named Faith and Doubt parked on our shoulders,
competing for airtime, the ideal situation would be for their voices to stay at
more or less equal volume, for our attention to shift from one to the other,
and back again.

And, ultimately, for us to integrate what each has to say, and to struggle to
create and thrive from that place within us where all feelings-including faith
and doubt-reside.
 Fear

I'd like to say a few words on behalf of fear.

This is probably not going to be a popular position. Among my writer

clients, and certainly in the culture at large, fear tops the list of the socalled
negative emotions. ("I have no respect for fear," I was once told by a TV
producer. "Never let 'em see you sweat," urged a well-known deodorant
commercial.)

However, if you've read this far, you know that I believe feelings are
neither good nor bad; they just are, and the more access we have to them, the
more authentic we are in the world. And the more truth, power, and
relevance our writing has.

Which sounds good only in the abstract, I admit. Because for a writer
paralyzed by fear-whether in midsentence, midmeeting, or midcareer-the
feelings of anxiety, danger, and potential shaming self-recrimination are very
concrete. Who wouldn't want to banish fear?

I certainly did, many years ago, when research for a screenplay led to my
attempting a climb of the Grand Teton, a mountain peak in Wyoming.
Though at this particular moment, I wasn't exactly climbing. I was sitting on
a ledge, a good thousand feet below the summit, shaking.

Andy, my climbing instructor, asked me what was going on.

"I'm afraid," I said, glancing up at the forbidding rockface.

"Good," he replied. "Otherwise, I wouldn't climb with you."

He went on to tell me about his own fears, which were still with him after
climbing all over the world, including four trips to Everest.
 "Fear keeps you in the here-and-now," he explained. "Which keeps you
alive up here. So stay in touch with it-and just keep slogging up the
mountain."

As it turned out, staying in touch with my fear wasn't the problem. It was
staying in touch with anything else-everything I'd learned, practiced,
rehearsed in my mind a dozen times the night before the climb.

Then, as I found the next hand-or foot-hold, or made the next traverse, I
slowly began to understand what Andy had been talking about. The fear
became a part of how I was taking in each moment; a feeling in a mosaic of
feelings. Not something to be pushed away, or willed out of existence, but a
kind of electrical current running through the circuits of my experience.

The fear was a prod, a warning, a partner in each split second of decision
making. It stopped my breath, which reminded me to breathe again. It tensed
my muscles, which reminded me to relax them. At 15,000 feet, with yawning
emptiness falling away below me, it focused my attentionand then some-on
the inch-wide crack in the rockface, just wide enough for curved gloved
fingers to jam in.

By the time I'd reached the summit, aching and exhausted, the exultation I
felt, the shout of triumph that escaped my lips, was as much an honoring of
the fear that had accompanied me up the mountain as it was the relief of
surviving it.

Which brings me back to that producer who said he had no respect for
fear. He might as well have said, "I have no respect for an integral part of
myself." Like most of us, he was giving a negative meaning to his fear-that it
was a sign of weakness, some shadow part of himself that, if acknowledged,
would say something damaging about him.

But every healthy person has fear and uses it to navigate in the world, to
assess situations and avoid danger. Even socalled imaginary fears-like the
belief that you'll die if your novel is rejected-are signals of potential danger,
of painful consequences to be avoided. As we explore and understand the
meaning we assign these fears, we hopefully learn the tools to coexist with
them.

Even more so, as writers, our job is to mine these fears and their particular
meanings for us, so that our work becomes vivid and multidimensional, that
it hums with life.

If we try to sequester our fears, leave them out of the equation, then much
of our creative energy-that "electrical current" I experienced on my climbis
drained away. No fear, then no release from fear. No anxiety, then no
anticipatory rush.

It's as though, to scale the mountain of our writing craft, we need

excitement and fear to get us to the top.

Which leads me again to that windswept summit of the Grand Teton,

where Andy and I stood those many years ago. He asked how the climb had
gone for me.

"I was half excited, half terrified," I told him.

"Sounds about right," he said.

 The Judge

Among the majority of my writer clients, a salient concern is the struggle

against one's "inner critic," the persistent, sometimes harsh, and almost
always shaming voice that belittles or invalidates one's work. Indeed, the
term inner critic is such a well-known concept in our culture that millions of
dollars are spent on books, tapes, and seminars promising to silence-or even
banish-this punishing element of most people's inner world.

The problem with this approach, in my view, is twofold: The goal of

killing off the self-critical, judgmental part of your psyche confirms the idea
that there's something wrong with you that needs to be fixed; that there's a
perfectable "you" in the future who's unencumbered by such conflicts.

Not to mention my second objection, which is that it isn't even possible.

Unquestionably, there's nothing more painful about the writing process

than struggling against feelings of self-doubt, even self-loathing. I've worked
with clients who literally hate everything they write-it's not good enough,
funny enough, commercial enough. Even those with a more balanced view of
their output acknowledge the stress of continually having to keep deeply
critical inner voices at bay to get through the damn thing.

"Killing off" one's inner critic won't work; it isn't even desirable. It's part
of who you are, a necessary part, as much as your enthusiasm, your work
habits, your loves and hates, your joys and regrets. Because, like these other
aspects of your emotional life, an inner critic is a two-edged sword.

Think of it this way: The same inner critic that judges our work so
severely provides us with the ability to discern our likes and dislikes, to form
opinions, to make decisions. It reinforces the faith in our subjective
experience that allows us to choose this rather than that.
 We need a sense of judgment to navigate in the world. The amount and
intensity of that judgment, as with most things, lies along a continuum;
hopefully, we possess neither too much nor too little.

Imagine waiting to cross the street at a busy intersection: With too little
judgment, you might ignore the "Don't Walk" sign and get run over; with too
much judgment, you stand frozen even when the sign reads "Walk," and
therefore never get anywhere.

What I'm trying to suggest here is that we don't judge our having an inner
judge too harshly. Writing in the face of a persistent inner critic is draining
enough. To compound the problem by blaming yourself for being engaged in
the struggle is ridiculous.

Remember, too, what I said about your inner critic being a two-edged
sword. Because if we can accept with self compassion this troubling aspect
of ourselves, we might even learn something.

I'm thinking of an example from my own experience as a client in therapy.

This was many years ago, when I was struggling with some very painful
issues, specifically a rather profound fear of failure that seemed unaffected
by my outward success. The sessions were so gut wrenching, I thought about
quitting therapy.

Yet I kept coming, week after week, much to my own surprise. When I
mentioned this to my therapist, he suggested that while the issues underlying
my fear of failure were indeed painful and difficult, it was this same fear of
failure that kept me coming back to therapy every week. In other words, the
same thing that was causing the problem was providing the determination to
keep slugging away at it. I just wouldn't quit.

That's when I realized what a two-edged sword my particular problem

was. Almost every aspect of our emotional life has an affirming and an
invalidating component. Our job, then, is to examine an issue that troubles
us-a harsh inner critic, for example-and learn what is both positive and
negative about it, in terms of our work and our life.
 If we approach our inner critic from this perspective, that of a life-long
process of examination, we can coexist with it. Along with feeling the pain
of its intense scrutiny, we also develop the courage to challenge the self-
defeating meanings we give to that pain. This has always been the artist's
struggle, what Rollo May calls "the courage to create."

Or, to put it bluntly: You're a writer. Which means, you're your own worst
critic. Join the club.
 Double-Barreled Blues

There are two elements-two truths, really-of the writer's life that contribute to
making it so difficult, frustrating, and, at times, almost surrealistic. Over the
years, as both a writer and a therapist, I've witnessed the sometimes
numbing, often dispiriting effect of these two truths. It's something I call the
double-barreled blues.

The first barrel contains a well-known aphorism (with which people in 12-
step programs are certainly familiar), which goes something like this: "The
definition of `crazy' is doing the same thing over and over, without success,
in the expectation that it will eventually work."

Well, as every struggling TV and film writer knows, the way to break into
the business is by writing spec scripts and networking friends and other
possible connections. That's it. Writing and networking. If, however, you've
written your spec and exhausted your network of contacts, with
disappointing results, the next thing to do is—

Write another spec and keep networking.

If you're trying to break into magazine journalism, you have to write query
letters to editors, strap a cell phone to your ear so you don't miss calls from
possible sources, and stay current on trends in trade publishing. If, however,
you've done these things for a good length of time without getting an
assignment, the next thing to do is—

Write more query letters, make more phone calls.

In other words, keep doing the same thing over and over, each time in the
hopes that the outcome will be different. This is the very definition,
according to the folk wisdom quoted previously, of being crazy.
 No wonder writers struggle with depression, fatigue, and feelings of
despair. It's how the game is set up. Writing and networking, again and
again, until you land an agent, or sell an article, or snag a job on a TV series.
And it's the only game in town. Who wouldn't feel crazy?

And that's just the first shot of the double-barreled blues. The second is a
belief, nurtured since childhood and reinforced in everyday life, in the
validity of cause and effect. You know, along the lines of "If you eat your
spinach, you'll grow up big and strong." "If you do your homework, you'll
get good grades." "If you leap off a cliff, sooner or later you're going to hit
the bottom."

In almost every area of life, even factoring in such real variables as luck,
family of origin, and where you went to school (and with whom), cause and
effect seems to apply. Work hard and things happen. Work harder, and more
things happen.

Except when it comes to writing. You'd think that the better your writing
becomes, the more likely your chances of success. And it's true. But it's also
not true.

Bang! There's that second barrel.

Every day my clients complain that their best work goes unsold, while
their worst writing is rewarded. Clients who've struggled for years, assuming
that talent and hard work should earn them success, grow more and more
disheartened. Until, unexpectedly, an agent responds, or an editor buys a
story idea.

"Why now?" the client asks. "Why not years ago, or six months ago? Why
today, and not yesterday?"

In other words, what exactly was the cause that produced this particular
effect? (And, more important, can we bottle it?)

There you have it, the double-barreled blues of a writer's life: first, that the
only way to succeed is to keep on keeping on, despite the lack of tangible
results; and second, the sobering reality that cause and effect, the underlying
force in the rest of the universe, works only intermittently when it comes to
writing.

Sounds pretty gloomy, doesn't it? Damn right. That's why sometimes it
seems like you need a will of iron, the hide of a rhino, and the hubris of a
god to be a writer. And, make no mistake, you do.

But you also need something else, something I've mentioned before,
throughout this book: namely, you need a relationship with your writing
talent that exists apart from the vagaries of your day-to-day struggles. A
benign, ongoing, mutually replenishing relationship between yourself and
your creativity.

I'm not talking about some grandiose detachment from the painful realities
of the writing life. For one thing, I don't believe such transcendence is
possible. I don't even think it's desirable. The inner world of a good writer is
engaged with everything in his or her subjective experience, which includes
struggling with the double-barreled blues (as well as reveling in mastery of
craft, enjoying financial success, taking pride in creative achievement, etc.).
It's all grist for the mill.

To keep from being ground up in that mill, however, you have to find a
way to coexist with the realities of the writer's life. You have to challenge
yourself to continue on, integrating both the good and the bad in your
experience, being as fluid and open as possible with whatever comes.

Even when it comes at you with both barrels.

 Myths, Fairy Tales,
and Woody Allen

You know the scene: the opening sequence of Woody Allen's Stardust
Memories. A glum Woody sits in a dark, dingy train car, with other lost
souls. Looking out the window, he sees another train car-shining, brightly lit.
Inside, beautiful men and women laugh and drink champagne, a festive
vision of wit and privilege out of a Noel Coward play. Woody despairs. Why
isn't he in the sparkling car, with the sparkling people?

I mention this scene because it comes up almost weekly in my private

practice. Among the many myths, metaphors, and fairy tales that inhabit the
conscious life of my creative clients, this particular scene emerges again and
again.

"I'm doing my life wrong," a client laments. Usually he's just had lunch
with a successful producer or big-name publisher who just radiates charm,
confidence, and the sense that life is one big party. (With the implication
there's a pile of money somewhere in the background to keep the canapes
coming.) "I feel like Woody in that train car-the shitty one!" my client says
mournfully.

Rivaling this classic scene is another classic-roughly 2500 years old. At

least once a month some client compares himself to Sisyphus, the poor guy
in Greek mythology condemned to pushing a heavy rock up a steep hill-only
to have it come rolling down, at which point his labors begin again. This
one's real popular with screenwriters.

The third most mentioned analogy comes from the world of children's
fairy tales-the story of the Emperor's new clothes. A vain Emperor, clad only
in his underwear, parades in front of his subjects, who've been told to marvel
at his new, beautiful garments. Which they all do, until one brave little boy
yells out that the Emperor's actually riding around in his longjohns.

This feeling shows up in my office every day. Clients who bristle at some
announcement in the news about a muchmaligned screenplay getting green-
lighted for production, an unlikely new TV show being produced, a
schmaltzy though wildly successful author signing a multibook deal.

"I read that script-it sucks!" the screenwriter client rages. "Why am I the
only one who sees it?"

"I was offered that series," a writer-producer client laughs. "I couldn't turn
it down fast enough. It won't last a month."

"That putz gets a three-book deal?" a novelist client complains. "How

many times can he write the same story? The Emperor's got no clothes,
buddy-trust me!"

Aside from their value as metaphors and analogues, these three concepts-
the train car, Sisyphus, and the Emperor's new clothes-offer important clues
to some of the underlying issues writers often struggle with.

Take the train car: Once, when a sitcom writer used this scene to explain
his feelings, what emerged was not only his sense of himself as inadequate,
but something else more insidious and undermining. Namely, the idea that
he'd been dealt a bad hand-"I'm in the wrong car"-because of intrinsic defects
in himself. Those happy, glittering people were in the shining train car
because they deserved to be there, while he did not. Thereafter, in our work
together, his self-sabotaging behaviors could be understood as a natural
result of his belief in himself as basically defective. When this painful self-
concept was successfully illuminated and challenged, things began to shift in
his view of himself.

With another client, a screenwriter who compared himself to Sisyphus, we

stayed with this image as a framework to explore issues from within his
family. As a child, he'd endured the impossible expectations of his critical,
demanding father, a man embittered by business failures. Seeing his own life
as valueless, his father placed a great burden on my client to be rich and
powerful. One day, during a session, my client blurted out, "Dammit, it's his
rock I'm pushing up the hill! It's not my rock at all."

"Or maybe even your hill," I offered.

This awareness helped move us in the direction of freeing him from the
requirement to fiilfill his father's aspirations, and to begin parsing out those
goals that were genuinely his.

As for the story of the Emperor's new clothes-well, I think there are two
ways of looking at it. Sometimes a writer's own vulnerabilities get the better
of him or her. When hearing about another writer's new book deal, for
example, authentic feelings of disdain for that person's talent may indeed fuel
his or her response. But what may be hidden are painful, unwelcome feelings
of shame because his or her own career isn't going so well. These shameful
feelings are themselves so unacceptable to the writer that he or she covers
them over with hearty, frequently sardonic comments about the new book
deal-how untalented the author is, how foolish the publisher is, how
perpetually gullible the reading public is, and so on.

In psychoanalytic terms, this is often called having a grandiose self ideal.

You liken yourself to the child in the story about the Emperor's clothes
because he's seen as the truthteller, the wisdom figure, the one whose innate
intelligence and good sense shatters the illusion. In short, this is just another
defense mechanism.

But I believe there's another, more congenial explanation for this story's
popularity with writers. It's because writers often do assume precisely the
role of the kid in the story. Every day, in offices and on conference calls and
via e-mail, writers have to fend off, try to interpret, and in a dozen other
ways simply deal with the incredible idiocies of their various editors,
producers, and agents. Perfectly good TV episodes, for instance, tinkered
with by overpaid producers. Logically argued personal essays, reworked by
underachieving journal editors. An exquisitely worked out courtroom novel
getting an unnecessary sex scene (or two). A searing, erotic screenplay
getting its sex scenes deleted. And on and on.
 The desecration of narrative sense, the elimination of personal style, the
dilution of idiosyncratic viewpoint or political outrage that writers have to
witness-and usually acquiesce to-simply boggles the mind.

As I will suggest in the next part of this book, the writer is frequently the
smartest person in the room. And this is not always so wonderful. Sometimes
it's like watching a four-car pile-up unfolding in slow motion-you see
everything about to happen; in fact, it seems inevitable-and you're expected
not only to shut up about it, but be a willing participant.

So whenever a client compares himself or herself to the kid who points out
the truth about the royal wardrobe, it's a short jump to that writer's issues of
control, and the painful realization that he or she has in fact very little. The
only control a writer has is over himself or herself, the extent: to which the
writing is done truly and well, and the amount of craft and commitment that's
brought to a project. After that, it's up to the gods.

Emperors, Greeks, Woody Allen. The things we make reference to, like
the jokes and anecdotes we recount, all have something important to tell us.
They deepen our awareness of ourselves as writers and as people. All we
have to do is pay attention and do our best.

Which means that, like it or not, at any given moment, we're probably
riding the train we're supposed to be on.
 The Long View

I saw a full-page ad in a magazine recently that made my jaw drop. It showed

a guy wearing some kind of glitzed-up, New Age headphones, smiling
blissfully, above copy announcing a breakthrough in consciousness-raising
technology. The headline read, "You'll be meditating like a Buddha in thirty
minutes!"

In retrospect, I'm surprised I was so surprised. After all, this is the era of
the quick fix. Look at our TV ads and infomercials: "Great Abs in Eight
Minutes!" "One Month to Financial Security!" "Speak French Like a
Frenchman-In One Day!" "Give Us Twenty-Two Minutes, We'll Give You
the World!"

Thinking about that magazine ad, it occurred to me that this same kind of
quick-fix mentality now pervades the industry that's grown up around writing
in recent years. "How to Write a Best-Seller in One Month!" "Write A Movie
in Seven Days!" "Create Ten Great Characters Before Lunch!" Books, tapes,
and seminars promising a short ride to fame and fortune.

Such fantasies arc fueled, too, by the occasional overnight success-the

spec screenplay that goes for big money, the best-selling book by some
unknown author. What's their secret? we wonder. What tricks do I need to
learn?-and first!

To be fair, these workshops can and do offer some valuable craft tips and
often provide a much-needed jumpstart for struggling writers. But they miss
what I call "the long view."

I'm not talking here about a writer needing patience (which he or she
does). Or resilience (another crucial ingredient). I'm not even referring to the
steady growth of craft and a deepening commitment to one's authentic voice,
which come as a natural by-product of a mature writing process.

I'm referring to something more basic. Strange as it may seem in this era
of speed dialing, quick-drying cement, and fast food, I'm suggesting that
writers slow down.

Let me explain. My problem with the how-to books and seminars that
promise instant results is not the array of sure-fire techniques and writing
rules they espouse. For one thing, some of these rules are so entrenched as
givens now that it would be foolish not to learn them. Besides, there is some
wisdom in the notion that you have to learn the rules before you can artfully
bend them.

No, it's not the techniques I object to, but rather the subtextual message of
such approaches: that of supporting a short-term, goal-oriented, "hitting the
bull's-eye" kind. of life for a writer.

Being a writer-with all its successes and failures, raptures and rejections-is
a life-long endeavor. Less a career choice than a calling, its rewards are often
so private and ambiguous as to be inexpressible. It's as much a perspective
on things, a way of organizing one's experience, as it is a job.

John Fowles opens his novel Daniel Martin with this sentence: "Whole
sight-or all the rest is desolation." Seeing things whole, having the long view,
is the only way to live the writer's life. It's committing yourself to a concept
of writing as an integral, ongoing part of your life, instead of just a series of
external events-good or bad reviews, deals made and lost, great or awful days
at the keyboard. It's seeing your writing life as though it stretched to the
horizon-all the ups and downs, hills and valleys, smoothing out from this
lengthened perspective.

By slowing down, by taking the long view, you'll be better able to listen to
your own instincts: such as writing urgently when possessed by it, or taking a
workshop to jog the machinery into higher gear; but always with a sense of
expansiveness, of adding on experiences and skills to the unfolding tapestry
of your creative life, rather than a desperate chase after this year's hip writing
technique, or bending your talent to this season's hot topic or genre.
 Having the long view is being both energized and relaxed; enthusiastic and
patient. It's knowing in the marrow of your bones this one paradoxical fact:
Writing's been around a long time and will probably continue at ]east as
long, and yet it always happens in the here and now.

The Shakers had a saying: "Live as though you had ten thousand years, or
ten minutes." That's about just doing your work, day in and day out, forging
Your process out of the raw materials of your experience. Keeping your
focus in the tension between building craft in the now and holding hope for
the future.

For a writer, that's keeping the long view.

 Part Four
THE REAL WORLD

I only write when I'm inspired, and I see to it that

I'm inspired at nine o'clock every morning.

-PETER DE VRIES

Writing is easy-as long as you don't have a life.

Let's face it, real life-family, friends, bills, illness, deadlines, etc.-just gets
in the way. (And I haven't even mentioned valet parking, the weather,
politics, and agents.) When you consider the daily whirlwind of activities a
writer has to negotiate, from dental visits and carpooling to buying birthday
presents and getting the dog groomed, it's a miracle anything gets written at
all. In fact, it's a miracle that anything has ever been written since the
beginning of time.

Of course, I'm being facetious-but only slightly. Writers, in company with

every other type of artist, dwell in the real world. Livings have to be made,
food has to be purchased, rent and mortgages have to be paid, children have
to be raised. There are friendships to sustain, bosses to appease, and relatives
to endure.

And decisions to be made. Where to send the kids to school. What

homeowners' insurance to buy. What to do about Aunt Marie, now that
Uncle George is gone. Is this neighborhood still safe? Do I really need
bifocals? You want me to be buried where?

Not to mention the thoughts, ideas, and feelings writers live with every
day. Call them the subtext of daily life. The hurts, the resentments, the
illusions, the pipe dreams, the doubts, the fears, the misunderstandings. What
did she mean by that? Did I say that right? Who does he think he is, anyway?
I'm such an idiot, why can't I make this work? If only I were smarter, more
talented, more together, more ... something. Hell, why did I check my stocks
this morning? Where did I put that notebook? My back's going out again, I
know it. Gotta concentrate. I'll start with that scene in the third act. After the
mail comes. Geez, I gotta call my mother this week-that's another three
sessions in therapy. Has anybody seen my notebook? No, the other one ...
Christ!

See what I mean? Real life-the cacophonous, constantly shifting yet

relentlessly repetitive series of moments that make up a writer's day-is an
omnipresent partner in the writing experience, a constant companion, and the
only playing field in town. Real life is where a writer lives.

There are alternatives. Writers throughout history have sought solitude in

which to write. Monks like Thomas Merton, essayists like May Sarton,
novelists and screenwriters who rent cabins in the woods, or motel rooms in
the Mojave, or villas in Spain. I know a playwright who works alone six
months of the year in a fire lookout in Northern California.

But I would argue that even such solitude can't rescue the writer from the
restrictions of real life, if we define "real life" merely as a person's lived
experience. Besides, the choice to live alone, or without personal ties of any
kind, also has a price tag: its own set of social, psychological, and pragmatic
concerns. In other words, to quote a somewhat gloomy friend of mine,
"Nobody escapes the existential dilemma."

On that cheery note, I'd like to offer three suggestions to help writers deal
with the reality of writing in the real world. The first two are pretty
conventional.

Structure time to write, and make it a fixed, regular time. The discipline of
structure can have a surprisingly liberating effect on one's writing. To
paraphrase Thomas Carlyle, "We must have order in our lives to go crazy in
our work."
 The second suggestion is merely to risk stepping back from life's
distractions and regrouping. Go on a two-week retreat. Cancel all lunches
and appointments. To whatever extent possible, exit the duties and
responsibilities of your life for just a brief time-even if it's only an afternoon-
and get back to your authentic core. Eliminate the background noise and see
what's there. Because sometimes, as Andre Gregory says in My Dinner With
Andre, "You've just got to cut out the noise."

My third and last suggestion is the most radical of all: Do nothing.

Because, in reality, there's nothing to do about it. This is your life, the only
playing field in town-your life, your thoughts, your memories, your
frustrations, your dreams and hopes, your loves and hates.

What all of it means is best left to philosophers and theologians. What it

means to me is, Wow, you have plenty to write about. All that stuff going on,
and not enough hours in the day-or space in your imagination-to get to it.

Which means, I guess, you better get started. Tomorrow morning would be
good.
 The Pitch

Pitching your ideas is one of the realities of the writing life. Whether you're
hawking a three-part series on forest conservation to the editor of your local
paper or trying to sell a TV sitcom idea to NBC, you're part of a time-
honored tradition of writers offering the promise of their talent to someone
with the money to pay for it.

I know this aspect of the writing life quite well. When I worked in TV and
film, I had to take meetings. Lots of them. Something like a thousand, over
eighteen years. Most were pitch meetings, selling my ideas, my craft, myself
to others.

But before I talk about the issues involved in pitching one's work, from my
own experience and that of my clients, let me get my favorite "Pitch from
Hell" story out of the way:

A producer and I were pitching a film at a big studio. We met with two
executives, a male and a female, late on a Friday afternoon (already we were
in trouble). About halfway through the meeting, he left to take an urgent call.
Moments later, she excused herself to go to the rest room.

They never came back.

After waiting about twenty minutes, the producer and I sort of wandered
the halls, peeking into empty cubicles. We figured each exec thought the
other would cover the rest of the meeting. In any case, the place was
deserted.

As we drove off the lot, I said to the producer, "Gee, they missed the best
part of my pitch." Only I said it somewhat more colorfully.

Pitching is something that comes up constantly in my practice. At the very

least, for most writers, it's a difficult and often dispiriting experience; for
some, it's literally terrifying.

To deal with this, most writers I know develop little tricks or techniques to
get them through the process. Some mern-orize the entire pitch (and pray
nobody interrupts them); some have arcane theories as to how long to talk
about each character or plot point; others believe in researching the
professional (and sometimes personal) successes of the people they're
pitching to, hoping to flatter their egos. Toward the further end of the
spectrum we find hypnosis, relaxation tapes, and lucky socks.

My problem with these strategies, even the ones that appear to work, is
that they're all an attempt to hide the writer. He or she "hides" behind the
pitching technique, using it as a shield against what might emerge in the
meeting. By that, I don't mean its professional outcome; I'm referring to the
feelings that might be set off within the writer.

Samuel Johnson said, "Adversity introduces a man to himself." Likewise, I

think pitch meetings introduce a writer to himself or herself. That's what
makes them so frightening for so many people.

Years ago, I had a client, a feature writer for a national magazine, who
suffered terrible anxiety before every pitch. No matter how strongly he felt
about the idea he was proposing, how solidly constructed the story, the pitch
rarely went well. Then, during a session about some difficult aspects of his
personal life, he blurted out, "It's as though every event defines who I am."

A potent realization for him, and one that we saw applied as well to his
fears about pitching. He experienced a pitch meeting as an event that
ultimately defined how okay he was, how acceptable, perhaps even how
entitled he was to be there. His defense against the powerful feelings of
shame that might emerge if he failed was to work harder on the story,
prepare more diligently, practice the pitch with friends, etc.

What he needed to do instead-which became the focus of our work

together-was to challenge the underlying assumption; namely, that if the
pitch didn't result in a sale, this defined him as unacceptable or inadequate.
 Every pitch meeting, like every human encounter, is a relational event. We
bring all our emotional baggage into that room-our performance anxiety, the
meanings we give to failure and success, the requirement we may have felt in
our families to be the "best and the brightest."

(Or the reverse. I recall a client who often sabotaged her performance in
meetings, replaying her parents' injunction when she was a child not to show
off or draw undue attention to herself because it might make others "feel
badly about themselves.")

I think it's important for writers to explore what's underlying their fears
and expectations about pitching so that they can develop better tools for
alleviating the more painful aspects of the experience.

But it's also important to remember that pitching is a difficult task for just
about everyone. To convey what's in your mind and heart is hard enough, let
alone convincing someone to pay for it. It's practically a recipe for anxiety.

However, as Rollo May reminded us, anxiety is a necessary component of

any creative act. Which even pitching can be, in the right circumstances,
when our fears are accepted with humor and compassion and our convictions
and enthusiasms can be engaged.

And the other guy hangs around long enough to see it.
 Rejection

At some point early on in a writer's life, he or she has to come to terms with
rejection. After over twenty years as a working writer, I know I certainly
have-I hate it.

Occasionally I'll read about some writer whose personal philosophy is so

well integrated into his life that he sees having his work rejected as just
another event, one bead on a long string of similar beads; in other words, the
rejection has no more (nor less) meaning than having his work accepted.

I confess, I can only stand back and admire such creatures, and wonder
what planet they come from.

Because frankly, when I toiled in the screenwriting vineyards, I wanted

people not only to accept what I wrote, but like it. A lot. Hell, I wanted them
to love it (even while acknowledging the well-known truism that, at a certain
level, they couldn't love it enough).

On the other hand, having my work rejected was cause for tsurisof near-
biblical proportions-the familiar gnashing of teeth, rending of garments, etc.
On one such occasion, a friend of mine looked at me and said, somewhat
testily, "For God's sake, don't take it personally."

"How should I take it?" I replied. "Impersonally?"

That, in a nutshell, is the paradox of rejection. It isn't intended as personal,

but it's impossible not to experience it that way.

Let me give you an example. Years ago, on staff at a popular sitcom, I

joined the producers in a casting session, auditioning actresses for a guest
shot on the show. After seeing about a dozen read for the part, we chose one.
 Later, I happened to overhear a couple of the others walking away,
dejected.

"I should've looked hotter," one of them said.

"I overplayed that last scene," said another.

I'd heard similar laments from actors and actresses before, of course. "If
only I'd done this, or that ..." "If only I were thinner, prettier ..." "If only, if
only ..."

What made it even more ironic in this case was the fact that we'd cast this
particular actress because it was getting close to lunchtime and we were all
hungry. As it turned out, all the actresses had been reasonably competent, so
we just picked the next one who wasn't taller than the show's star and made
tracks for the studio commissary.

Our agenda-in this case, hunger-could never have been known or predicted
or prepared for by the others auditioning.

The same is true for writers. In my experience, not only is it a mystery

why certain good scripts and stories get rejected; often it's a total mystery
why they get accepted. I don't have a writer client who hasn't been perplexed
when something he or she considers a lesser work is bought, while
something he or she feels represents better work is consistently rejected.

As my anecdote about the audition demonstrates, the agenda of the

marketplace-the sometimes incomprehensible, ever-changing, and often-
maddening needs of publishers, agents, and studios-is out of your control,
and not about you.

Therefore, their rejection of material you submit to them is not some injury
personally directed at you.

However, as I said before, your experience of the rejection is personal. In

fact, it can't be anything else.

So let yourself be angry, frustrated, even grief stricken. After all, as a

somewhat kinder, gentler friend of mine once remarked, "when a painful
thing happens, a period of mourning is appropriate."

But now the good news: Since you can't know (or control) the outcome of
any pitch or submission, you're free to just do your work. Rather than
shaping your writing to please others or to latch onto or anticipate the next
trend, your best bet is to write about what excites and moves you, to make
your growth as a writer the ultimate goal.

Darryl Hickman, a wonderful acting teacher, used to tell his students,

"Keep giving them you, until you is what they want."

Not a bad piece of advice for writers, either. Stay true to yourself, and
keep giving the marketplace your best until it takes it.

Remember, too, that rejection comes and goes, but so does acceptance. For
a writer, over the long haul, it's mastery of your craft, wedded to the sheer
love of doing it, that sustains.

And, finally, though the powers-that-be can accept or reject your work,
you can do something they can't: write. The plain fact is, you are the sun, and
the industry is the moon. It only shines by reflected light.
 That Sinking Feeling

One of my favorite movie scenes is from James Brooks's Broadcast News.

News producer Holly Hunter has just explained to a network exec all the
reasons why his decision to elevate William Hurt's character to anchorman is
a bad idea. The exec listens, then says sarcastically, "It must be wonderful to
be the smartest person in the room."

"No," she replies, "it's awful."

I think of this exchange whenever I'm working with a screenwriter client

caught in a particularly thorny patch of Development Hell. Usually, my
client's being bombarded with notes by the director, producer, or
development executive; suggestions that-no matter how well intentionedwill
end up causing more problems than they solve.

Recently, I've come up with a clinical term for what the writer experiences
during such meetings. I call it TSF, or That Sinking Feeling.

TSF is that slowly unfolding awareness in the pit of your stomach that
what's being pitched in the room will not work; that the more excited
everybody becomes about the new suggestions, the more you see the
mountain of torturous effort and twisted logic involved in executing them;
and that nothing you're going to do or say will change anybody's mind.

Every writer suffers from TSF at various times in a career. It's as virulent
as the common cold, and about as inevitable. (One of its main symptoms, as
previously discussed, is a powerful feeling of identification with that kid in
the fairy talc about the Emperor's new clothes. An ancillary symptom is just
slow-building dread.)

I recall one distinctive bout with TSF from my own screenwriting days. I
was on the second draft of a comedy feature, working with a new producer at
a big studio. Toward the end of a typically grueling notes meeting, the
producer suddenly says, out of left field, "I have a great idea for Charlie [the
script's second lead character]. Think Sam Kinison."

The late Sam Kinison, you probably recall, was a wildly funny (though
extremely politically incorrect) stand-up comic. At the time, there was no
question he was a rising star. He just sure as hell wasn't our "Charlie." I
mean, not even close. I mean, it would have to be a different movie entirely-
different story, tone, approach to humor—

I mean, there was just no ivay—

So naturally, the producer wouldn't budge. "Now go," he said, sending me

out to write the third draft. "And remember, for Charlie-think Sam Kinison."

Driving home from the meeting, I had That Sinking Feeling. I knew, like I
knew my own name, that I was going to spend six weeks tailoring the script
to suit Sam Kinison; I also knew we were never going to get Sam Kinison;
that the studio would hate the rewrite; that it was all a colossal waste of time
and energy.

And that there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.

This story is typical of the dozens I've heard in my office over the years.
From journalists told to make soul-chilling cuts in their feature story. From
novelists advised by their editors to exchange Chapter One for Chapter
Three, or to make a son into a daughter, or to give the blind kid an
experimental drug at the end that restores his sight. One client, a poet, was
asked by her editor to change all her commas to dashes, because "it worked
for Emily Dickinson."

The problem with struggling against That Sinking Feeling is that the writer
often has to work against his or her own instincts to accomplish the rewrite
task. Author Frank McShane was talking about Hollywood in the following
quote, but I think the sentiment rings true for all writers: "[When] they
separate the writer from his unconscious, what's left is mere performance."
 Which brings me back to Holly Hunter's line in Broadcast News. Because
it is awful being the smartest one in the room.

Yes, I'm saying it out loud. In print. Writers are the smartest people in the
room. Any room. Anywhere in town.

By "smartest," I don't mean writers are always right. But I do feel writers
bring the most highly developed and articulated sense of story and character
to a project. Plus, because a writer lives daily with the story-has an intimate
relationship with its every beat, nuance, plot point, etc.-he or she is most
suited to protecting and enhancing those elements that make the story work.

Not that that matters much in the overall scheme of things.

It's a situation guaranteed to make writers crazy: hired for that special,
ephemeral skill that only writers bring to the table-then usually prevented
from utilizing that gift to the fullest. No wonder writers come down with
That Sinking Feeling.

However, there is compensation. I don't mean financial, though there is

often that. I mean the value of the struggle itself.

Over the years, in my work with writers, I've grown to admire their
attempts to stay connected with their deepest ideals and convictions, to tell
the stories they want to tell. In spite of the odds, most writers resist being
separated from the unconscious, the seedbed of their imagination.

Yes, it's a relentless struggle. Yes, the odds are tough. And yes, you can
wrack up a lot of injuries battling That Sinking Feeling every damn day.

But who knows? Maybe that's just the price you pay for being the smartest
one in the room.
 Reinventing Yourself

In the real world, I feel it's important for writers to reinvent themselves as
they move through their careers. And not merely for pragmatic reasons--the
changing demands of the marketplace, the fear of being "typed" as a writer,
and so on. I think it's important as an element of creative growth.

As I said earlier, my favorite quote for writers comes from Ray Bradbury:
"There is only one type of story in the world-your story." And while I believe
this is true, I also know this story has many chapters, lived and imagined.

What I mean is, as people and as writers we have many selves, many
roles-parent, mate, sibling, friend. In the same way that we exist in a matrix
of relationships, writers live in the matrix of imagined worlds of experience.
We can be in the minds of serial killers and suburban moms, scientists and
cartoonists, priests and pickpockets.

If we can imagine it, we can be it; we can write it.

And the process of expanding our creative vision can occur within the
same medium, or by striking out on a new one-perhaps then to return to
familiar territory with renewed vigor. Many screenwriters write novels;
sitcom writers do plays; playwrights publish essays. (To take reinvention to
its extreme, one writer, Vaclav Havel, became president of his nation.)

So, how does a writer go about reinventing himself or herself? Here's a

clue: In describing Zen training, Shunryu Suzuki said it was like emptying all
the furniture and knickknacks out of a room. Then, if you wished, you could
put them all back in. But with renewed awareness.

This mental "spring cleaning" is a prerequisite for reinventing yourself. It

can be quite exhilarating to blow the dust off your preconceived notions of
the type of writer you are. What you uncover might amaze and delight you,
or even alarm you, but it'll certainly expand you.

Of course, there are risks to reinventing yourself, trying to write in

different styles, about different issues. We're comfortable with the familiar in
our writing, especially if we've had any success with it-just as the public is
more comfortable with the expected from their favorite authors. John Le
Carre's only nonspy novel was a disappointment to his readers. And when
Neil Simon adapted Chekhov for his play The Good Doctor, a theatergoer
reportedly remarked at intermission, "This isn't Neil Simon."

On the other hand, risks are crucial to creative growth. Take Woody
Allen's Interiors-not a huge success, perhaps, but a necessary step on the
artistic road to Manhattan and Hannah and Her Sisters. The benefits of
reinventing yourself as a writer go hand in hand with the appreciable risks, as
with all growth experiences.

There's also this interesting paradox: The exploration of self that's

necessary to reinvent your writing often helps clarify the issues and themes
about which you've always written.

Think of Paddy Chayefsky. After his success with Marty, he became

worried that people thought of him as too "street," too engaged in the
language and concerns of the "common man." As a result, he deliberately
stretched as a writer, in both style and content, and in memorable fashion:
The Americanization of Emily, Hospital, Network. Still, though the language
(and IQ levels) of his characters was radically different from his earlier ones,
he explored the same issues of alienation, pop culture, and social class. Is it
that far a journey from mocking the popularity of Mickey Spillane in Marty
to parodying the public's appetite for trash news in Network?

"There is only one type of story in the world your story."

But there are limitless ways to tell it, and limitless opportunities to surprise
ourselves with unexpected humor or darkness, pathos or bravado. If, as
writers, we can relate to characters as disparate as Richard III and Seinfeld,
Dr. Quinn and Hannibal Lecter, Gilligan and Grendel, then we have as many
disparate selves within us waiting to be given voice.
 Deadline Dread

Someone once said, "The problem with being a writer is that it's like always
having homework due."

Which is as good a starting point as any for a discussion of deadlines, a

fact of life in every writer's existence. But not every writer views a deadline
in the same way. Like most facts of life, this aspect of writing holds a
different meaning for different people. And most of these meanings were
formed years ago, embedded in a writer's childhood experiences concerning
ideas of expectation and performance.

For most of my writer clients, a deadline is viewed with dread, the same
pressure to deliver the goods that they experienced in school when
homework was due, or a big final exam was to be given, or there was some
try-out in team sports. They experience the same fears of failure, or concerns
that they would somehow fall short of their own and others' expectations. For
some-then and nowthe deadline represents the date at which long-held beliefs
in their own inadequacy and unworthiness are finally confirmed. The
approaching deadline is like the ticking clock in High Noon.

We're all familiar with this "deadline dread" and the stereotypical way
writers cope: procrastination, which can take the form of household chores,
distracting social activities, or just anxious fretting. Experienced
procrastinators spend hours "researching" on the net, or rewriting again and
again the stuff they've managed to produce so far.

Regardless of coping strategies, the dread is the same: the potential danger
of self-exposure; that once written and handed in, the finished product
exposes us as inadequate, untalented, or unentitled.

On the other hand, there's a smaller group among my clients for whom a
deadline, despite its attendant anxiety, is an absolute must. These writers feel
they need the prod of a deadline, or else they'd never finish the work (or even
start it!). While this may seem an acceptable state of affairs, I think it's a
good idea to investigate a bit further. Often, there"s a kind of negative
reinforcement in this line of thinking, the meaning being that the writer feels
himself or herself to be a lazy, unmotivated worker who needs to be whipped
into compliant productivity by the authority of an imposed deadline. As a
novelist client confessed, "Without a deadline to meet, I'd go all to hell ... I
mean, I'd just screw around, not accomplishing anything."

A screenwriter in my practice put it this way: "A deadline just puts the gun
to my head ... if I don't get the damned thing in on time, BOOM!"

There's a pleasant way to spend the next twenty or thirty years of one's
life!

Regardless of how you view deadlines, they offer an oppor tunity to

explore and maybe temper the self critical, selfshaming ways you might be
viewing yourself. When the next deadline for a writing project looms, take
some time to investigate your feelings about it. Look under the almost
automatic response of anxiety and dread to see what kind of message you're
sending yourself. DO you feel the same way with every deadline, or does it
change depending on the type of project, the person you're delivering it to,
your perceived (or their explicit) level of expectation? How arc these ways of
experiencing deadlines similar to the ways you felt as a child in your family,
a student at school? Whose authority and judgment evoked these feelings the
most? Do you experience your project's potential reader-the producer, editor,
agent, etc.-in some similar way?

By exploring and illuminating these issues, writers can sometimes get the
perspective needed to ease the grip that deadline dread has on them.
Moreover, you can develop coping strategies based on these understandings;
for example, if you use deadlines as a motivator but suffer anxiety, you can
gain some measure of control by setting a series of private, personal
deadlines for yourself, points at which you not only see where you are on the
project but also take some time to assess your feelings about it, identify
various creative and emotional concerns, and regroup. In other words,
become your own authority regarding your writing process, instead of merely
being vulnerable to that imposed from outside.

Let's face it. As long as there are writers-and writing assignments-there'll

be deadlines. How we deal with them, how we weave them into the fabric of
our working lives, is up to us. In fact, as I once suggested to a client, "You
could keep a journal about it ... maybe jot down the issues you think
deadlines evoke for you."

"Can I bring it in to show you?" he asked.

"Sure. Our next session, if you'd like."

"Great." He grinned. "A deadline."

 Three Hard Truths

In my practice, I try to help writers come to terms with a variety of issues

associated with writing. Together, we endeavor to explore and challenge
their expectations, their fears and fantasies, the very meanings they assign to
the peaks and valleys of the writer's life. Hopefully, the most painful, most
debilitating aspects of a client's self-experience can be illuminated and
integrated. At the very least, writers can learn coping strategies to help them
coexist with many of the internal conflicts that plague them.

That said, there's another aspect of the writing life that exists over and
apart from our experience of writing. These are aspects of writing itself that
cannot be "resolved" or "integrated," and certainly not "cured." They are
intrinsic to writing. They're what I call the Three Hard Truths about writing.

The First Hard Truth: Writing is a craft, as well as an art, and that craft
takes time to develop. Forget genius, forget inspiration. It takes time-
measured not in weeks or months, but years. Hemingway said, "Write a
million words." He wasn't kidding.

Time ... page after page, draft after draft, month after month, year after
year. Scenes and more scenes, characters and events and images, discarding
and changing and shuffling and reshuffling, and throwing it all out and
starting over again. That's the writer's commitment, and that requires time.
Or, should I say, a lifetime?

The Second Hard Truth: With every new project, you have to teach
yourself how to write it. Each new piece of writing is unique unto itself. To
put it another way, you and the thing you're about to write are encountering
each other for the first time. The script or novel or play you wrote last year,
or last month, can't help much, regardless of its similarities in style or content
to the new project. For one thing, you're in a different place emotionally,
creatively, perhaps even professionally. You bring a different set of feelings
and attitudes, whether or not you can even articulate these to yourself. Even
if you're trying consciously to re-create what you've done before, it's not
really possible.

This is not, by the way, a had thing. In fact, it's the lifeblood of creativity,
this always-newness. It's also one of writing's finer paradoxes: For centuries,
writers have labored to explore and explicate what Faulkner called "the
eternal verities," yet every time a writer sits down to write, it's new. A wise
writer knows this, and revels in it. So that, ultimately, regardless of your
years of experience as a writer, or your level of success, you come to the
blank page (or screen) with anticipation for what you'll discover, in effect, as
a beginner. To quote Suzuki's famous advice, "In the beginner's mind, there
are many possibilities; in the expert's mind, there are few."

The Third Hard Truth: Writing carries no guarantees. You can never know
how a piece of writing will turn outwhether it'll be any good, whether anyone
will like it, whether it will ever be sold. Writing, to put it flatly, is all about
risk.

No matter how hard you work, how studiously you apply yourself, no
matter even how innately talented you may feel you are, there are no
guarantees. You can't know the outcome of any writing endeavor. Writing,
like life (and baseball, for that matter, or marriage, or politics), is totally
unpredictable. Every time you start a new writing project, you're sailing off
into uncharted waters. Whether you make it to shore depends on a hundred
variables, few of which (outside of effort and commitment) are under your
control. And when you finally get there, when the novel or script is finished,
it may fall far short of your hopes.

On the other hand, it may not. The writing may sing, the story might very
well quicken the heart. You may just pull off the alchemist's trick and have
some real gold on your hands. But you can't know until you get there. You
just can't know.

Well, there they are, the Three Hard Truths. To be honest, my chest has
gotten progressively tighter as I've been writing this. My breathing, I swear
to God, is shallow. These hard truths scare the hell out of me! They seem so
implacable, so nonnegotiable, so . . . well . . . hard. (I'm beginning to wish I'd
written this chapter about something else, like puppies. Or rainbows.
Anything!)

Besides, these Three Hard Truths aren't really Truths at all. Let's face it,
they're just my ideas, one man's opinion. ... I could be way off base here.

But I don't think so.

 Part Five
PAGE FRIGHT

Traveler, there is no path. Paths are made by

walking.

-ANTONIO MACHADO

What is it about writing that makes it so terrifying? There are as many

different answers as there are writers, and as many different ways to deal
with our fears.

In this part, I'd like to focus on an aspect of the writer's life that, at first
glance, seems among the most mundaneup there with learning the computer
and remembering to enclose a self-addressed, stamped envelope. I'm talking
about a writer's habits, both good and bad.

The key to managing our writing fears, our "page fright," is craft;
however, craft doesn't just emerge from an accumulation of months or years
of work, but from the development of good writing habits. And, at the same
time, some advice to help recognize and diminish the bad ones.
 Gumption Traps

"I like the word `gumption' because it's so homely and so forlorn and so out
of style it looks as if it needs a friend."

The preceding quote is from Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,
by Robert Pirsig (one of the real must-read books in a person's life, in my
opinion, as I'll discuss later). Anyway, he was talking in this section of the
book about problem solving, and how one of the personal tools required is
plain, old-fashioned gumption.

Certainly I think gumption is a trait crucial to a successful, satisfying

writing career. Gumption is the "get up and do it" portion of the creative
process. By which I don't mean "Just do it," in the mindless exhortation of
those Nike ads. I'm referring to the sustained, meaningful, and concerted
effort required to write.

Many of my clients think talent, wedded with desire, are the twin engines
of a writing career. And, of course, these are both vital to the writing
process-in conjunction with craft and, as I've stressed repeatedly, access to
one's feelings.

But gumption is something else. It has to do with will, with determination,

with the exhilaration of doing. However, as Pirsig points out, gumption can
be so easily undermined by ego, boredom, and impatience.

By ego, he refers to a belief that you have nothing more to learn. Boredom
results from no longer seeing things in a fresh light. Impatience often conies
from underestimating the time it takes to complete the task.

These problems, among others, he sees as "gumption traps," things that

can really let the air out of your ability to apply a sustained effort.
 Now, from my perspective working with writers, the important lesson
about gumption is to be careful what you use to teed it. All too often writers
lapse into shaming themselves as a goad to work harder. Or, as one client
told one recently, regarding his work ethic, "Don't worry, I can always `guilt'
myself into working."

Gumption rarely arises from shame or guilt. But resentment does; as do

lethargy and depression. And even if you do manage to cajole, threaten, or in
some other way force yourself to write, the result is usually a joyless
experience. (And, often, so is reading the finished product!) Such negative
reinforcement may get you to do the thing, and even get you through it. But
you sure as hell won't want to do it again.

Gumption, as I see it, is about paying attention. Noticing your boredom or

impatience, and exploring it. Why are you bored? Is it perhaps not anger? Or
fear? Fear of what? As these impediments to sustained effort are illuminated
and understood, movement occurs. As Pirsig writes, "A person filled with
gumption is at the front of the train of his own awareness, watching to see
what's up the track and meeting it when it comes."

Let's look at it from another angle. I mentioned before the Hindu belief
that the secret of contentment lies in absorption. I think this is the key to
gumption. Rather than seeing it as a function of a person's character, as
embedded in the Judeo-Christian ethic, I conceptualize gumption as the
natural sustained effort that arises out of being absorbed in a task. Then your
energy reserves are boundless, because everything about the task-including
your emotional responses to it-becomes interesting, worth noting and
exploring.

Being absorbed in the task of writing, experiencing fully each thought or

feeling that emerges moment by moment, including your frustration,
boredom, etc., enhances your sense of aliveness. In short, the more absorbed
you are, the more you heel the gumption that allows you to sustain the effort.

But what if, despite your best efforts, at some point in your work you're
just stuck, lost? I'll let Pirsig offer a final thought: "Then, what you have to
do is slow down, and go over ground that you've been over before to see if
things you thought were really important were really important, and then you
have to ... well ... just stare at the thing. Just live with it for a while. Watch it
the way you watch a line when fishing, and before long you'll get a little
nibble, a little fact or idea asking in a timid, humble way if you're interested
in it. That's the way the world keeps on happening. Be interested in it."
 Procrastination

As I was assembling this book, I knew I wanted to write a chapter about

procrastination. Except that I didn't seem able to write it. Or even to start.

I'd cleared off my desk, made a fresh pot of coffee, flipped on the word
processor-and sat staring at it. I figured it was time to have one of those
frank, unsparing conversations with nivself.

"Weren't you going to write about procrastination?"

"Yeah. I just haven't gotten around to it yet."

"Very cute. Meanwhile, your book comes to a screeching halt."

"But I haven't figured out how to open the chapter. You have to grab 'em
with the first line, ya know."

"I've heard that."

"Maybe I should check my files. I've got all sorts of great stuff in here.
Jokes, anecdotes, news clippings . . . Hey, here's that letter from Jim back in
Pittsburgh. Geez, I gotta send him a note, or an e-mail or something-"

"You can do that later. For now, you've got work to do."

"Don't worry, I'm on it. Right after the mail conies."

"Give me a break, will ya? C'mon, we're both sitting down, the computer
screen's blank and waiting-"

"What do you mean, `we'? I'm the one who's gotta write this thing. You
get to just hang around, badgering me."
 "Somebody has to. Besides, I didn't say a word yesterday, when you spent
the morning browsing in Dutton's Bookstore instead of doing this chapter."

"You didn't have to. The whole time I was there, the fact that I wasn't
writing hung in the air like stale tobacco smoke. I started to imagine that
everybody knew. I couldn't make eye contact with Dave, behind the counter.
I was afraid he'd come over and say, `So how's that chapter on
procrastination coming?' It ruined the whole experience for me."

"Then you should've come back and written the damn thing."

"Brilliant. If I could've done that, I wouldn't be procrastinating, would I?

I'd be writing."

"Look, I'm just trying to help. In fact, I think I'm doing a helluva job."

"You've gotta be kidding. Based on what?"

"Based on the fact we're halfway through this thing already-"

"Again with the `we' stuff. Though, now that you mention it ..."

"You're welcome. See, all we've done is use the same technique you often
suggest to your clients. Instead of obsessing about the fact that they're
procrastinating, they should write about it. As a dialogue with themselves. Or
a story. Even a letter to themselves."

"That's right. If a client writes about his feelings about procrastinating, the
underlying doubts and fears may emerge, as well as the meaning he gives
them. Say, for example, that he shouldn't even be trying to write. Or that if he
does, it won't be good enough. Whatever. Hopefully, as these self-defeating
meanings are examined, the writer can better understand his procrastination
as a kind of defense mechanism. That he procrastinates as a way to avoid
discovering some imagined `truth' about himself"

"Uh-huh. Remember that screenwriter client who tried the technique,

writing page after page about her procrastination issues? Ultimately, she got
so bored doing that, it just became easier to write the damned script!"
 "Well, it worked, didn't it? For a writer struggling with procrastination, the
important thing to remember is that writing anything is by definition the act
of overcoming it."

"And by that you mean? . . ."

"I once had a client who figured out ingenious ways to procrastinate-I
mean, forget house cleaning and file cataloging. This woman organized
block parties in her neighborhood, kept up mailing lists for her alumni
association, spent days trying to invent a new coffee blend for her local
Starbucks-"

"I get it. So?"

"So I had her write down what she was doing instead of writing ... each
activity, her problems with it, her feelings about it. At some point, she began
to see herself as a character doing these things, then writing about that
character. Soon, this all turned into a novel."

"Interesting. By the way, have you noticed we're just about finished with
this chapter?"

"But I was just getting started. Ironic, isn't it? All that time and effort spent
procrastinating, and now that I'm writing, I don't want to stop."

"Now, what have we learned from this, Grasshopper?"

"I'll have to get back to you. Don't forget, I'm in the middle of a book
here."
 Patience

I remember, as a kid, an embroidered sampler my aunt had on her living

room wall. It read, "Lord, grant me patience-but hurry!"

I think of this saying often, especially when working with writer clients.
Not surprising. After all, commercial writing-books, magazines, TV, and
film-is a present-tense industry. In recent years, its motto has shifted from
"What have you done lately?" to "What's next-and make it fast, line two is
blinking."

As a result, patience-with oneself, one's work, and, more important, one's

way of working-is a somewhat devalued commodity, particularly among
those who ought to know better-writers themselves.

Nowadays, few writers are advised to cultivate patience. There's a lot of

pressure to just write, to get it out there, to strive mightily to come up with
the next high concept. We live in a competitive, consumerist culture, and
there's a tremendous urgency to perform. A virtue like patience-sort of in the
same homey, humble category as gumption-can get lost in the manic rush to
produce material.

It seems, too, that the word patience has lost some of its calming
assurance, its reference to longevity, endurance, and the slow growth of
technical skill. Rather than thinking of it as the quality that enables a writer
to explore his or her material, growing more competent by small, even
measures, patience has taken on the attributes of a necessary evil. When a
client who's struggling in his career or with his creative process tells me,
through clenched teeth, that he "needs to have more patience," what he's
referring to is an armsfolded, foot-tapping-nervously-on-the-floor kind of
impatience, waiting for things to get better.
 When seen in this way, having patience becomes the sorry equivalent of
having to eat your spinach; it's supposed to be good for you-it's a damned
virtue, isn't it?but nobody really likes it.

Patience, then, rather than having a calming, protective function, becomes

strained, a tortured version of "waiting your turn" until you, too, make it as a
writer.

Stephen Levine, a well-regarded meditation teacher, once described the

cause of suffering as, simply, "wanting things to be otherwise." I think this is
the key to understanding the value of patience for a writer. If a writer thinks
she is being patient by, symbolically, gritting her teeth and waiting for
"things to be otherwise," then she will in fact only add to her suffering.

Believe me, I understand the temptation to envision patience in this self-

defeating manner, especially given the competitive environment writers find
themselves in now. Write more, write faster, writer funnier, write bigger-
these are the admonitions writers hear every day. So I'm probably in the
minority when I suggest that writers rethink the concept of patience, not as a
virtue one has to swallow, like the aforementioned spinach, but as a
qualitative state of mind to be nurtured-for its own sake-in oneself.

Writers, like everyone else in contemporary life, seem in a great rush to

"get somewhere." But without truly staying "where you are"-without being
with your thoughts, feelings, and impulses, and really inhabiting them-what
is there about you that can emerge to inform your writing? Getting
somewhere is meaningless if the writing that results leaves your authentic
self behind.

In the film Chariots of Fire, someone says, regarding Eric Liddle's

unwillingness to race on the Sabbath, that the boy's faith needs to be
honored; that the Olympics officials made a mistake when they "sought to
sever his running from himself." In the same way, you can't separate the
writer from the writing. And you can't know yourself-you the person, you the
writer-without patience. Patience encourages and underscores the notion that
your career is not only a life-long pursuit, but a daily connection to your
experience of living it.
 Moreover, patience builds faith in one's craft, because craft results from
the slow accumulation of skill-that is, the mistakes, the breakthroughs, the
false starts, the onestep-forward-two-steps-back rhythm that is the writing
life. The cultivation of patience-not as a "waiting for things to change" but as
a state in and of itself-leads to awareness and self-acceptance, necessary
components of artistic command.

Rather than being in such a hurry to get somewhere, writers are better
served by exploring more fully where they are now-and that requires
patience.

In other words, if I were making a sampler to hang on the wall, mine

would read, "Lord, grant me patience-and take Your time about it."
 Perspective

A few chapters back, I wrote about the wisdom for a writer in taking the long
view regarding his or her career; that is, remembering that the ups and downs
will smooth out over the years, and that a consistent, long-term commitment
to artistic growth and the development of craft is what provides the ultimate
satisfaction. In the same chapter, however, I also suggested that writing only
occurs in the here and now.

I want to explore this seeming paradox, particularly in light of a session I

had recently with a novelist client. She was about a third of the way through
a new novel, one that represented a huge leap in terms of scope and content,
and she was in the throes of powerful feelings of doubt and confusion.
Would all the elements of plot, character, and theme come together
successfully? Had she the talent, stamina, arid craft to keep at it, when the
end was so many months, maybe even a year or two, away? What if the
whole thing collapsed, half-finished, a painful and fruitless waste of months
of work?

"If only I could step back from all of it," she said. "Get some perspective."

"You will be able to have perspective," I said. "When it's finished. You
can see the thing as a whole."

"Yeah, but I want that perspective now." She gave me a wry smile, but I
knew she was only half kidding.

As we struggled with her conflicts about the novel, I kept thinking of

something I ierkegaard said: "Life can only be understood backwards;
unfortunately, we have to live it forward." What he meant is that, in
hindsight, the choices and events in our life probably form a recognizable
pattern, or possess a kind of thematic logic. But embedded as we are in our
moment-to-moment daily life, we haven't the perspective to grasp fully the
implications of decisions, behaviors, and events we take part in.

I realized this was the dilemma for my client. Embedded in the daily
struggle to make this scene work, that character come to life; to create the
hoped-for mood and tone as the pages of the novel flowed together, she was
forced to stay in the here and now. The more she took creative risks, the
more she mined her own feelings and experiences to give meaning and
weight to her characters and scenes, the more fully in the world of the novel
she dwelt. In other words, she couldn't see the forest for the trees.

The hell of it is, good writing is only about the trees, not the forest. You're
planting your trees, one at a time, day after day-until, after many weeks or
months, you get to stand back and look it over as a whole and say, "So this is
what the forest looks like. I'll be damned."

The plain fact is, the more fully engaged you are with your writing
process, the less perspective you can have. "The eye cannot see itself," as the
Buddhists say. Now here's why I think that's a good thing.

As my client and I investigated her concerns about the novel, it became

clear that the perspective she desired was in fact a yearning for control. Her
novel represented a real creative and financial risk. Elements of the story
were autobiographical, and intensely painful, and were played out against a
large and colorful canvas, spanning decades.

The difficulty of the task daunted her and exposed her to painful feelings
of inadequacy. Even more shaming was the notion that attempting a novel
like this revealed the depth of her pride and grandiosity, traits that were
particularly frowned upon in her immediate family.

Given such a set of concerns and associations, who wouldn't want to have
control over the writing? To be absolutely certain that the book was working,
the writing was going well, that the novel would be a critical and financial
success? In short, that the end result would justify the pains of its creation.

As my client worked her way toward this understanding, she saw the
inherent contradiction in what she yearned for. If she was going to risk
writing the novel, which meant living daily with her doubts and fears about
it, she'd have to give up the idea of perspective. Which, in this case, meant
control over the outcome.

"But only in the heat of the writing," I reminded her. "There does cone a
time when it's necessary and appropriate to take perspective, and that's when
the book's done. Remember, writing may occur in the here and now, but
editing takes place in the there and then."

"I know," she said. "Thank God."

By session's end, she was ready to go home and risk planting another tree.
For my money, that's as good as it gets.
 In Praise of Goofing Off

Some people call it puttering, or screwing around, or just plain goofing off.
Others, of a more kindly bent, call it daydreaming. Kurt Vonnegut uses the
quaint old term "skylarking." Then there are the sanctimonious, uptight,
nonwriter types who call it, simply, wasting time.

What I'm referring to, of course, is that well-known, rarely discussed but
absolutely essential component of a successful writer's life-the downtime,
when you're seemingly not doing anything of consequence, certainly not
doing anything that pertains to that deadline you're facing, that short story
you've been toiling over, that second draft that's pending.

The concept of downtime, or goofing off, is shrouded in mystery for one

very simple reason: It infuriates the writer's spouse, family, business
colleagues, and friends. Let's face it: They just don't get it.

Here you are, struggling with a rewrite that's due in two weeks, and your
mate finds you spending precious hours looking out the window, or reading
The New Yorker, or watching His Gal Friday for the fifteenth time. Not to
mention the valuable potential writing time wasted repairing your old
bicycle, cleaning out the garage, or organizing your bookshelves according to
author and/or subject.

I know what you're thinking: The preceding examples look suspiciously

like procrastination. I understand your confusion. But there's a very subtle
difference between procrastination and creative, productive, process-
nourishing goofing off.

Procrastination, as I see in my practice every day, is a product of a writer's

inner conflicts around writing itself. Fears about failure, questions about
one's sense of entitlement, doubts about competence, concern about the
potential for shameful exposure. Writers procrastinate to avoid the pain of
discovering what they feel will be inadequacies in their writing; and often, by
extension, in themselves.

I remember, from my days as a screenwriter, the particular quality of

experience that procrastinating brought to the most trivial and pleasant of
diversions. Going to a movie, walking on the bluffs in Santa Monica,
indulging in threehour lunches with other writers-all these activities were
tinged with anxiety, with the awareness that I should be elsewhere, back at
my desk, writing. These were all things I was doing instead of writing,
instead of grappling with problems in plot and character; instead, moreover,
of examining what might be going on inside my head about my ability to
solve these problems.

How different in feeling from goofing off, or skylarking, or puttering! In

my experience, when a writer is working well, these same side activities-
hanging pictures, reading, cleaning out your files-serve as an adjunct to
writing, nec essary downtime for allowing your thoughts to percolate, for
letting a new idea simmer in the pot for a while. You're not rereading The
Sun Also Rises for the umpteenth time instead of writing: You're allowing
that part of your brain that creates to work unconsciously, filtering and
sorting, selecting and discarding.

Equally important, I think, is that there are often analogies between

nonwriting activities and the writing itself. Who's to say that cleaning out
your desk isn't a way to help organize your thinking? That talking with other
writers about their ideas, goals, and troubles isn't a way to help reinvigorate
your own writing ambitions or to get perspective on a particular concern?
Certainly, reading others is a path to clarifying your own writing goals and
issues. As I'll talk about in a later chapter, I've tried to read The Great Gatsby
every year, just to revel in its jewel-like prose and striking emotional
economy; just as an aid to my own writing.

Finally, one salient fact must be accepted: The writing process is damned
mysterious. As a kid in parochial school, I was often chided by the nuns for
gazing out the window, my attention who-knows-where, instead of focusing
on the blackboard. I was a "daydreamer," according to Sister Hillaire, the
principal, in sharply worded notes routinely sent home to my parents.
"Nothing good," she warned, "could come of this." (Nuns, I was to discover,
could be melodramatic as hell.)

The point is, most writers start out as kids looking out the window, their
heads in the clouds, their minds a million miles away, etc. But one person's
daydreamer is another person's "writer-in-training." No matter how much we
try, it's impossible to quantify the writing process. It's mysterious, even to
writers, and it resists all attempts to explicate its secrets.

Which is why it's ultimately fruitless to try to explain to family and friends
what you're doing when, instead of banging away at the keyboard, you're
recataloging your CD collection. I suggest you just give them a wry,
mysterious, genius-at-work smile, and go on about your business.
 Writing about Dogs

One of my favorite Neu' Yorker cartoons, by George Booth, depicts a

tormented, obviously blocked writer sitting at his typewriter, crumpled paper
strewn about, surrounded by literally dozens of dogs-napping, barking,
hanging from the window sills, etc. The writer's wife stands in the doorway,
glaring at him in weary disdain. "Write about dogs," she says.

Aside from its dark humor, the cartoon's truth is that this frustrated writer
often doesn't see that a subject for his writing is right in front of him-the
dogs; that is, the obvious elements that actually inhabit his life.

In my efforts to help writers develop a more benign and inclusive

approach to accessing their creative gifts, I often suggest they follow one
simple maxim: Work with what you're given. By that, I mean work with-and
write from-your singular subjective experience of the actual elements of your
life. And not just your particular feelings and thoughts, as I've argued before,
but the tangible, concrete elements: your neighborhood, a row of trees, the
peculiar shadow shapes made by your car in the moonlight, that three-day
hospital stay, the way certain songs sound on old LPs instead of CI)s. In
other words, figuratively speaking, writing about dogs.

At a deeper level, I'm suggesting that writers practice seeing -I mean,

really seeing the world around them, and allowing these concrete elements to
be experienced in. a fresh light by virtue of the degree of attention and
reflection they inspire in you. (And I don't see this merely as a writing
exercise. Diane Ackerman got a best-seller, A Natural History of the Senses,
out of writing in depth about our five senses. Think, too, of Annie Dillard's
Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. To me, it's a meditation on just paying attention.)

Nothing invigorates our writing-no matter what genre or what medium-

like looking with fresh eyes, experiencing what's in our environment with all
our senses. We're sensory beings, after all; in addition, we're meaning-
makers. We give things meaning. Put the two together and you have the
writer's true raw materials.

Think of how powerfully a particular smell can evoke strong memories of

a meaningful event in your life. Let's say a certain stale, musty smell triggers
a vivid memory of a childhood summer spent on a farm, playing in an old
barn. Maybe it's when you first felt the pangs of adolescent love, or were
given adult responsibilities, or developed an affinity for nature; maybe, as
happened to a friend of mine, you came home to discover your parents were
getting a divorce. That summer at the farm-alive again in all its colors and
tones thanks to a single smell-was a sensory experience now embedded in a
set of ideas, convictions, and feelings. It's a short leap from that smell, and
the memory it triggers, to associations in your mind about who you are, what
happened to you, how you think about things.

In the case of my friend, the memory of that summer on the farm has one
specific meaning: Be wary of happiness; it means you're about to be blind-
sided by some oncoming misfortune.

Sensory experience plus meaning. Like it or not, it's how we make sense
of our lives.

As a writer, your job is to do this consciously and artfully, using craft and
imagination as well as memory and reflection. To do this well, you have to
pay attention.

Tolstoy said, "Love those whom God has put before you." The Tao is even
more inclusive: "Love the Ten Thousand Things." In short, see-that is, love-
everything. Don't just see everything and everybody in your experience as
grist for the mill. To be a good writer, you must love the grist for its own
sake.

What do I mean by this? To "love" the totality of what we experience is to

accept all of our responses to it, to be enlivened by the variety of ways we
experience events, good or bad, painful or joyful. The artist's task is to see
every moment-and our reaction to it-as potentially interesting, challenging,
and worthy of our creative participation.

Viewed from this perspective, a writer is never bored, never longs for
things in his or her life to be more interesting, more exciting, more
something else than they actually are. Except, of course, for when you do
feel that way, in which case you should write about that boredom, or that
longing. That's your grist for that particular day. It's working with what
you're given.

Ultimately, it comes down to two choices: You can trip over the dog on
your way to the office, where you fret and anguish at the keyboard waiting
for the Big Idea to come to you-or you can write about the dog.
 Going the Distance

I think it's a truism: The longer the writing project, the deeper and more
debilitating the page fright. Here is where the narrative goes astray, the plot
unravels, the theme becomes obscured; here is when the work peters out,
slows for months at a time, or is even occasionally abandoned.

In other words, perhaps a writer's greatest challenge is going the distance.

In the early 1960s, there was a hot art-house movie called The Loneliness
of the Long Distance Runner. I think of this film sometimes when trying to
help clients working on long-form projects-plays, screenplays, novels, etc.
The running analogy is a good one, because long-form writing is like running
a marathon: It requires endurance, patience, a deep reserve of willpower and
commitment, and an almost herculean ability to delay gratification.

(To continue the analogy, other kinds of writing might be likened to

sprints-short stories, TV episodes, poems. Sprints require a burst of speed
and power, the knock-out punch of a single idea or concept, and a quick
build to an explosive finish.)

Where the long-form writer gets in trouble is in believing that he or she

can maintain over the length of the project the same vigor and intensity that's
brought to a shorter piece. Hence, when the work slows, or gets bogged
down in exposition, or drifts off on tangents, the writer panics. His or her
confidence flags. Enthusiasm drains away. The unfinished novel or
screenplay is put away in a drawer, "just for a while," often never to be
approached again.

To avoid this, here are some suggestions to help you "keep on keeping on"
during those long, painful stretches that plague anyone writing a big project:

*Pace yourself. As I said, it's a marathon, not a sprint. Twelve-hour days at the
keyboard, living on pizza and Diet Coke, may get you through a short piece or
rewrite that's on deadline, but for a novel or mini-series it's deadly: hard on
your family, your vital organs, and your outlook on life.

*Expect slow spots, things that don't work, and reverses. Long-form
storytelling has its own rhythm, in the reading as well as the writing. The
reader needs to take a breath, be reminded of plot points, given a break from
unending action and/or revelation. So do you, the writer.

Like any extended trip, the journey through a novel or screenplay involves
wrong turns, pleasant surprises off the beaten path, some reflective time to
remind yourself why you're even taking this route, even return visits to
places and events to see what further gold can be mined from them. Just keep
reminding yourself that you're in this for the long haul, that there'll be good
days and bad, pitfalls and peaks of inspiration, and then get on with it.

* Take sidetrips. Stop occasionally to write a short piece an article or essay, a

letter to the local Op-Ed section, e-mail to some friends, etc. This gives your
long-form muscles some much-needed R&R and helps flex those short-form
ones. Just because you're running a marathon doesn't mean you want to forget
how to sprint.

*Limit contact with nonsupportive family and friends. A seemingly obvious

suggestion, I'm always stunned at how often writer clients will reveal their
creative concerns to the wrong people in their lives, folks whose own
agendasunconsciously or not-contribute to reinforcing the most self-defeating
aspects of a writer's personality. Avoid such people like the plague. Turn off
your phone's ringer, put a "condemned" sign outside your apartment building,
assume a false identity and move to Cairo-whatever it takes!

*Dont rush the ending (just to get the damned thing fin ished). A hard
temptation to resist, but you've got to try. There's no sense laboring over a
piece for months, or even years, getting the narrative, characters, and tone just
right, only to rush the thing to its climax because you're so relieved to finally
see the end approaching. Let the reader-and you, too-enjoy the fruits of your
labor; give yourself the luxury of bringing the same effort and care to making
the most out of the conclusion. Do justice to your characters, your story-and to
yourself.

* Finally, when the project is done, expect some postpartum blues. You've
lived in the world of your novel, play, or screenplay for so long, it's familiar,
the known. Despite its myriad problems and headaches, it's what you've called
home for a long time. Believe me, after bitching about it the whole time
you've been writing it, when it's finally finished you'll miss it.

Which is why, as hard as it is to write a long-form piece, as vehemently as

you swear that you'll never do it again, pretty soon you'll start thinking about
a new one.

That's the hinny thing about going the distance. Once you know you can
do it, some part of you-some perverse part of you, no doubt-will want to do it
again.

Just like with running a marathon. Or, perhaps, like the end of a long,
painful relationship. You swear to anyone who'll listen that you'll never fall
in love again. Then, one day, you see someone in a bookstore or at a party,
and you say, "Hmmmm ..."

It's kinda like that.

Part Six
 THE REAL WORLD,
PART II

There is no such thing as security. There never has

been.

-GERMAINE GREER

Over the years, as first a screenwriter and now a therapist working with
writers, nothing has rankled me more than running into nonwriters at parties,
weddings, class reunions, whatever, who claim to be interested in writing
"someday." (For want of a better word, let's call these folks "civilians.")

In my own experience, most civilians-and I include some producers,

agents, and editors in this group-arc people who feel they could be writers, if
they only had the time. They often believe the only thing that separates them
from the professional writer is the luxury of those three or four hours a day
that writers enjoy. (I once had a studio executive complain to me that if he
had "hours free every day to think up dialogue and stuff," he'd get a lot more
done than most writers he knew, and with a lot less whining and bitching,
too. But he couldn't do this, of course, because he "had a real job," taking
meetings, watching budgets, answering to unhappy superiors, etc.)

The preceding anecdote reveals something that even people outside of

show business, publishing, or the arts believe about writing: that, seen from
the civilian point of view, writing is essentially doable by anybody with an
idea, a keyboard, and a disinclination to do legitimate work.

(And, yes, while it's true I did have a writer client who claimed he chose
his career because it entailed "no heavy lifting," I like to think guys like him
are in the minority.)
 The truth is, anybody can have an idea. And almost any idea can be the
foundation for a good script, short story, or novel. Regardless of how
mundane or uneventful a life looks from the outside, each person has a story,
an autobiographical narrative filled with almost operatic passions: loss,
regret, love, tragedy, triumph. The whole magilla. The inclination, even the
wistful yearning, to write about these things, to tell a story, is normal and
understandable.

And, further, anybody can sit down at a keyboard and start writing it ... for
one day. That's the crux of the matter. Anybody can be a writer for one day.

In addition to the usual problems of talent, craft, and imagination, what

makes the profession of writing so difficult is that it requires constancy. You
have to do it every day, with consistency and will, just like any other
occupation. Also, like any other job, you have to do it whether or not you
feel like it some days, whether or not the work is going well, whether or not
your efforts are being appreciated or even rewarded sufficiently. Writing for
a living, like doing almost anything else, requires being a grown-up. Or at
least acting like one.

Anybody can be a writer for one day. You sit down, you write some
scenes, or even a whole story. Maybe you even think it's pretty good. Meaty,
funny, trenchant, poignant. Maybe you show it to people, friends and
relatives at first, then risk giving it to some agent or editor you know.

Let's say the response is negative. You get lots of criticism, suggestions,
unsolicited comments praising you for trying, but saying, as the joke goes,
"keep your day job."

Let's say the response is positive. But still, you get lots of notes, some
requests for changes. Maybe they even want more. More pages, more stories,
more things like it. "More?" you ask. "You mean I have to do this again?"

If you're a real writer, living in the real world, the answer is "Yes, whether
it works or it doesn't, you have to do this again. You have to sit down and
hammer out story beats, character nuances, narrative turns. You have to fine-
tune the rhythm and pacing, shore up the second act, heighten the conflict.
And you have to do this with an eye on the marketplace, and yet stay fresh
and original. You have to do this while keeping your agent interested, your
family fed, and your sanity intact. And you have to do this every day."

Mastery in writing, as in every aspect of life, requires a daily commitment,

a grounding in craft, experience, and knowledge of the field. Just like any
other profession.

Can you imagine going up to a somebody at a party and saying, "You're a

physicist? I've been thinking of doing some physics one day"? Or, "You're a
heart surgeon? I've been fooling around with the idea of cutting and suturing
on the weekend."?

Ought to make for an interesting conversation. At the very least, I bet you
won't have to hear about his or her plans to do some writing "one of these
days."
 Agents

Nothing's more real in the real world of a writer than dealing with agents.
However, whenever I'm asked to say something about agents, I feel uneasy.
Not because I don't have strong opinions about them, having had varied
experiences, good and bad, with agents over a twenty-year span. What makes
any discussion of agents so difficult is that, in my view, the most important
aspects of a writer's relationship with his or her agent have almost nothing to
do with the agent and everything to do with the writer.

Let's face it. If there's a relationship that's as shrouded in mythology, half-

truths, and just plain misconceptions as that between agent and client, I've
never heard of one. Who's read A. Scott Berg's biography of Maxwell
Perkins without thinking, "Jeez, I wish I had an agent like him. "That is, until
you read about some of the deals legendary agent Swifty Lazar got for his
clients.

On the down side, we all know horror stories about agents abandoning
clients, misrepresenting them, assailing their work, diminishing their esteem.
Even the best agents blow hot and cold with their writers, or get distracted by
the excitement of snagging a new, wunderkind client.

So, before talking about what the writer needs to recognize as his or her
own contribution to the sometimes puzzling, often painful relationship
between writer and agent, let's list some sobering facts:

1. Your agent is not your parent. It's not the agent's job to encourage,
support, or validate your creative ambitions, insofar as they reflect your inner
need to be loved and cherished. Such needs were your birthright, and
hopefully were given to you during your childhood. If, however, they were
not, it's not an agent's job to pick up the slack.
 2. Your agent is in business to make money. This is not a crime against
humanity, an affront to the arts, or a personal repudiation of your aesthetic
dreams. It is just a fact.

3. While your agent may indeed admire your talent and share with you
lofty creative and financial goals, he or she is not inclined or obligated to
care about them as much as you do. In fact, no one cares about your career as
much as you do. Which means the burden of worrying about your artistic
aspirations, income, reputation in the field, and level of personal and
professional satisfaction rests entirely on your shoulders.

These three points aside, what every writer needs to understand is that the
very nature of the artist's position in society contributes to the asymmetry of
the relationship between writer and agent. The moment a writer offers his or
her work for evaluation to the marketplace-whether to a book publisher, a
magazine editor, a film producer, or a TV network-that writer is instantly
placed in the vulnerable position analogous to that of child to caregiver.
Since the marketplace holds the power to validate one's work, it retains the
ability to mirror back to the writer either affirming or shaming messages
about the writer's worth.

When dealing with an agent-a person equally embedded in the machinery

of the marketplace-the writer's vulnerabilities encourage him or her either to
exaggerate or minimize the agent's opinion; to place an unrealistic burden on
the relationship with an agent, in terms of its providing solace and support;
and to use, as a child does, the agent's responses as a mechanism for
emotional self-regulation.

The reality is, this primarily fiduciary arrangement can't tolerate such
burdens. The writer expects too much in the way of esteem building,
validation, and empathy. Like those who claim to be looking for a "soul
mate" in their romantic relationships-which often betrays a desire for an
exact mirror image of oneself so as to minimize conflicts-a writer who
searches ardently for an agent who really "gets" him or her at a profound
level is doomed to disappointment.

Which means that every unreturned phone call by the agent, every less-
than-ecstatic response to a new piece of work, every real or imagined shift in
vocal tonality during a conversation are experienced by the writer as concrete
indicators of one's self-worth. The wise writer understands this, if only
theoretically, and should at least strive to keep his or her relationship with an
agent in context. Maybe it will lessen the blows, whatever they are and
whenever they come. Then again, maybe it won't.

On the other hand, unlike one's parents, if you don't like your agent, you
can always try another one. You'll probably discover that each new agent is
just different from, not better than, the last. And that, when it comes to
agents, soul mates are few and far between.

Which is good, because then you can get back to your writing, the one true
source of any success-financial or otherwise-you're likely to enjoy.
 Home of the Heart

It's a famous "Golden Age" Hollywood story. Novelist William Faulkner was
working at a film studio on a screenplay and having a hard time with it.
Frustrated, he asked the studio executive if he could work on it at home. The
exec, desperate to get the thing moving, quickly agreed.

A week later, having heard nothing from Faulkner, the exec called the
writer's rented place here in town. But Faulkner wasn't there-when he'd said
he wanted to write at home, he meant Mississippi, which is where the studio
finally caught up with him.

True or not, the story illustrates something that I've come to see as a
crucial element of a writer's life. The idea of home-not necessarily your
birthplace, or where you live now, or even a physical location at all. I'm
talking about a quality of being "at home" in your surroundings-by which I
mean your emotional as well as physical environment.

Take your physical surroundings-where you live. Tennessee Williams

once remarked that your birthplace, the town or family or geographical
location in which you were raised, was not really your home. When he went
to Key West, he said he'd finally found his "home of the heart"-the place
whose people, scenery, and ambience reflected more truly who he really was.

My own writer clients speak of this phenomenon all the time. They extol
the emotionally restorative, authentic sense of belonging that various places
instill. Some find this home in nature, in hikes on forested trails; some on the
water, sailing or rowing. Others find it in the familiar bustle of a New York
deli.

Particularly for my clients from the East Coast-as so many California

writers are-the sense of home is connected to busy streets, a change of
seasons, the bracing energy of crowded neighborhoods.

Still others, from small towns, miss the sense of community, of

interconnectedness, which paradoxically enables them to endure, and even
relish, the solitary experience of writing. The balance of these two extremes,
the community of others and the solitude for writing, is where home lies for
them.

So, yes, I feel it's important for writers to discover and try to recapture
whatever environmental elements feel like home. If nature resuscitates your
spirit, then whenever possible go out and find a trail. If community sustains
your soul, to the best of your ability create some aspect of this in your life:
Join (or form) a writers' group, take a class, get to know your neighbors. If
nothing feels more like home than a corned beef on rye, go to your local deli.
Whatever.

On the other hand, I'd like you to consider the idea of home in more
personal, psychological terms, the concept of a "home of the heart" that starts
from within, from an awareness and appreciation of your authentic self-in
other words, the notion of being at home in your own skin.

For most of us, arriving at that destination is a much harder journey. In

fact, it's not a journey at all, but a process. Being at home in your own skin
implies an understanding and acceptance of the full range of your thoughts
and feelings, a sense of being okay with yourself-not in some sort of New
Age conceptualization of bliss-but rather okay with the myriad emotional
states that inhabit you, and that you in turn inhabit.

When you can coexist with the thoughts and feelings within you, and find
some equanimity in their frequent painfulness and contradiction, then you are
truly at home in your own skin.

Of course, this "home of the heart" is harder to discover, and the upkeep is
considerably more difficult to sustain than the payments on that longed-for
mountain cabin or sailboat. The upkeep here is a requirement to stay
conscious-to live in a state of wakefulness to your interior life, and to
maintain the will to allow all that's inside you to flourish.
 Being at home with yourself in this way is crucial if you're to have access
to the creativity that's in you, because it's forged from an authentic
engagement with all that you are.

It occurs to me, as I end this, that the most famous quote about home is a
pretty sobering one: Thomas Wolfe said, "You can't go home again." This
may be true, from the standpoint of returning to the past and reexperiencing
what you thought and hoped for and believed in.

But when I talk about home, I'm not referring to the past. I'm talking about
coming home to yourself, an authentic sense of who you are, moment to
moment-the "home of the heart" that's alive in each one of us, only waiting
for our creative gift to give it expression.
 The Unknown

After almost twelve years as a psychotherapist, the one thing I know for sure
is that I don't know anything for sure.

Maybe it's the result of seeing hundreds of clients over the course of my
practice, encountering such a wide variety of people, issues, and experiences.
Maybe it's the hard-won acceptance of the idea that few things are black or
white, true or not true, but rather some mixture of the two. Maybe it's just
that I'm getting older.

I was thinking of this the other day, while serving on the panel at a local
writing conference. I was seated between a talented, successful screenwriter
and an equally talented, successful TV writer. (Since the topic of the panel
was "Staying Sane in Show Business," I guess they figured having a therapist
aboard wasn't a bad idea.) The audience was made up of sincere,
passionately attentive people who seemed to be yearning for something from
those of us on the panel. Some answer. Some blueprint for success.
Something we knew for sure.

What struggling writer doesn't yearn for this? I know I did (and frequently
still do). I've taught countless writing workshops over the years and was
always moved by questions like "What color paper do you write on?" "Is it
better to write in the morning or evening?" "Should a writer always outline
first?"

In other words, what did I know (and when did I know it)? And the funny
thing is, I used to try to answer those questions, as ultimately unanswerable
as they are. I could understand from personal experience the yearning behind
them, the struggle to find a path in the dense forest, or at least to identify
some markers.
 Not that there aren't things to teach, and for writers to learn. Things having
to do with craft, consistency, persistence. Things that we all need to learn and
relearn, one long unceasing lesson that lasts as many days as we do.

But the most important lesson, the one truth that experienced writers
know, is that there's a limit to knowing. Which means there's a limit to
safety, sureness, technique. That, regardless of the tools you forge, the gifts
you were given at birth, the teachers you meet along the way, sooner or later
you bump up against the mystery, the thing that can't be known.

Good writing is a combination of all the aforementioned factors, and yet it

transcends all of them. Good writing is bigger than the sum of its parts. You
can do everything "right," approach the work with talent, diligence, and
craft-and yet, while on Monday the writing will sing, on Tuesday it sinks.

Why? I don't know. More important, you don't have to know. You just
have to keep writing.

St. John of the Cross, describing mystical union with the Almighty, said, "I
came into the unknown, beyond all science." Which may be well and good
when it comes to mystical unions, but what does that have to do with making
your characters richer or solving your Act Two problems?

More than you might think. Regardless of talent level or career success,
every writer "comes into the unknown" the moment he or she begins to write.
It's part of the compact made between the writer and that which is being
written. A compact that reads something like this: "I [the writer] bring to this
work my talent, craft, and professionalism; I also bring a fair amount of life
experience, emotional baggage, grandiose fantasies, and chaotic dreads; I'm
also throwing in some pragmatic understanding of the marketplace, story
beats suggested by my agent, character nuances from my writing group, and
a couple jokes I'm stealing from that last script nobody bought; finally, I
offer my blood, sweat, and tears, enough goodwill to float a hospital ship,
and a vague sense of wanting my authentic voice, whatever it may be, to
shine through the material."

And what can the writer expect from the other party to this compact-the
Muse, the Unknown, whatever name you want to give it? Not much. In fact,
expect nothing at all. Except the occasional miracle. The great line of
dialogue. The surprising story turn. Those infrequent moments when you
look at something you've just written, something won-derf=ul, and say to
yourself, "Where the hell did that come from?" And your heart soars.

Talk about a risky business! You pour all this talent, energy, and
commitment into writing, and there's still no guarantee that anything good
will come of it. And when it does, most of the time you won't know why it
does.

As I said earlier, good writing is damn mysterious, as much to the writer as

anyone else, which is probably the source of its power to move, enthrall, and
inspire.

I say "probably," of course, because when it comes to writing, you never

know.
 Lately, I Don't Like
the Things I Love

Years ago, I worked with a screenwriter client who regularly claimed to have
two great loves: her teenaged daughter Susie and writing. I remember vividly
her struggles during a particularly turbulent period in her life. Her last two
scripts had been shelved by the studio, and a current one had just been
handed over to another, younger-and, by implication, "hotter"-writer. On the
home front, there were daily battles with her increasingly rebellious
daughter. Finally, during one of our sessions, my client came to a painful
realization. "Lately," she said haltingly, as though baffled by the idea, "I
don't think I like the things that I love."

On the evidence, it was easy to see her dilemma. Now in her forties, she'd
worked hard to carve out a screenwriting career. There'd been moderate
success, a produced credit or two, with the accompanying money. There'd
always been another development deal, a six-week rewrite; her agent always
returned her phone calls. But more important than any of these, she'd always
loved to write.

But in recent years, things had slowly unraveled. Whether due to ageism
or a changing market, her career had stalled. Maybe her own creative
energies had flagged: Divorce and a new life as a single parent can do that to
you. For whatever reason, the job offers were fewer; her work was more
often rejected, or hugely rewritten. She sank into that emotional state so
tellingly phrased by Sartre: incomprehension and rage.

Her daughter Susie, now sixteen, was an equally infuriating challenge to

the idea of unconditional love. Her rebellion-what therapists blithely refer to
as a "period of differentiation"-was taking the usual form: sex, drugs, and an
almost pathological inability to agree with her mother about anything.
 As we worked together during this period, I kept replaying my client's
words in my mind. Lately, I don't think I like the things that I love. On the
surface, the meaning was clear: She loved her daughter, and she loved
writing, but at the moment both seemed to offer nothing but grief, rejection,
and humiliation.

But beyond the obvious, what was my client saying to me? That she could
only love something as long as she liked it, in the sense of receiving
appropriate personal and professional rewards from it? Hardly. Raising her
daughter had always been a struggle, as it is for most parents, yet her love for
Susie only grew with the years. Likewise her writing career, marked by the
same triumphs and failures as most writers experience. Yet she approached
every new writing job with the breathless excitement of an astronaut setting
foot on a new planet.

So what was I missing? I found out soon enough, during a session, when I
reminded her of what she'd said about not liking the things she loved.
Apparently, she'd forgotten she'd even said it. She was even embarrassed by
it now.

"I said I didn't like Susie? Or writing?"

I nodded. "Not that anyone would blame you. Remember what's been
going on with your daughter? As of last week, you two weren't even
speaking."

"That's right. I got tired of being told to go screw myself every two
minutes."

"As for your career," I continued, "aren't you being rewritten by some
smart-ass kid who just signed a multimilliondollar deal with Paramount?"

"Yeah, and thanks for reminding me about his deal. I'd almost succeeded
in blocking it out."

"Look," I said, "you're getting hammered by the two things you love most.
How could you be okay with that?"
 "But it has to be okay," she replied. "Or else-"

She paused. I took a guess. "Or else it means you don't really love your
daughter, and you don't really love writing. There's no space in your
conception of loving these two things for you to be disappointed. For them to
occasionally break your heart."

She nodded. "I'm only allowed to be disappointed in myself ... for failing
them."

I tried to choose my next words carefully. "When we love something,

whether our work, a mate, or a child, we'd better figure on disappointing it ...
and enduring the times it will disappoint us. If we're not vulnerable to that, I
don't think we have a right to even call it love."

She looked up sharply. Pointed a painted nail in my direction. "Now you're

starting to piss me off."

"Of course. We're in a relationship, a microversion of the one you have

with your daughter, or even with your work. We're bound to piss each other
off sometimes."

She sat back in her chair, digesting this. "So I just get through all this ...
this anger at everything, until-"

"Until you're okay with it. And then it's just another feeling, more-"

She held up her hand. "I know. More grist for the mill. Christ, you've said
it enough times. But the way I've been feeling lately ... it just sucks."

"Sounds like it."

She looked off, through the picture window. "Getting through this ... could
take a long time."

"Probably. Your relationship to Susie, and to your writing, might go

through a lot of changes. But I'm betting you'll come to some sort of peace
with both of them."
She gave me a frank look. "A long time ..."

I shrugged. "You going anywhere?"

She hesitated only a moment, then almost smiled. Then shook her head.
 Ageism

One of the career issues mentioned in the preceding chapter was my client's
battle with ageism. In her forties, she was beginning to feel devalued, and
almost unemployable as a screenwriter.

God knows, it's an issue that presents itself constantly in my practice,

among not only the clients who have been stigmatized or underemployed
because of it, but even among those younger clients who fear it as something
that looms further down the line. Ageism, it seems, has joined death and
taxes as an inevitability of contemporary life, particularly in the arts.
(Though it has spread, like a contagion, to most other careers as well:
business, law, advertising, technology.)

The problem with complaining about ageism is that, like the weather,
complaining about it and doing something about it are two different things.
Everybody knows, at a kind of gut level, that the marketplace's
preoccupation with youth is ridiculous. Even a cursory look at who spends
how much, on what, and where, indicates that catering solely to the young as
consumers is financially shortsighted, artistically bankrupt, and morally
suspect.

But aside from marketplace concerns, the really insidious aspect of ageism
is that it's based on certain "givens" that rarely hold up under examination.
Youth implies a more imaginative, more subversive, less rule-bound
approach to creative work. Yet the facts say otherwise. Most young (or new)
artists are often quite conservative, retro, and derivative. The way an artist
learns craft is by apprenticeship, by using earlier artists as models. We read
Hemingway, so our first efforts are almost inevitably Hemingway-ish. We
admire Hitchcock, so our early films are filled with Hitchcockian references.

It's my belief that the more mature, confident, and selftrusting an artist is,
the more likely he or she is to break with convention, to explore more deeply
the difficult and idiosyncratic material of narrative and story. A brief
overview of history's most accomplished artists reveals that the majority of
their best work was done during their middle-age years.

That said, what can we do, as artists, about the reality of ageism in the
current market atmosphere? My guess is, not much, at least in terms of
affecting the way the powers-thatbe operate. The science of demographics
rules the media, and as long as advertisers believe they're reaching their
target audience, things will probably stay the way they are.

Do I wish things were different? Sure. But, as I noted earlier, Stephen

Levine reminds us, "Suffering is caused by wanting things to be otherwise."

Do I yearn for a return to a simpler time, when creative artists weren't

judged by how much hair (and how few wrinkles) they had, but instead by
the depth and relevance of their work? You bet. But, as novelist John Fowles
reminds us, "All pasts are like poems. You can derive a thousand things, but
you can't live in them."

Am I outraged and disgusted that studios, networks, and publishers

cravenly pander to what they think the young consumer wants, abdicating
their responsibility to develop and promote writing that takes advantage of a
wide range of talents, ages, and points of view and ignoring the
incontrovertible fact that good stories, well told, appeal to a cross section of
audience types? Yes, I am. But as author and psychiatrist Thomas Szasz
reminds us, "You can't build a big business on truth."

The point is, we're all getting older. Whether or not, as people and as
writers, we accept and address that fact in creative, meaningful, and life-
enhancing ways is up to us. Each of us. In other words, how we deal with the
fact of ageism, like the fact of aging itself, is an individual choice. A writer
can bitch and moan about it, wax nostalgic about the old days, burn with
envy every time some hot new writer comes on the scene-or, he or she can
accept the rules of the game, the context in which his or her career is
inextricably bound, and write. Truly. About the issues, people, events that
inspire that writer. Maybe the marketplace will respond. As often as not, it
won't.

Or the writer will be asked to modify the material. Make the characters
younger, more hip, more relatable to the target audience. Should the artist
make these changes? As always, it's a personal choice. If the mortgage is on
the line, probably. If not ... well, then, hopefully not.

Face it, there's no cure for ageism. Like most other "isms" that plague
modern society, it probably can't be legislated away. It's a fact of life.

And, as I've often said to my clients, "There is no cure for life. It's not a
problem to be solved. It's an experience to be had, a set of circumstances to
be endured, events to be survived, realities to be accepted-more or less on a
daily basis, with courage, conviction, humor, and a modicum of hope."

Better than that, nobody can do. No matter how old--or young-they are.
 Part Seven
HANGING ON

It is not your obligation to complete your work, but

you are not at liberty to quit.

-THE TALMUD

How do you work?" someone once asked Einstein.

"I grope," he replied.

That exchange, as far as I'm concerned, is all the instruction a writer needs.
It's the sum total of every life lesson he or she could ever hope to learn, the
equivalent of a Ph.D. in Being a Writer.

Not an attractive word, grope. Sounds too much like lope, or dope, or
mope. As an image, groping has associations with unpleasant activities like
stumbling around, feeling blindly with your fingers in the dark, or enduring a
series of false starts and wrong turns. In other words, as an image it so
perfectly captures the experience of writing that most writers I know would
dismiss it out of hand as applying to them. It sounds unprofessional, almost
haphazard, and too susceptible to the whims of luck and circumstance.

In fact, some might claim, real writers don't grope. They reflect, ponder,
conceptualize, synthesize, outline, revise, embellish ... create. Their writing
is the result of craft, inspiration, thought, insight, a deep understanding of
character and narrative, and a visceral connection to that which moves and
entertains the reader or audience.

To be blunt, a real writer, a pro, knows what the hell he or she is doing!
That's why it's a profession, not a hobby. That's why most people can't do it.

And I agree. Up to a point.

Make no mistake, I differentiate between professional writers and would-

be, Sunday-afternoon, all-talk-and-no-pages amateurs. If anything, I've
emphasized many times in this book the virtues of craft, experience, and
consistent labor as the bedrock requirements for a productive, successful
writing life.

But I'm talking about something else here. I'm suggesting that a
professional writer's view of his or her work include in it the reality that all
artistic effort, in the final analysis, is a groping toward something. Makes no
difference whether it be a story point, a character nuance, or a thematic idea.
Hell, even if you're just groping toward a better, funnier joke. A true
professional, a real craftsperson, knows that the tools of creative preparation-
story construction, careful reflection on theme and content, an understanding
of character based on observing how real people (including oneself) behave-
these tools have been developed for one reason only: to enable the artist to
grope, hopefully with confidence and self-trust, perhaps with fear and self-
doubt, but nonetheless to grope toward something, some way of expressing
an idea, some way to evoke a chill, a tear, a laugh, a nod of recognition.

Just as a seasoned writer acknowledges and includes all of his or her

feelings in a piece of writing, granting doubt and fear equal validity with
faith and courage, so too does that seasoned writer understand that past a
certain point, a true artist gropes. In a way, it's only logical. The higher your
level of professionalism, the more likely you arc to break away from the
known ways of doing things. Grounded in craft and experience, true artists
invariably move beyond the bounds of conventional thought and approaches.
Which means, finally, pushing into new, uncharted territory, the creative
unknown ... where the artist is likely to discover that, regardless of his or her
discomfort, groping is the only game in town.

It's a real paradox, when you think about it: It's only when you reach a
high level of competence, forged by time and discipline and experience, that
you're finally able to grope. Of course, at such a level, things get harder, not
easier; you find that you're demanding even more of yourself.

Again, an anecdote from Einstein's life: When a student complained about

his difficulties in math, Einstein replied, "Don't worry about your troubles
with mathematics. I can assure you mine are far worse."

(In case you're wondering, I'm using examples from Einstein's career for a
reason. I figure if I can convince you that a mind of his caliber was sanguine
about the notion of groping, maybe minds like yours and mine can get on
board with the idea, too.)

It's a challenging concept, I admit-that when all is said and done, the best
an artist can do is grope. It's about as irritating as accepting that we can't
really control things, or that true progress comes from risk, or that, as
William Goldman reminds us, nobody knows anything.

On the other hand, it makes a kind of sense. Each of us is groping, on a

daily basis, in our lives, our work, our relationships. The more we learn, the
less we seem to know. So we grope toward some understanding, some sense
of meaning.

Why should writing, that which best holds the mirror up to ourselves, do
any more ... or less?
 Commitment

As a therapist, one of the themes that emerges often in my work with clients
is commitment. In dealing with relationship issues, for example, the depth of
a commitment is tested by fears about the future, questions about trust and
fidelity, and concerns about the tension between dependence and
independence.

Likewise, clients with children struggle daily with the commitment to the
rigors of parenthood-the emotional and financial responsibilities, the sharp
changes in lifestyle, the balancing of one's needs with those of one's child.

For my writer clients, this same level of commitment is required. It's the
key to hanging on in the face of the rejection, fatigue, and feelings of
inadequacy a writing career can often foster and reinforce.

Further, I believe the relationship a writer has with his or her writing is
analogous to that of any committed relationship, with the same joys and
pains, pleasures and demands. And, likewise in all relationships, a
commitment to writing needs to be nurtured, tended.

What does a commitment to your writing entail? The same things as a

commitment to a matte, a partner, or a child. The following come to mind:

Constancy. You've got to be in it for the long haul. You're not going
anywhere. You'll be at the typewriter or computer screen tomorrow, and the
day after that, and the day after that.

Resilience. Things aren't always going to go well. There'll be good writing

days and bad ones, great pages and awful ones. The test of any committed
relationship is your willingness to accept (and endure) the disappointments as
well as the triumphs. A commitment to the writing life has the same
requirement.
 Fluidity. "The best laid plans," etc., etc. If something isn't working, you try
something else. A long-term corn-mitment requires the ability to learn from
mistakes and to give up cherished notions about the way things "should" be.
So too a writer committed to his or her craft is both its student and master,
learning from wrong turns and stale ideas, trying new approaches, coaxing
the work along and following where it leads. This keeps the writing fresh,
alive, even dangerous sometimes. Which, for a writer, is both exciting and
nervewracking. (The parallels to marriage and parenting are self-evident!)

Openness to surprise. A corollary to fluidity, this aspect of a real

commitment to writing challenges us to be open to a surprising twist of story,
or an unexpected nuance of a character we thought we knew. It's welcoming
a dark or comic spin that seems to come to us like a devil's whisper, urging
us to pursue it.

An openness to surprise reminds its why we made the commitment in the

first place-because the task of writing, of creating something from nothing,
acts upon its as much as we upon it, and the surprise of our own humor, rage,
passion, and empathy thrills us, fulfills us. A friend of mine once said, "We
write so that we won't die." An openness to surprise keeps our commitment
to writing alive.

Patience. As I've argued, true patience is simply the act of waiting, with or
even without expectation, for the next moment to arrive. Hopeful, watchful,
it's the testing of faith in ourselves and that to which we're committed. A trait
as valuable as a good work ethic, a writer's patience is aided by curiosity
about what's coming next and a conviction that it will probably be worth the
wait.

In my view, the real test of a writer's commitment is that he or she would

rather be there, waiting, working, fretting, than anywhere else.

Love. Love is the foundation of commitment: Having the faith, endurance,

or just plain stubbornness to stay committed against all odds is meaningless
without love. A writer who doesn't love writing can't make a real
commitment to it-instead, all the struggles, the highs and lows, become
merely a test of one's will, or ego.
 Without love, one can perhaps survive the writer's lifemaybe even garner
some success in the marketplace-but what you're committed to lies
elsewhere. Without love, the true joy of writing-that mysterious kinship with
what you write, that transcendence of yourself whenever what you've written
has literally captured your heart-is rarely felt.

A commitment to writing, in the end, means that you accept, with as much
grace as you can muster on any given day, its myriad demands and delights,
failures, and triumphs.

Of course, like in any committed relationship, sometimes it seems like

you're doing all the giving. But then, when you least expect it, it gives
something back, and you remember again why you love it, its meaning in
your life.

And, over and above this, you have the sublime experience of allegiance to
something other than, and perhaps greater than, yourself.
 News Flash: Writing Is Hard!

The legendary screenwriter Ben Hecht once said something very profound
about how hard any kind of writing is: "It takes just as much effort to make a
toilet seat as it does a castle window; only the view is different."

I think about this quote sometimes when clients express concern about the
quality of the project they're currently writing for. Especially during Oscar
season, when the best screenplay awards are in contention. Or when the
National Book Award winners are announced. Or when the Lannan
Foundation awards its annual grants. "What am I doing writing this crap," a
typical client laments, "when Frank McCourt comes out with Angela's
Ashes?"

If my client and I investigate this further, what often emerges is the fear
that, if actually given the opportunity, he or she wouldn't be up to doing the
job.

One of my screenwriter clients, who makes a handsome income writing

big studio thrillers, admitted this very concern to me recently. "Hell, I have a
hard enough time writing this stuff. What makes me think I could even come
close to turning out a Chinatown or Lawrence ofArabia or Some Like It
Hot?"

The mistake this client makes-and one shared by many writers-is the
notion that doing a good job on elevated types of material is necessarily
harder than writing a paperback suspense novel or funny sitcom episode.
What makes Angela's Ashes a great book is the author's courage in exploring
his own family's history and his passion to tell that story. What makes Robert
Towne's Chinatown a classic script is the level of craft, intelligence, and
sophistication brought to it. These same qualities, to whatever extent the
writer possesses them, are what should be brought to any kind of writing,
regardless of medium or genre. If approached in this spirit, the writer is
doing his or her best to make the material work, whatever the material.

Which is what makes writing so damned hard. To do anything at a high

level of competence-whether writing; a novel, being in a relationship, or
building a canoe-is difficult because it requires those aforementioned
qualities of craft, passion, and intelligence. If we believe that what we're
doing is unworthy of our exerting these qualities, it only makes the task
harder.

One way to deal with this attitude is to remember that the writing of
anything presents us with the opportunity to explore ourselves, to mine our
feelings and personal experiences to give the material relevance for us-and
our readers or audience. (Hell, it usually happens anyway, outside of our
conscious awareness. Years ago, as a novice staff writer on Welcome Back,
Kotter, I was often creating situations for the characters that mirrored things
that had happened to me, or else were yearned-for events and outcomes that
resonated from my own personal history. At the time, of course, I was totally
oblivious to such connections. But the supportive, humorous things that
Gabe Kotter often said to a particular Sweathog in a moment of crisis
invariably reflected the kind of interaction I'd wished for as a child.)

The point is, whether or not you're writing a project whose artistic goals
are as lofty as your own, you've been given an opportunity to express
yourself through your talent. To do this at its highest level, to bring the best
of yourself to the project, will paradoxically mean that it's going to be hard
work.

Maybe even as hard as writing an Academy Awardwinning script or a

Pulitzer Prize-winning series of newspaper articles. Because all good writing
demands the same elements of pacing, characterization, story beats, set-up,
and pay-off. All good writing requires you to sweat blood over the narrative,
the getting of a character from Point A to Point B in a way that makes sense,
even if only in terms of the internal logic of the material you're given.

And make no mistake: Every type of genre, in every media, no matter how
apparently low-brow the artistic aims, has it own internal logic. From a
Hallmark card to a Hallmark Hall of Fame, from a romance novel to the
umpteenth sequel to Die Hard, every narrative requires an internal logic for it
to connect to its audience.

Another point to consider: You, the writer, can view each writing
assignment as an opportunity to learn, to stretch your talent, to try something
different. In my own Hollywood career, which ranged from writing jokes for
stand-up comics to sitcoms to feature films, I learned something new from
every assignment. I also learned about my own resiliency, willingness to
grow, and resistance to growth. Every new script was a life lesson.

Yes, writing is hard. Writing anything is hard. Especially if you're doing

your best.

Which reminds me of another favorite Hollywood story. Years ago, a

roomful of studio writers were going crazy trying to beat an Act Two
problem in a script they were doing. After almost a week of teeth gnashing
and garment rending, a new, young writer was brought into the room. In a
matter of minutes, he hit upon the solution. To which one of the exhausted
old veterans grumbled, "Sure he beat it. He didn't know how hard it was."
 Burnout: A Modest Proposal

It was a dark and stormy night—

Well, actually it wasn't, but it should've been. It was somewhere near 2

A.M., and I was stuck in the second act of my third draft of a screenplay I
was growing to hate.

Getting out the second draft had been hard enough, given all the changes
dictated by a studio executive who gave new meaning to the term
unqualified. This in addition to being continually undermined at meetings by
the producer, who responded to any criticisms of the script by turning to me
and saying, "See, kid? I told ya it wouldn't work."

Anyway, I'd gotten halfway through my third pass at the script when the
phone rang. It was a Monday morning, and my producer had just spent the
weekend back East in his hometown, at his high school's twentieth reunion.

"Kid," he said, "I got a great idea. Our hero's gotta go back to his high
school reunion."

"Huh?" I said, or words to that effect.

"Billy, the cop," he said excitedly. "He goes back to his twentieth reunion
... maybe he meets his old girlfriend, maybe he screws her, I don't know."

"His high school reunion? I mean, why should we do that? What does that
have to do with--"

"C'mon, it's character stuff. Shows another side of the guy. `Road not
taken,' that kinda shit ..."

"But ... but ..."

 No amount of debate, badgering, or pleading could convince him that a
plot-shattering, logic-bending detour to a high school reunion wasn't just the
thing our story needed. After I hung up the phone, I consoled myself with the
thought that it could've been worse: He might've had a UFO encounter that
weekend, which would've really screwed up the script.

Which brings me back to that dark and stormy night (though it was
actually moonlit and balmy). Two in the morning, and I'm standing in my
office, looking out at the trees and the silent houses, and I'm thinking about
how everybody else on the block is sleeping peacefully in their beds, or else
making love, or watching an all-night Twilight Zone marathon, or even
breaking into an appliance store down on Ventura Boulevard-doing anything
else but trying to shoe-horn a damned high school reunion into a story that it
doesn't belong in.

In short, it occurs to me that everybody in L.A. is having a better time than

I am!

The preceding drama happened many years ago, when I was a callow
young screenwriter, but I think of that night often, especially when my writer
clients complain of similar mind-numbing, jaw-dropping, heart-clutching
experiences.

By that, I don't mean the struggles with the movie studios, book
publishers, magazine editors, and agents that make up the daily life of a
writer. I'm talking about something else, torments that go way deeper, that
carve you up and empty you out. Those umpteenth-draft, Dark Night of the
Soul, "there's -gotta -be-a-better-way-to-earn-a-lWing- than -this" feelings.

In other words, burnout.

Let's face it, being a writer is an unusual profession. It floats somewhere

on the continuum between a calling and a curse. It shares with the other art
forms a kind of fringe, marginalized position in society. It tends to embarrass
family and friends. Other professions look upon it with skepticism, if not
downright suspicion.
 Writing can also be a lonely, isolating experience, broken up occasionally
by encounters with other writers who'vc invariably just signed lucrative
network development deals or three-book publishing contracts.

No wonder that, on occasion, a writer can feel like the Poster Child for
depression, loss of energy, and stress. I don't have a client in my practice
who hasn't felt "fried" sometimes, burned out.

Like any other creative impulse, the urge to write is born of experiences,
thoughts, and emotional responses to the world around you. Even if writing
is merely a business to you, a way to earn money, it still requires raw
materials. When you're burned out, these emotional, intellectual, and
aesthetic resources are unavailable to you.

My advice for treating writer's burnout is simple: Let yourself burn out.
Really.

Mark Twain knew how (and when) to rest and take the necessary time to
recharge his creative batteries. He referred to it as "waiting for the well to fill
up again."

In the same way, you might try thinking of burnout as an integral part of
the writing process, as important to your productive output as it is for a
farmer who lets his crops go implanted for a season. He knows the soil needs
to replenish itself to stay fertile. In the same manner, if you don't panic,
acknowledging and accepting feelings of burnout can be equally restorative.

Because, frankly, if writing is your life, that "well" will inevitably refill,
and once again you'll be back in the game.

Even when that game involves sending a cop back to his high school
reunion in the middle of a manhunt for a serial killer.

But I'm not bitter.

 A Writer's Library

I've been quoting from my favorite writing books throughout this book,
valuing the clarity and wisdom of the many writers who've struggled with
some of the same concerns I've raised. I think it's a good idea to read about
writing for a number of reasons-mostly having to do with the development of
craft-but primarily because it helps to alleviate the sense of isolation that can
accompany writing. The question is, which books?

Everyone knows the better-selling ones, and I can certainly recommend

them without reservation: Writing Down the Bones and Wild Mind by
Natalie Goldberg, Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird, Julia Cameron's The Artist's
Way. And, for the mythological underpinnings of narrative, Joseph
Campbell's justly famous Hero with a Thousand Faces.

I'm also a big fan of William Goldman's book about movie writing,
Adventures in the Screen Trade. (I once mentioned it glowingly to a studio
executive I knew, who exclaimed, "I hate that book!"-a ringing endorsement
if I've ever heard one.)

However, I'd like to suggest some other books, personal favorites, that I
think speak more powerfully and tellingly to the inner life of the writer. Not
only are they wonderfilly soul satisfying, but they address the core of the
creative experience. Not how-to books (or even how-to-survive), they're
more concerned with how to be. Though not all these books are about
writing specifically, the issues explored are relevant to anyone living the
writer's life.

In Praise of What Persists, edited by Stephen Berg. A collection of essays

by a variety of writers detailing the personal experiences that influenced their
work.
 Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, by Robert Pirsig. A great
book on the dynamic-and often crazymaking-process of striving for quality,
however you define it.

The Writing Life, by Annie Dillard. Elegant and personal, as well as hard-
nosed and pragmatic. Wonderful reading.

The Illusion of Technique, by William Barrett. A book I'm always

pressing on friends and colleagues. A ringing defense of creativity as a
spontaneous and. powerful reaction against the false sense of security
promised by reliance on rigid structures and techniques.

Life Work, by Donald Hall. A beautifully written book by the much-

honored poet and man of letters, exploring his obsession with-and
consolation from-a life devoted to the craft of writing.

Mastery, by George Leonard. Mentioned earlier, it's a primer on the value

of practice, the consistent doing of a craft. A strong rebuttal to a goal-
oriented approach to creativity-and to life.

The Courage to Create, by Rollo May. The title says it all.

On Moral Fiction, by John Gardner. Densely written, frankly pedantic, and

inevitably self-righteous-and those are the things I like about it. A stirring,
sometimes maddening call-to-arms on behalf of writers taking what they do-
and its effects on society-seriously.

The Journals of Eugene Delacroix. I know what you're thinking: "What do

the personal journals of a French painter, written a couple hundred years ago,
have to say to me, a modern writer?" You'd be surprised. Delacroix's honest,
vulnerable self-appraisal, his struggle to balance the pragmatic demands of
life with his artistic goals, his emotional swings from elation to despair and
back again, are both fascinating in their own right and a timeless reflection of
the dilemmas faced by all creative people.

The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Sixty thousand perfect words. A

masterpiece of lucidity, banked emotional fire, sustained tone, depth, and
heart. I try to read it once a year, just to clear out the cobwebs.

And, finally, a small gem that's spawned a dozen imitators (particularly of

variations on its title). I'm referring to Zen in the Art of Archery, by Eugen
Herrigel. Written with simplicity and humility, it's the one book I'd advise
reading if you can't get around to any of the others mentioned previously. For
writers-for everyone-this is the book. Why? I could list many reasons, but
mostly you learn about the importance of ... breathing. (Trust me on this. Go
read this book. Slowly. Savor it. Hopefully, afterward, at a level outside of
your conscious awareness, it'll go to work on you.)

There you have it. An eclectic group, I admit. There are other worthy
books I could've included, by writers as diverse as E. B. White and Ray
Bradbury, Ben Hecht and Stephen King. But for now, I'll stick with my list.
Good companions on the writer's journey. Enjoy.
 A Stillness That
Characterizes Prayer

Despite its difficulties and challenges, the writing life has much to
recommend it-the excitement of creation, the chance to explore our thoughts
and emotions, the opportunity to communicate our ideas and experiences to
others, etc. But you know one of the things I like best about writing? It's
quiet.

I was thinking about this the other day, when I ran across a quote by
novelist Saul Bellow. He talked about the act of writing as possessing "a
stillness that characterizes prayer." I suspect what he was referring to is the
quietude that both accompanies the act of writing and that makes the act of
writing possible in the first place. In essence, writing as meditation; quietude
in the midst of chaos. Not such a bad thing.

As we begin a new century, certain hard truths are evident. Things in

general have become more complex, our lives have gotten busier and more
difficult to manage, and a kind of low-level anxiety attends the arrival of
each new technological and/or social advance. Plus, as Alvin Toffler warned,
in his book Future Shock, the pace of all these changes is too rapid to allow
us much time to integrate and assimilate their meanings.

The point is, to the person of reasonable intelligence and sensibilities, it

can all seem a bit much. Overwhelming. Chaotic. Noisy.

When I said that one of the things I like about writing is that it's quiet, I
wasn't being facetious. Nor was I conceptualizing the silence of writing as an
escape or withdrawal from the world. On the contrary, if done truly and from
an authentic connection to our hearts and minds, writing is one of the most
engaged acts we can do. It's a way of speaking to oneself, and then to the
world, that is as daring an adventure as scaling a mountain or sailing solo
across the North Atlantic.

In fact, the writer's quiet I'm talking about doesn't even require actual
silence. Writers often listen to music, or write in crowded diners, or talk into
tape recorders while jogging on the beach.

No, I'm talking about something else. Quietude. A hushed, private space to
which a writer is granted access by the act of writing itself. This silence, the
silence in which most writers write, is the felt sense of their inner world, their
aesthetic, their yearnings. It's like a bubble in which thoughts and feelings
can intertwine, take shape and unravel, then form new shapes. Like the
meditative act, it's a way to cut out the "noise" and just be with who you are,
moment to moment, and observe this without judgment.

Also, as in meditation, the silence of writing allows you to experience the

tension between being and doing. This tension is the source of all good
writing. It could, in fact, be considered a definition of the act of writing
itself: the constantly reciprocating interplay between being and doing,
between experiencing something and then attempting to put that experience
into an artfully crafted shape that can communicate to the reader or audience.

There's another, deeper level to this. In my own experience, the "stillness

that characterizes prayer" in this writer's space makes possible the sensation
of losing oneself, the ego, the "I" that writes. What emerges is the sense that
"it" is writing, some groundless flowing expression of creativity and intent,
for which the writer is merely the vehicle.

As one of my clients put it, it's like taking dictation from the movie screen
playing in your head. It's the writer's "rush." It's getting out of your own way
and letting the writing take over.

There is nothing the least bit "New Age-y" about it. It's as common as
stone, and just about as stubbornly resistant to interpretation. If, as I believe,
writing is a calling, then the silence that attends the writing act is and should
be similar to that of prayer.
 And, like prayer, respectful, of both yourself and the writing process.
Hopeful, both for yourself and for the product that results from the writing
process. And, finally, a waiting, in that hushed, private writer's space, for the
conversation to begin between you and your creative self
 Part Eight
DISPATCHES FROM
THE FRONT

Believe those who are seeking the truth; doubt those

who find it.

-ANDRE GIDE

I can't do this anymore," my new client said. He was a TV writer, and this
was our first session together.

"Do what?" I asked.

"This. Writing. Meetings. Pitching. Hustling my agent. This! ... I can't do

it anymore."

I could tell we weren't talking about burnout, or writer's block, or fatigue.

Something deeper was stirring.

"It's no life for a grown man," he went on. "I'm gonna be forty soon, for
Christ's sake. I got a family that'd like to see their old man once in a while.
And when they do see me, I'm always moping around, or else pissed off."

"Sure you're not exaggerating?"

"I mean it," he went on. "Those are my two moodsdepressed or angry.
Except when I'm excited about a script, or things look good after a pitch
meeting. Then I'm manic, bouncing off the walls, too excited to eat or sleep,
and scared shitless the feeling will go away if things fall through."
 I nodded. "No question, a writer's life is tough. Not everyone can do it.
Perhaps you can muster some appreciation for yourself that you've done this
well, survived this long."

"Okay, I'll give myself a medal."

He fell silent for a full minute. I could feel the urgency of what he wanted
to say, the sudden need to get it all out.

"Here's the thing," he said finally, words coming sharp and fast. "I get on
staff, the show tanks, my agent tries to get me another show. Only it looks
like everybody's just hiring their friends. Or the new kid with the hot spec
script. So my agent says to me-I mean, I've done three network shows,
dozens of episodes-my agent says, `We need something fresh from you. Why
don't you knock out a new spec?' In other words, prove all over again that I
know how to write. Why the hell do we put up with it?"

I shrugged. "Depends on your theoretical stance. In behavioral psych

terms, it's because of intermittent reinforcement."

"Thanks. I feel a whole lot better now."

"All that means is, being a Hollywood writer is like playing a slot machine
in Vegas. You pull the handle down four times, you hit the jackpot. Pull four
more times and you get zip. You know another jackpot's in there, but you
don't know how many pulls it'll take to win. So you pull a dozen more.
Nothing. You walk away, the next guy comes up, pulls once, and he's got a
lap full of silver dollars. Damn, you think. If only I'd pulled it one more
time."

"So you start lookin' for another slot machine."

"That's right. In experimental tests, the one type of reward system that
keeps lab animals trying over and over again is intermittent reinforcement."

He gave a strained little laugh. "So that's all we are-hamsters on a

treadmill? With the occasional reward of a job to keep us going? ... No
wonder we're miserable."

"Sure ... if the only rewards you recognize are the ones Hollywood offers.
Like I said, it depends on your point of view. As it happens, I don't put much
stock in behavioral theories. They're a limited, impoverished view of human
beings. Frankly, they don't do us justice."

"They don't?"

"To my way of thinking, good creative work is itself the reward. The only
one that sustains over the life of a career."

"Hell, I know that intellectually. But it doesn't pay the mortgage, it doesn't
get your scripts to bankable stars."

"You're right, it doesn't. It just keeps you sane."

"Big deal. That and four bucks will get you a cafe latte."

I took a few moments to collect my thoughts.

"Look," I said, "if you connect your happiness, your sense of creative
meaning, only to those times you sell something, or land a job, or get a script
produced, then you're allotting yourself a precious few, isolated moments of
fulfillment. Further, you give over totally to others the power to grant you
that fulfillment. If you're only going to feel good about your writing at those
times, then you're accepting the idea that your worth comes from outside of
you, rather than from within."

"Hey, that sounds good, but in the face of all the struggle, the bullshit-I
mean, sometimes it's just so hard-"

"I know. You feel you just can't do it anymore."

"I can't. I mean, at least, that's what I'm startin' to tell myself." He paused.
"Do you think any other writers ever feel that way?"

"Only all of them."

 "Yeah, right."

"I'm serious." I held his gaze. "You think all the writers I see in here come
to therapy because things are going great? That they don't feel frustrated,
beaten down, disheartened? Every writer I know has wanted to throw in the
towel sometimes. Hell, I'm beginning to think if a writer doesn't feel like
doing that once in a while, he's just not paying attention."

"Oh." A rueful smile. "Well, that's something ... But I still think writing's a
bitch."

"Point taken. In fact, that's a pretty good place for us to pick this up again."
I glanced at the table clock. "Same time next week?"

"I'll be here," he said.

"So will I," I said.

 Phone Call from Paradise

The preceding session never took place. Like the others in this section, it's an
amalgam of hundreds of sessions with clients I've had in my practice. It's
also representative of the kinds of issues nearly every writer struggles with.

I think of the preceding vignette, as well as the ones that follow, as

dispatches from the writing wars, examples of the different ways writers
cope with the pains and joys of the artistic life.

In my view, writers are always the ones on the front lines. They're the
creators, the originators, the ones who are the first to say "What if ... ?" The
Oscar-winning film usually starts with the writer's idea, and then everybody
else climbs on board (subsequently taking most of the credit). The Nobel
Prize-winning novel starts in a room somewhere, a writer alone in a room,
with a whole universe of possibility as sole companion. The series of
newspaper articles that bring down a powerful city mayor begins with the
writer who noticed a discrepancy, sensed a lie, followed his or her creative
instincts to the heart of the story.

Henry Miller said it best. "Imagination is the voice of daring. If there is

anything God-like about God, it is that. He dared to imagine everything."

But most writers feel decidedly un-God-like. Between managing the

pragmatic demands of the real world and sorting out the internal conflicts
arising from talent and artistic ambition, the daily struggle of the writer's life
has the power to dilute the vision and constrict the soul. Often enough, the
only thing the writer's imagination can conjure up is all the reasons he or she
is going to fail.

That's why so many would-be writers consider giving up the fight, threaten
to go AWOL from the front lines. Some even do so.
 Others don't. But it's a constant battle, an unending struggle with both the
world outside the writer and the world within. And it's anybody's guess, on
any given day, which way the decision will go.

For instance, there was another TV writer in my practice who one day left
five breathless messages within the space of an hour on my voice mail. What
made this so unusual was that he was on vacation in Kauai.

I called him back at the number he'd left, a lone pay phone near a cluster
of cottages at some small, exclusive resort. I could hear waves lapping the
shore, but I could barely hear him. He seemed to be whispering.

"Can you speak up?" I said.

"I said, I'm not coming back."

"To therapy?" This surprised me; I'd thought we'd been making some
progress.

"Therapy? No ... I mean, I'm not coming back to L.A."

"What? And why are you whispering?"

"I gotta keep it down. My wife's in the cottage, but the walls are made
outta palm leaves or somethin'. She'll hear me."

"Oh." A therapeutic pause. He bit.

"Look, I don't want her to know. Not yet. In fact, I'm thinking of letting
her and the kids go back to L.A. without me. Tell 'em I need a couple extra
days on my own to relax, unwind."

"Is this true?"

"Are you kiddin'? I'm co-producer on a sitcom in its second season, with a
bad time slot and a flaming psychotic in the lead. What do you think?"
 "But that's why you're on vacation. Some much-needed R&R. Remote
cottage, right on the ocean, no phones or faxes. Sounded great when we
talked about it in session."

"It is great. That's why I'm not coming back."

"For an extra couple days?"

"For the rest of my life, man. But I'm not stayin' here. Too civilized. You
can still get here by boat, or helicopter."

"I'm not following you."

"Damn right. Nobody is. See, once I get Helen and the kids on that plane
home, I'm leaving this place and heading for parts unknown. Some little
island off New Guinea, or maybe the Hindu Kush. Didja know they got parts
there that are still unexplored, that aren't on any map?"

"You're serious."

"Hell, yeah. Look, I'm overweight, overworked, and overstressed. I got a

nut the size of your average country, a wife who hates me, two kids who hate
both of us, an agent, three attorneys, a business manager, a domestic staff
that rivals Brideshead, four cars, and a black lab that sees a grooming stylist,
a shrink, and a pet psychic. With the whole damn thing on my shoulders.
That means putting in an eightyhour workweek, cranking out jokes and story
ideas, with the goddamn network breathing down my neck, all while
negotiating office politics that would baffle Elizabeth R. Screw it, I'm goin'
over the wall."

"Okay, I get how stressed you feel, how trapped-"

"I mean, I'm not even runnin'the show. Remember when I told you how I
always wanted to create and run a series of my own?"

"Yes, I think I do-"

"Yeah, well, I musta been crazy. You know what being a show-runner's
like? Talk about dead men walkin' ..."

"It can be very demanding, and murder on your personal life. But, if you
work at it, you can find a balance."

He chuckled, a weary rasp in his whispered voice. "I've been looking for
that balance for eighteen years. You know what I think? I think it's like net
profit points in your contract-some kinda urban myth."

I tried a different approach. "Okay, let's say you just drop out of sight.
Live on some uncharted island somewhere. What will you do all day?"

"I was thinking along the lines of drinking and chasing women. And
sleeping. Yeah, I could really get into some major sleeping."

"That could get old. What about your mind? Your creativity?"

"What's it done for me lately?"

"Well," I said quietly, clearly stalling for time. I took a breath. "Think
about it. It takes imagination to plot an escape from your life. A certain
aesthetic daring."

"Yeah, I'm like David Copperficld. One minute I'm here, the next I'm
gone. The Man Who Dropped Out." His voice caught. "Hey ... wait a
minute."

"What?" It was as though I could hear his mind working.

"I was just thinking," he said, "with computers and the Net and satellite
tracking, how hard it would be for a guy to really disappear. But finally, after
all these close calls, he pulls it off. But then, what if his wife had to find him,
their daughter needs a kidney transplant or something ..."

I noticed his voice rising, no longer speaking in a whisper.

"You're not whispering. Won't Helen hear you?"

 "Eh?" he answered distractedly. "Nah, she came outta the cottage. I think
she went snorkeling or something. But listen-what if the guy's ex-business
partner is looking for him, too? Millions are at stake. They hire these
mercenaries to find him ..."

His voice trailed off. All I could hear were those waves lapping again.

"Hello?" I said at last. "You still there?"

"Look," he said quickly, "can we talk about that other stuff when I get
back?"

"If you want. But I thought-"

"Maybe I'm losin' it, but this is a great freaking idea for a series, 9 o'clock
slot. I can work it off that development deal I got at Fox.... I mean, I don't
know if I ever told you, but I always wanted to run my own show."

"I think I recall you mentioning it."

"Uh-huh. Look, I gotta hang up and make some notes. See ya next week,
our regular time?"

"Uh ... sure." Somewhat at a loss, I added, "Aloha."

But he'd already hung up.

 The Idea Man

"I don't have a single idea!"

My client, a veteran screenwriter, sat across from me, hands clutching his
chair arms. "I've cleared the time, promised my agent a new spec script-"

I shook my head. "And no good ideas?"

"I said, no ideas, period! No good ones, bad ones, crazy ones. Zilch!
Nada!" He tapped. his forehead. "It's empty. There's nobody home. I've hit
the wall. Pick your metaphor. I'm out of ideas. I can't think of a single thing
to write about."

I took a breath. "Look, I know how frustrating that can be. You feel stuck,
or unmotivated. But remember, you've been in this place before, and sooner
or later ..."

"This is different," he said impatiently. "And I don't feel stuck. I do feel

motivated, inspired, whatever the hell you wanna call it. I'm ready, willing
and able to dive in on a new project."

Here he seemed to deflate, as he let out a long sigh. "I just can't come up
with an idea. Not even a premise, a place to start. Nothing."

A long silence fell between us. In the course of his therapy, one of the
themes that had emerged was the painful meaning he gave to any problems
with his work. Rather than see his creative struggles as the normal
difficulties of the professional writer's life, he felt that "real" writers
transcended the kinds of doubts, fears, and blocks to which he regularly
succumbed.

The one area where he'd felt secure was as an "idea man"he often said that
though his "pure writing talent" was in question, he could always be
confident of the unending supply of story ideas he could come up with.

But now, convinced that he was out of ideas? It didn't take a therapist to
see what impact this belief would have on him.

"Let's back up a minute," I said. "While I don't think it's likely you've
actually run out of ideas, I take seriously your belief that you have. What's
important is what that would mean to you."

He practically shot up out of his chair. "It means I'm screwed! My career is
over, my family leaves me, and I end up living in a cardboard box."

"Well, as long as you're keeping this in perspective."

"Very funny. Look, I'm not an idiot. I've been a writer for almost twenty
years. I know there aren't really any new ideas. Every idea is a variation of
some old idea. Some reversal, or switch. It's like moving puzzle pieces
aroundthey're always the same pieces, but if you put 'em together in a new
way, the picture's different. Or just different enough."

"And you feel you've suddenly lost this skill?"

"Like I never had it. Gone. I feel like I've been found out, exposed."

"Which means?"

"The jig's up. I oughtta just confess to my wife and kids. Find a rabbi. Hire
a psychic. Go underground." A rueful look. "No perspective again, eh?"

I shrugged. "On the contrary, I'm convinced. As an idea man, I'd say
you're finished."

"Thanks a lot." His face clouded. "So where does that leave me?"

"Defenseless. The last protection you had against really exploring your
beliefs about yourself is gone. You don't have being an `idea man' to hide
behind anymore."
 His voice grew an edge. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Writers often hide their insecurities behind an image of themselves, sonic

stereotypical description-a `joke machine,' a `character guy,' a `horror writer'-
to protect themselves. It can be a candid view of a writer's strengths, but it
can also be limiting, constrictive, defensive. And, of course, the marketplace
reinforces this, putting writers into rigid categories as well."

"Tell me about it."

"The point is, maybe thinking of yourself solely as an `idea man' has
outworn its usefulness for you."

"But if I gave it up, I'd have nothing left to fall back on.."

"Which, for a writer, can be either terrifying or liberating. Probably both."

He chewed on this for a moment. "But what do I do now?"

"You might try writing from a different place. Say, starting from
character."

"But I don't even have a lead character."

"Sure you do. An `idea man' who thinks he's run out of ideas."

"You mean, a guy like me? But what could happen?"

I made a big show of looking off into space. "Let me see. He could confess
to his wife and kids, find a rabbi, hire a psychic. Etcetera."

He smiled. "That sounds vaguely familiar."

"Well, like you said, there are no new ideas. It's just a matter of what you
do with them."

"Yeah, yeah," he said, reaching for a pad and pen. "But since it's probably
the last good idea I'll ever have, it couldn't hurt to write it down...."
 I've Come a Long Way on Paper

Years ago, as part of my internship in psychotherapy, I worked at a private

psychiatric facility that specialized in the treatment of patients diagnosed
with schizophrenia.

I remember one patient very clearly, a bright, creative young woman in her
twenties who suffered terrible, persecutory hallucinations. As a result, she'd
spent most of her adolescent and teen years in the mental health system.

Going from institution to institution, her case file had likewise grown over
the years. By the time she'd become a patient at our facility, her file was a
three-inch stack of treatment notes, progress reports, and evaluations.

One day, she came into group therapy and read a poem she'd written,
whose first line, tellingly, was "I've come a long way on paper." The poem
was rueful, bitterly self-mocking, frequently hilarious, and ultimately
heartbreaking. As was she.

She came to mind recently, while working with a screenwriter client

struggling with his lack of success in the business. Despite a half-dozen spec
scripts admired by knowledgeable friends and potential buyers in the
marketplace, he had yet to sell one, or land a writing assignment. Yet he'd
been writing for years. His talent had ripened, his craft had strengthened with
each script. He was getting better and better, as the script pages mounted up.

In other words, he'd come a long way as a writer-but only on paper.

"It's like the universe is sending nie a message," he said, leaning forlornly
against my crowded bookshelf.

"Which is?" I asked.

 "`Keep your day job."' He taught technical writing at a small junior
college. "What's that great line? Oh, yeah ... In Hollywood, you can die of
encouragement."

"Tell me what that means to you."

He grunted. "You know damn well what it means. It means you can get
better and better, everybody'll keep praising the writing, but nothin' happens.
I mean, you wouldn't believe the response I got on my last spec. `Best script
I've read in years,' one guy said. `Too bad they're not making relationship
pictures anymore."'

I watched as he took his seat across from me. He put his head in his hands.
"It's gettin' to the point where I wish people hated my writing. I wish people
would say, `Give it up, asshole, your stuff sucks.' But, no . . . I've got fans.
People who swear it's only a matter of time, that I just gotta keep at it."

"Maybe they're right. I happen to think they are."

"Yeah? Well, too bad you're not runnin' a studio." His voice thickened.
"And my poor wife ... I think she's about had it, you know? She doesn't need
this shit."

"What does she need?"

"A husband who can wake up and smell the coffee, for one thing." He
leaned back in his chair, arms folded. "Let's face it. It ain't gonna happen for
me, and I gotta just accept it. I just wish-"

"What?"

"This is gonna sound nuts, or egotistic or somethin' .. . but I just wish I

wasn't such a good writer. I am good, too. And I think I'm gettin' better with
each script. It's like some kinda bad joke."

At this point, I took a chance. A big one.

"Okay," I said. "Tell me what makes you so good."

 "Are you shittin' me? You serious?"

"Yeah. You say you're a good writer. Based on what?"

"Based on the work." His eyes darkened, glaring at me. "I write good
characters-no, great characters. Everybody says that, first thing. And I'm
gettin' better with story, with structure. Like my last script. Character driven,
no question about it, but a helluva lot of tension. You really want to know
what's gonna happen to these people."

"You're right, it sounds good."

"It is good. And it isn't just me who thinks so." He gave me a sidelong
look. "And don't think I don't know what you just did."

I smiled. "Who, me?"

"I mean, I could hear myself It still matters. I still care." He took a deep
breath. "And maybe you're right. Maybe I'm not quite ready to quit. Not yet.
But I'm close. Believe me."

"I do."

"It's just . . ." A rueful grin. "It's just that I'm pretty damn good, ya know?
That's the real pisser."

"Sure is." Now I too leaned back in my chair. "By the way, what's your
next one about?"

He spent the rest of the session telling me.

 Loneliness

Writing is a lonely business. It's time-consuming, frustrating, terror-

inspiring, and bad for your posture. Its other prominent features include long
hours of typing, frequent intervals of staring at blank pages or screens, and
no guarantee whatsoever that anything you produce will be worth the effort.
In addition to which, in the words of Ben Hecht, "fun is the enemy."

In fact, among the writers in my practice, the isolation and loneliness of

writing is often the salient issue.

"I can't go in that room anymore," one client, a successful novelist, said to
me. He worked in an office at home. "I've been going in there for fifteen
years now ... alone."

He claimed it was the sheer weight of loneliness that was taking the toll. "I
keep thinking of other things I could be doing-spending time with my family
and friends, being outdoors. Having a regular job."

"Do you want a regular job?"

"Hell, I don't know. It might be a relief. I mean, look at what I do to

myself. Each new book is always so life-anddeath. Is it any good? Will it
sell? Why am I putting myself through this?"

"Is that a rhetorical question," I asked, "or are you really wondering about
it?"

"You mean, why do I do it? Keep writing? Because I have to ... it's like a
curse."

"Or a calling," I suggested. "When someone asked Stephen King why he

writes the kind of stories he does, he answered, `What makes you think I
have a choice?"'

"Uh-huh." He slumped in his seat. "It's just lonely, that's all. In that room. I
feel like the damned Maytag repairman. It's so quiet in there, by myself."

"It can be. But let me suggest something. Maybe you're not in there by
yourself. Think about it. You share that room with the memory of every
person you've ever encounteredyour parents, teachers, friends, and
enemies...."

He frowned. "Listen, my office is eight-by-ten feet. If anybody else is

skulking around in there, I sure don't see 'em.."

"You know what I mean. Besides, in one sense, loneliness can mean being
disconnected. Not just from others, but from your interior self. You carry a
whole world of feelings, hopes, and fantasies inside you. Maybe if you let
them out, and explored them fully, the office wouldn't feel so lonely."

He wasn't buying this approach. Or any other I offered.

"Okay," I said at last. "I'm with you. Writing is lonely. Let's say you can't
go back in that room anymore. Now what?"

"What do you mean, now what? I'm gonna keep writing, I just hate the
loneliness."

"Boy, I hear you."

"That's it? You hear me?"

"Well, you said yourself that you're going to continue writing and you hate
the loneliness. Both facts seem to coexist."

"But that sucks. I don't want to feel lonely writing. Or at least, I don't want
to mind it so much."

"I hope you get there. Until then, ask yourself this: Can you accept both
your desire to write and your pain of feeling lonely? As Jung might say, can
you love that struggle? Not the triumph of one side or the other, but the
struggle itself. Can you tolerate the tension of that?"

He grew pensive. "I don't know. That's a good question."

"And not an easy one to answer."

He just nodded.

We return to this issue again and again in therapy. Some days his
loneliness overwhelms him, leaving him lethargic and unmotivated; other
times a patch of solid writing makes him so excited to get back to "that
room" that he actually feels lonely-in essence, disconnected-when he's not
writing.

There's no solution to loneliness, nor should there be. It's part of the
human condition, and often a component of any creative act. I believe it's
finding some equanimity in the swirl of all your feelings about writing that
enables you to keep at it. That all aspects of the work, even those you dislike,
have the potential to inform and enlighten, if you're able to embrace them.

So whether you "love the struggle" or "feel like the damned Maytag
repairman," you're being where you need to be, doing what you need to do.
You're a writer.
 Larry: A True Story

The last story I want to tell involves not a client, but a friend. It's a true story,
though of course I've changed many of the details to protect the
confidentiality of the people involved. I think it belongs in this book because
it concerns a struggling writer at the end of his rope, and a last-chance
interview that saves his life. It's about hard work, daring, and hope. It
illustrates the ways the writing life can lift you up and crash you down. It
also reaffirms my belief that good writing persists, matters, transcends.

And that every once in a great while, it can even save your soul.

Larry was an angry, wickedly funny comedy writer who came out here to
Hollywood from the East Coast about the same time I did. This was the early
1970s, during the stand-up comedy boom, and he and I met one night at the
Comedy Store on Sunset Boulevard. It was a Monday night, "Audition
Night" at the club, so there was the usual long line of would-be George
Carlins and David Steinbergs extending out of the fi-ont door and around the
corner into the alley. Larry and I found ourselves standing in line between a
tall black ventriloquist whose dummy sported an Afro, and a husband-and-
wife comedy team who'd just arrived from Ohio and were living out of their
car. Larry announced he was from Brooklyn, I said I was from Pittsburgh, he
offered his condolences, and our friendship began.

To audition for the Comedy Store was a trying business. After standing in
line for an hour or so, you finally reached the desk at the top of the stairs, just
inside the entrance. There, a little overhead light illuminated a yellow legal
pad, upon which the door guy wrote down your name. And the time you'd be
performing. I got 1:20 A.M. Larry got 1:30. I looked at my watch. It was
8:15.

"Looks like we got a little time to kill," Larry said. "You hungry,"'
 We ate at the Hyatt Hotel coffee shop next door to the Comedy Store,
spending the next couple of hours insulting the looks and probable lack of
talent of pretty much every other person in the audition line. We definitely
enjoyed riffs ing off each other's jokes and observations, though neither of us
was psychologically sophisticated enough to realize how terrified we were.
Two insecure, neurotic guys in their twenties who left good jobs back east to
come to L.A. to become writers. Neither of us, we agreed, wanted to do
stand-up comedy for a living, but everyone knew that producers and TV stars
hung out at the Comedy Store all the time, looking for funny stuff they could
steal and fresh new talent they could exploit. Like Larry, I yearned to join the
list of the robbed and exploited.

We each did well during our audition sets, which meant we each got some
laughs and managed to stay on stage for the allotted ten minutes without
getting The Yellow Light. An obvious homage to the infamous "hook" of the
vaudeville days, The Yellow Light was a blazing spotlight that was trained
on you in the middle of your act if the management decided you sucked
beyond endurance. I used to wince whenever I saw some poor comic wanna-
be impaled by that searing amber light, caught like some fugitive in a 1930s
gangster movie. I always expected to hear police sirens and barking dogs.

Anyway, neither of us got The Yellow Light, which meant that we'd made
it onto the roster of regular comics. What this meant was that the club's
owner, Mitzi Shore, would draw up a schedule each week and each comic
would get a fifteen-minute slot. If you were a hot comer, like Freddie Prinze
or Jimmy "JJ" Walker, your slot was usually eight or nine o'clock on a Friday
or Saturday night. If you were a slug like me, you were lucky to get 1:15
A.M. on a Tuesday.

I did a lot of those late-night gigs, playing to an audience of waitresses,

busboys, the two comics who were waiting to go on after me, and a couple
drunks. I felt as though I lived in an episode of The Twilight Zone, one of
those melancholy, noir-like stories with Jack Klugman or Ross Martin
wandering a dark alley, wearing a dead guy's raincoat. The only other comic
who got as many bad time slots as me was some kid from Indiana named
David Letterman. Though I hear he's gone on to do pretty well for himself.
 Larry and I compared notes during this period, each of us writing TV
sitcom scripts on spec, trying to get an agent interested. I'd met and begun
working with a writing partner by then, a guy named Mark Evanier, since it
seemed easier to break in that way. Plus, since Mark was a lot funnier than
me, our spec scripts had better jokes.

Like me, Larry soon tired of going nowhere as a comic and drifted away
from regular performing at the club. He wanted to concentrate solely on his
writing. I, on the other hand, still dutifully trudged up on stage once or twice
a week, sometimes getting slots as juicy as 10:30 on a Thursday night. The
truth is, some adolescent, deluded part of me was still waiting to be
"discovered."

Which, in a way, I was. One night, after performing a pretty good set,
Gabe Kaplan, star of the ABC-TV series Welcome Back, Kotter, came up to
me and said he was interested in hiring a writer for when he went back on the
road. Like many comics starring in hit shows, during vacations and breaks in
the shooting schedule, Gabe did his stand-up act in clubs and hotels around
the country. He told me that night that he'd call me about writing some new
material for him. I went home elated, ecstatic.

He was true to his word. Eleven months later, he called on a Friday,

offered me $250 a week to travel with him and work on his act, and told me
we had to leave the next day. Of course, I jumped on it.

It was this experience that led, seven months later, to my partner, Mark,
and I being offered a job on the writing staff of Welcome Back, Kotter.
Which was the lucky break that started my career as a Hollywood writer.

Over the next ten or fifteen years, as a solo writer, I worked on numerous
TV series and films. I had my ups and downs, like every other writer I knew,
but on the whole, things worked out pretty well for me.

I wish I could say the same for Larry. I've never known anyone who
suffered so much trying to become a success as a writer. He wrote dozens of
spec scripts, and a few screenplays as well. He sweated out every scene,
labored over every joke. But his luck was bad. He'd get a producer interested
in a script, but the guy would change his mind right before signing a deal.
He'd pitch a series idea to a network, and they'd develop it with another
writer. Once, in desperation, Larry worked fourteen hours a day for five
months, hammering out a novel that he eventually sold-to a publisher that
went out of business six weeks later.

On top of all this, Larry had romantic troubles, physical ailments, bouts of
debilitating depression, and a growing reputation as an angry, bitter, cynical
guy. His years of struggle had taken their toll on his ability to muster much
optimism, or general good feeling at all. At lunch with fellow writers, he'd
complain so much about the state of the writing business that, after a while,
nobody wanted to have lunch with him. The few times he'd land a writing
job-say, nine weeks as a staff writer on a low-rated sitcom-he'd so infuriate
the show's producers with his continual putdowns and insults that his
contract was never renewed. Larry's self-loathing radiated out to ensnare
those around him, to the extent that one mutual friend said to me, "Show
business is tough enough without having to listen to his shit."

After a dozen or so years of scraping by, borrowing rent money from

friends and family (and even, one time, from his agent!), Larry was
hospitalized for severe depression. His girlfriend left him, his landlord
evicted him, and his agent stopped returning his calls.

Then his life turned bad. A series of serious illnesses befell him, leaving
him with ulcers, a back constantly in pain, and failing eyesight. He gained
weight, lost a lot of his hair, and alienated most of his friends. He also began
drinking and smoking heavily.

During all this, Larry kept trying to write. He'd get me on the phone and
talk for hours about some new screenplay he was working on, or some new
series idea he wanted to sell. His writing, as always, was infused with
bitterness and a kind of pervasive misanthropy, but it was also funny. His
characters, either broadly comic or obviously craven, belonged, in the view
of many, to a style of Hollywood storytelling that had vanished. And, when
pitching, if there was a way to guarantee angering the potential buyer to such
an extent that he'd never want to meet again, Larry could do it. (Often, he'd
open a pitch to a producer or network exec by suggesting that they could use
a great new show, given the crap they currently aired. In Larry's mind, this
was just "telling it like he saw it.")

Once, during this period, when he was so broke he was sleeping on the
couch in a distant cousin's mobile home, an old friend pulled some strings
and got Larry a single episode of a waning Norman Lear sitcom. Somehow,
through the rage and the bourbon, Larry pushed himself to crank out the
script. And it was good. Funny. He'd really nailed it.

The show's producers were thrilled. Larry was thrilled. There was talk of
offering him more episodes, maybe a job on the writing staff. Things were
finally turning around.

Then the show got cancelled.

Larry sort of unraveled after that. A new agent who'd been interested lost
interest. Other hoped-for writing jobs either failed to materialize, or went
south due to personality conflicts, or were illusory to begin with. Larry
started drinking more, smoking more, sleeping less. His health, as if this
were possible, got even worse. His shrink was forced to hospitalize him
again.

Finally, after sixteen years in Hollywood, Larry came to a decision. When

I saw him at a coffee shop soon after he got out of the hospital, he told me
that he was going home. Back to Brooklyn. He was giving up.

A few weeks later, having sold his precious books for traveling money, he
climbed into his beat-up Ford Torino station wagon and headed east.

We heard stories about him from time to time. That he'd gotten into huge
fights with his family back in New York and had moved upstate. The
occasional postcard announced he was working at a deli somewhere, or
selling T-shirts at Mystic Seaport, or tutoring high school kids in New
Haven.

Then, a couple years later, I learned that Larry had gotten married and had
a kid. He was working in a factory in some small town in New Hampshire.
His father back in Brooklyn had died, his mother had moved in with his
sister, and, apparently, nobody was speaking to anybody.

Then, the final blow: Larry's wife was diagnosed with the early signs of
Parkinson's disease. She lost her job at the library and needed her mother's
help with the baby. Money was tighter than ever, with medical bills
mounting by the week, and Larry wasn't making enough to cover them.

What happened next is the reason I wanted to tell this story. And, while
true, it is the part that lifts this story to the realm of fable, to that place where
the elements of life seem to exhibit a magical confluence beyond our ken.

What happened next, simply enough, was that Larry saw a notice in the
paper announcing that a small college not ten miles from his apartment was
looking for someone to teach TV and film writing. At first, Larry hesitated
about applying for the job. For one thing, the college, though small, was
amply endowed and quite well-respected for its liberal arts programs. For
another, Larry wasn't a teacher. He'd tutored high school kids, but held no
educational credentials. He'd graduated with a Master's in English from
Brooklyn College, but then, as he'd once said, "who didn't?"

There was no way, he thought, that he'd qualify for the job. So, naturally,
Larry being Larry, he applied for it.

On the day of the interview, Larry was a wreck. He'd stared dumbfounded
at a mountain of bills the night before. His infant son had colic and had been
screaming since dawn. His wife, growing ever weaker from the ravages of
the disease, had urged him to consider their moving in with her parents.

Regardless, Larry got himself to the office of the Dean of the TV and film
department. Sitting across from the stereotypically tweedy academic, whose
desk was littered with texts and papers and knickknacks, Larry gave the
performance of his life. He talked about his years in Hollywood, his toils in
the vineyards of writing, his real-world experience and its value for his
prospective students. And, aside from a few cracks he couldn't resist making
about what dimwits and sycophants the entertainment industry attracted,
Larry came off as reasonably amiable.

The Dean remained unimpressed. He made some polite noises about

appreciating Larry's enthusiasm and desire and even acknowledged that
Larry's show business experiences were something most other applicants for
the job lacked. But it just didn't seem likely that a person without any
teaching credentials would be suitable for the position.

"I mean," said the Dean, "you haven't developed a cur riculum, you don't
know the standard texts we use ... I'm afraid, frankly, that we wouldn't be the
best place for you."

The Dean went on to compliment Larry on the impression he'd made and
added that perhaps if he went back to school and got his teaching degree,
there'd be a place for him at the college. During this, Larry sank further and
further into his chair, as though under the weight of all his years of rejection,
all his years of failure.

And all the writing he'd done. The late nights, the rewrites, the thousands
of pages pored over and corrected and revised. The hundreds of pitch
meetings, the lunches with idiot producers, the pandering to moronic tastes,
the arguments with agents, and on and on.

And all of it a waste. Useless. A twenty-year trek through a merciless

forest that deposited him here, in this bland little guy's office, in this small
college town, ten miles down the road from the dreary apartment where his
ailing wife and needy baby waited. A family burdened by illness and debt,
and a husband and tather who was powerless to do anything about it.

Larry's eyes filled with tears. He sat unmoving in the chair, as the Dean
was winding up his speech. The little man was trying to be kind, but after all,
Larry wasn't really qualified for the job....

The Dean was coming around from behind his desk now, extending his
hand. Larry knew he should get up, get to his feet, shake the man's hand ...
but somehow he couldn't do it. Couldn't move.
 As the Dean came around the desk, he accidentally knocked a thick
textbook onto the floor. On impulse, Larry bent down to pick it up. And
froze.

The Dean noticed this, and gave Larry an odd look.

Larry pointed down at the book, which had fallen open somewhere in the
middle.

"What is this?" Larry managed to say, though he was having a hard time
forming words.

"The book? It's our standard first-year text. On TV scriptwriting."

"TV writing?"

"Why, yes. There are samples from produced scripts, writing exercises.
You know."

"Yes," Larry said. "I do know."

He picked up the book and showed the opened page to the Dean.
Indicating with a finger, Larry read a passage from the book praising the
sample TV script used in this particular lesson. The reprinted scenes were
considered classic examples of sitcom pacing, structure, and humor derived
from character.

"Do you know these scenes?" the Dean asked.

"Yeah," Larry answered. "I wrote them."

The Dean stared over Larry's shoulder at the opened pages. The TV script
that the textbook used as an example of the best of its kind was Larry's one
script he'd done for the Norman Lear sitcom years before.

When the Dean looked up from the book, he saw the tears rolling down
Larry's cheeks. And in that moment, the Dean did something neither he nor
Larry could have ever predicted.
 He offered Larry the job, right on the spot.

In the succeeding years, Larry became one of the school's most well-
respected teachers. He also became embroiled in faculty politics, made his
usual quotient of enemies, and generally became a "character" on campus.
He wrote scathing pieces in the local paper about state politics, the sorry
situation in higher education, and his overall dissatisfaction with just about
every element in contemporary life. He debated students in lecture halls,
colleagues in faculty lounges, and townspeople in bars.

He was, in short, happy.

Today, whenever he tells the story of what happened that day in the Dean's
office, Larry refers to it as the time when his writing saved his life. When a
nearly forgotten script, the product of years of struggle and misfortune, of
rejection made only the more painful by momentary glimmers of hope,
reached out of the past as though with a will of its own to validate him.

Earlier in this book, I maintained that a writing career required the same
commitment, the same degree of hard work, perseverance, and love, as any
important relationship in our lives. And that sometimes, similar to other
relationships, it can feel like we're doing all the giving.

Larry's story demonstrates that once in a while, in ways you can rarely
predict, writing gives something back. Not just a job, or a second chance.
Not even some kind of testimony to all the labors you've endured in its
behalf.

What writing can give you, to the extent to which you use it as a vehicle
for self-knowledge, self-expression, and intimate communion with the
deepest regions of your interior world, is a glimpse of the truth. Writing can
be a two-way mirror into your soul, an ongoing process of discovery and
growth.

Every word you write is precious, regardless of its power, eloquence, or

viability. It's the concrete symbol of the con tinning expression of your
subjective experience, offered to yourself and others, in the hopes of making
a connection, of uncovering the things that bind each person to every other
person, that makes us human.

Just as, one day in the office of a small liberal arts college, something that
Larry had written years before created a bridge between his past and his
present, and between himself and the Dean, so too can your writing surprise,
inform, delight, and amaze you with its ability to make connections.

So too can your writing, if you're willing to let it, be the daily practice of
the art of being yourself, and the ultimate pathway to the awareness that you-
just as you are-are enough.
 Conclusion

In the beginner's mind, there are many possibilities;

in the expert's mind, there are few.

SHUNRYU SUZUKI

It all boils down to this:

1. Every successful writer started out as a struggling one.

2. Even the successful ones still struggle.

Every day in my private practice, I see clients who refuse to accept the
foregoing maxims. Writers embedded in a creative hell of their own making,
in the grip of self shaming and self-defeating meanings about who they are
and what they deserve, arc almost incapable of acknowledging that the
problems they suffer with their work are the same as those suffered by
writers everywhere. The underlying causes of their misery, procrastination,
and blocks, their fears of failure and sense of themselves as intrinsically
defective, may vary from writer to writer, but the painful feelings that
accompany the writer's life are known to all.

What makes this notion so difficult to accept? I can think of a number of

reasons: If there is indeed something wrong with us, then there's the
possibility that someone, somewhere, knows how to fix it; if we can
somehow be different from who we are, we won't be plagued by these
painful, debilitating feelings; if everybody struggles, regardless of
professional success, then we have to abandon our hopes that if we attained
such success, our personal and creative difficulties would disappear.

For me, both personally and professionally, the awareness that all writers
struggle daily with their art, with the balance between the demands of work
and life, is a source of comfort. It means I don't have to be so damned special
to write. I don't have to overcome, or transcend, things about myself to do
good work.

Moreover, I'm in the same game as everybody else, bound by the same
rules, gifted with similar pains and joys, flashes of insight and bouts of
insecurity. As a writer and therapist, I've been both intuitive and clueless,
creatively agile and artistically lead-footed. Sometimes in the same day.
Sometimes in the same hour.

As have the writers I've loved and admired my whole life. Just as faith has
little meaning without doubt, and courage little valor without fear, so too
does writing have little impact without being an expression of the very
creative and personal difficulties out of which it emerged.

If, as I've argued throughout this book, you are enough, then wherever
you're at, moment to moment, becomes the crucible out of which your
writing flows. Accessing this subjective space, and wedding its range of
colors with craft and perseverance, is the writer's daily job.

It's what struggling, unpublished, and unproduced writers do-when they're

writing well. It's also what successful, published, and produced writers do-
when they're writing well. No difference.

In the end, there's just you and your writing. As screenwriter Fredrick
Raphael said, when defining what he meant by work, "It's having pages in
the evening that weren't there in the morning."

You. And your writing. That's all there is. That's all there needs to be.

So go. Write.