Your Parts and Writer’s Block
I’ve got writer’s block. It’s bad. Since you’re reading this, it may seem like I’ve licked it, but nope. It’s my parts, you see. The inner critics. I can’t tell you how often I’ve heard them berate me. I try to tune them out, but they’re so believable. Writing just a few sentences kicks them into gear. Turns up the volume as they lob their usual crap at me. It’s hard to ignore them. Perhaps you can relate.
I should explain. Like many people, there are voices in my head that are sometimes mean to me. They criticize my appearance, compare me to my peers, judge my eating habits, and weigh in on what I should be doing instead of watching TV. But not every voice is mean. There’s one who wants things. Good things. It says, “I really want to write something.” It presses on me. A short story or a memoir, she suggests. At least finish the nonfiction book with the detailed outline that’s been revised and stewed on so long it’s turned to mush. Or start editing the first draft of the dystopian fiction novel. It’s solidly on my side, a sort of lethargic cheerleader. But alas, the writer’s block persists.
I blame the critical voices. As soon as I crack open my laptop, they awake. A whisper campaign starts in my brain — quiet suggestions aimed at persuading me to stop and do something else. The desire to write persists, and I keep typing. A stubborn push-pull emerges. The voices never talk to each other, never try to compromise. The more I write, the louder and meaner the critics get, slowly engulfing the desire to push forward. They claim my essays are crap, and no one wants to hear from me anyway. The chorus swells until I’m backed into a corner. Nothing is working. The cursor blinks patiently, but I’m frustrated. One last topic holds the possibility of turning that magical spigot, accessing the sweet, sweet flow from the muse — I must write about them — the voices. It’ll probably bore you to death, but this is way through.
If you’ve read any of my other stuff on Internal Family Systems or IFS, you know how our mind is divided into parts. I’ll summarize, just in case. It’s a counseling theory by Dr. Richard Schwartz that says our internal voices represent parts of ourselves. Nice, mean, or in between, these voices resemble those of our early caregivers, siblings, teachers, friends, and the like. They form the template of the internal dialogue — how we talk to ourselves inside our minds. You might be familiar with thinking that one part of you feels one way while another feels the opposite. Dr. Schwartz has categorized and named these voices as the core self, surrounded by managers, firefighters, and wounded exiles. Judging by the number of books aimed at the inner critic, most people have some degree of inner turmoil or agitation. If you’re like me, you probably have at least one mean and/or judgy part or voice in your head. The theory posits that we must get to know these parts, especially the exile parts to find more peace in your brain.
I think of it for myself like this: there’s my core self, surrounded by the protectors I call office managers and first responders, and I think of my exiles as younger versions of myself. When I’m balanced and thinking from my centered self, I know I’m the one in charge. I weigh options, create fluidly, and intuitively know the best thing to do next. Since this essay is about writer’s block, getting to the root means I’ve got to hear each of them out. Where to start?
From experience, I know going head-to-head with one of the meaner ones doesn’t work. These voices are political zealots fueled by fear and anxiety to defend their position to the death. They’ll always outlast me. The voices cherry-pick adverse events from my past, twisting their “evidence” to persuade, manipulate, and cajole me into giving up anything with a whiff of rejection, disappointment, or pain. They can be quite hard to resist.
Instead, it’s better to sidestep them and check in with my core self first. This part that I think of as “me.” I evaluate, without judgment, the wider view within my mind. I may not always know what to do, but I have the confidence to figure it out. I tune in to this part and check in. Calmly determined, she says, “I want to write, and I know I can write well,” and, “I can find a way to write.” I wait as her gaze settles on each part within the vista of my mind. I trust her to listen but not react to the multiple perspectives. She’s always rational, experimental, and accepting. She generates some initial ideas, and I’m hopeful. Sustaining this mindset allows me to write this for you right now.
Let’s start with the protectors, what IFS calls managers and firefighters. These protectors chime in when I’m doing something they think is risky. Writing definitely scares them. The office manager sounds adult-like but is a precocious little girl dressed in her mom’s pants suit. Picture cuffs rolled up and bunched at her wrists and ankles. Everything hangs on her, but she pretends she’s fine. Dark-rimmed glasses slip down her nose, her baby-fine hair in a messy bun. She holds things together. She’s a know-it-all and more than a little bossy. When she doesn’t get her way, out come the daggers. She stands close, arms crossed over her slight body. She casually lobs provocative comments over thick shoulder pads, “You should fold laundry first.” I ignore her.
Her next comment is prissy and sharp. “You’re not even that good of a writer anyway.” I feel that one — Ouch! She knows just how to trip up my momentum. I keep typing. Now she’s turned towards me, trying to catch my eye. She leans in and hiss-whispers, “No one cares about your thoughts, your big ideas!” Dang girl. I feel a flutter of shame. My hands hover over the keyboard; my mind is blank. Like Glenda the Good Witch, my first responder, tipped off by the painful jab, cheerily flutters into my awareness. She knows the office manager can take it too far. In her pressing high-pitch, she says, “Let’s go find you some cookies!” Ah yes, a good idea. My favorite rescue.
The first responder aims to protect me from all pain. Her enthusiasm masks an urgent desperation. She’s unsure if her suggestions will work so she goes for the tried and true — sweets. She’s motherly in a diagnosably codependent way. She doesn’t want to upset me, but deep down, she’s constantly worried about my well-being. Picture her in a retro kitchen, avocado green appliances surround a young woman in an old-fashioned apron. She plays a role for which she’s not yet qualified. Fair of face with grey hair, she’s a caricature of a grandma. Her default strategy is comfort food. She only has a couple of ideas in her toolbox. She’s not thinking about the impact of cookies on my physical health. She lives in the constant now. I wish I could tell her to relax, goof off. Take the apron off and chill. Sensing she’d be hurt, I hold my tongue. She’s got one important job — to soothe me with as many cookies as it takes. Or distract me until the pain dissipates. She’s excellent at short-term strategies.
Grateful for a break, I take a stack of cookies and sit back down at my laptop. The office manager turns away, disgusted. I try to ignore her. Luckily, the first responder grandma is chock full of additional suggestions aimed at getting me to do anything but write. She leans in conspiratorially, “Wouldn’t you rather mindlessly play a game and listen to podcasts?” Dang it, she knows all my weak spots. Of course, I’d rather waste the day doing nothing with my brain. At least, that’s my instinct in the moment. She offers a softer compromise of the office manager’s refrain, “Maybe you could listen to podcasts and fold laundry?” She phrases it like a question, thinking she can trick me into goofing off. She usually prevails.
Sometimes, the parts derail me, and I wander off to do some minor chore or watch the afternoon turn to dusk from a comfy chair with the iPad. Other days, I force the writing issue, go to a coffee shop and settle in to write something, anything. Fortified by caffeine and social pressure, I ride the high of an exciting idea. I might even indulge the grandma and get some sweet thing to nibble and you know, keep my strength up. Just as I’ve settled into my seat, the grandma pulls out the kryptonite: “Oh my, you’re getting so sleepy. You should lay down and take a nap.” Ugh, she’s right. I am getting sleepy in this cozy cafe. My eyes blur and I sway in front of the keyboard. The hum of momentum slows as I gently deflate at my two-seater table. The sugar hits and I’m briefly sustained. I open Scrivener before my eyelids drag. Finally, I surrender and slip the laptop into my bag before I narcoleptically faceplant into my half-drunk cappuccino. The protectors have successfully protected me again. Yay.
Protected me from what, I wonder as I walk to the car. I kick into psychologist mode. I start thinking about the purpose of these different parts. Maybe they have slightly different functions. The critical office manager and the distracting first responder get the same response with unique methods. It’s not that the office manager actually believes I’m a bad writer; it’s more that she’s worried some dummy on the internet will think so. She might even like what I write (especially if it’s about her), but at this rate, I’ll never know because she can’t shut up. The first responder doesn’t trust me to handle pain. It dawns on me that they may be in cahoots. Both overprotective in their own ways, they can’t see the purpose of pain. They just insist on their versions of reality.
That’s the thing about the protector parts; they think they know best. They act like they’ve cornered a higher truth than mine. They sound so convincing when they talk (or send clouds of feelings or a series of scary mental pictures). Holding on to rational thought is hard because they seem so sure of the truth. But they are parts…and by definition, parts are smaller than the whole. My core self is the real boss. She’s the one who truly understands what’s going on. She watches the parts freak out from the top of a mountain. She predicts they will want to weigh in, whether asked or not, and filters the hyperbole.
You might be wondering about the exiles. Believe me, I am well aware of them as well. I usually refer to them collectively as the little girl. Depending on what’s said or felt, she might be as young as five or as old as fifteen. The little girl thinks no one will ever want to play with her. She believes she’s annoying and too needy. She’s dramatic and attention-seeking. She perseverates on abandonment but would never say it because then everyone would really leave her. She’s always sniffing because she’s either recently cried or is about to cry.
I used to think she was pathetic (or, more accurately, a part of me thought that), but now I love her and her messiness. I recognize the older versions of her when I feel grandiose or obstinate. The core self never feels that way, so I know it’s a part. It’s the teenager who thinks she knows enough to be independent. She hides behind a cloak of rebellion and insists she doesn’t need anyone anyway. She doesn’t give a fuck if I write or not, so she doesn’t feel the need to chime in.
I listen for the little girl. She’s not looking at me when she whispers, “But I need to write. I need to express myself.” She might even ramp up the drama to tremble my foundation. “If I don’t write, I’ll just explode!” That’s pretty effective, and it filters into my awareness as, “I should really buckle down and write.” The implication is that I’m not disciplined enough, which is totally something the office manager would say. She likes the little girl and even sometimes feels protective of her. The office manager knows how to run interference and avoid triggering the first responder’s sprinkler system. Maybe they do talk to each other?
The cacophony eventually settles down as they notice me watching them. I imagine all of us sitting around a conference table. I call a meeting with everyone because there’s a decision on the table: write or not. My core self is the CEO; all these voices/parts are her VPs. If she’s ever going to write anything, she’s got to hear them out. Each of them has their objections. Even the little girl admits that as much as she needs to write, she’s also scared to write. The protectors are reactive, each registering objections aimed at maintaining the safe, status quo. It’s the little girl whose conflicting needs require some sort of compromise or reconciliation. It’s unfair to make her work it out; she’s a little girl part, after all.
So, one by one, I listen to each of their concerns. The office manager lists the downsides of writing. Apologizing to the little girl, she firmly makes a case for inevitable disappointments and rejections. The first responder goes next. She simply doesn’t see the point of writing anything, especially with a fresh batch in the oven and TV shows to binge. I take another cookie, thank her for her input, and move on. I hold a tissue to the little girl’s nose and tell her to blow. She does, sits back in the chair, legs dangling over the edge. I gently ask about her concerns. She’s less articulate than the other two, but I’m patient. She wants people to know what she’s thinking and that she has good ideas, too! She doesn’t trust that the protectors will actually protect her. She’s worried she’ll be hurt but not sure exactly how.
Getting to know these parts of myself has taken time and patience. More than that, I’ve had to reframe how I see them. Where I once totally believed all truth tumbling from the office manager’s mouth, I now see her as well-intentioned but limited in her advice. I appreciate the first responder and make sure I occasionally indulge her. She, too, is well-intentioned. I’m grateful for her attentiveness. While occasionally indulging her, I’ve also learned to slow down and sidestep her suggestions when I need to move forward. I have the most compassion for my little girl. She’s delicate and needy, but that’s okay. I sometimes picture inviting her to lean against my leg while I put an arm around her. She doesn’t realize the wisdom she holds, but I do.
I take my time and weigh all that they’ve said. I validate each part, conveying my respect for their perspectives and input. I know they are each looking out for me in their ways. I take a deep breath and tell them I’ve decided to write an essay on writer’s block. I tell them I enjoy the writing process and that, truthfully, I can publish it and let it go. A response from the outside world is not required. Once I publish the essay, it’s out of my hands. I tell them we’ll still be okay even if my words only resonate with one person (that’s you btw. Thanks for reading this far. I appreciate you as well).
Even though no part of me is completely placated, they visibly relax into the conference chairs. In this centered place, I don’t have to shoot them down, shut them up, or cut them out. I am the boss, after all. The buck stops with me. I have to take care of the whole enterprise of being me. The office manager crosses her arms, looks away, and huffily replies, “Well, it’s your decision. We’ll see.” She has no more fight in her. The first responder leans towards me and says, “That’s fine, honey. You know I’m right here if you need me.” I hug her. I turn to the little girl, but she’s looking at her hands in her lap. She’s not crying, so that’s a plus. I ask what she thinks. She looks up and smiles at me. “Thank you, mommy.” My heart melts. I know I’m not her mom, but there’s an element of parenting myself in all this. I know what it’s like to be her because I am her. Her response pleases me all the same. I open my laptop and start to type.
