Hi writers,

Here's a question I received from writer Arlene:

“I can't get started. How do you start writing when you don’t know where you are going?”

What a great question. I've been there. I’m jangly, I’m nervous, and I feel like I've got to write, but I can't start because I can't figure out what the hell I actually want most to do.

It makes sense, right? If you want to drive somewhere but you don’t know where you're going, you won’t even turn the key of the car. Why would you? If you did manage to start the car, you’d just drive to the end of the block and then come back, frustrated and lower on gas than you were before.

This question packs a punch. Let’s back up and look at it from arm’s length.

You can’t get started.

You don’t know where you’re going.

I’m betting you have an idea, even if it’s just a glimmer, of where you’d like to go. You might be drawn to write a short story loosely based on your grandmother’s life. Or maybe you want to write something about outer space. Perhaps you want to write a chapbook of poems.

But (and I’m guessing this is where you are, Arlene), what if you want to write all the things?

How do you choose?

I think the bigger question here is How do I trust myself to pick an idea, and if I do, how do I know it’s a good enough idea to stick with?

Oh, man, I struggled with this for years until I finally figured this out for myself. I had a ton of ideas and every day they shifted around. One day, I’d want to write a big, fat, historical novel like James Michener. The next, I’d want to write short stories or no, poetry! Or maybe a memoir?

But if I chose the poetry, that meant I was abandoning the novel, and how could I do that? If I chose one, I was rejecting every other possibility.

I was frozen in fear. By choosing one thing, was I doing the wrong thing?

This is going to sound weird, but there’s a really simple answer to this:

Whatever you choose will be both right and wrong, so to get over this concern, you just choose anything.

Yes, by writing Thing A you’ll be giving up the opportunity to write Thing B.

Only for now, though. When A is done, you can move on to B if the spirit still moves you.

But Rachael, what if by then I don’t care about Book B and I’ve made a huge hash of Book A in the meantime?

So be it! That happens! Our writing often doesn’t live up to what we want it to be. Every book I write is almost nothing like the book I went in planning to write. It’s disappointing. I can’t capture exactly what I wish I could write.

But I write the book that wants to come out of me. It’s never the book I planned, but it’s always a better one. This email, in fact, isn’t what I had planned to write, but that’s normal. It is what it's become, and it’s very good at being exactly itself. (Kind of like me. Would I like to have bright green eyes of a sea-witch and the extroversion to match? Sure. But I'm exactly who I'm meant to be, and that's what matters.)

Wasting time (aka procrastinating) while trying to decide what to write is a simple tactic your brain came up with to keep you away from the page because it knows you’re scared to commit.

Commit anyway.

Make the choice to fall in love with your idea. Marry the idea that’s glimmering in front of you. If that idea turns out to be a liar and a cheater and a thief, get a divorce (free and simple, no court fees, no mediation needed). Marry the next idea.

Try to ignore the other ideas, the ones that are trying to outshine the one you chose. Make a list of them. Kiss each one as you write them down in your Ideas File, promise them that you’ll be back for them. (You might. Just as easily, you might not. But they’re safe.)

Of course, while you work on the one idea you chose, the other ideas will fling themselves against the bars of their cage, swearing they’re dying, that you’re killing them.

Don't believe them. They are such drama queens. They’re fine. They’ll wait for you (or they won’t — they might go live with someone else. That’s fine. You’ll have five new and better ideas for each one that bolts, I promise).

Meanwhile, you’re writing what you made a choice to write.

Eventually, if you write a little bit a few times a week without fail, you’ll finish what you’re working on. You’ll revise, then your slow dance will end and you’ll bow to each other in respect (and exhaustion—it was a good, long dance).

Then, when you’re recovered, you’ll ask another idea to dance. The lights will lower, the disco ball will sparkle, and you’ll fall into each other’s arms as the music soars. It will feel like magic.

It will also feel like a whole heap of hard work because it is. But it’s worth it.

So just pick an idea. ANY idea. Honestly, any of your ideas will work. (The moment you think another idea is better is usually right when the one you chose goes squirrely on you. Don’t fall for it!) The most important thing is to finish the project at hand.

Then move on to the next. You’ll be astonished at how many projects you can plow through if you keep this up: fall in love with one project, finish it, then fall in love with the next one.

I hope this helps. (Feel free to respond and tell me which idea you’re committing to — I'd love to know.)

Onward!

Rachael

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P.S. - Want to spend some time falling in love with your book next weekend? Come to my online retreat! We’re going to do some planning for the year, and some chatting about your best practice, and best of all, we’re going to spend hours writing together. Open-door policy: you don’t have to come to the whole thing, just come in and out as you have time. All the details here: Writing in the Junkyard

P.P.S. - Don’t forget, if you’re a member of Ink Village, (at the Garden level and up), the Junkyard retreat is free!

P.P.P.S - If this was helpful, perhaps forward it along to a writer you like? They can subscribe here!

P etc.S - Finally, if you’ve already joined the Junkyard, all the details on how to prepare are coming to you tomorrow! ❤️