In Defense of Writer’s Block

Many of you have probably heard how Michelangelo was asked how he sculpts, and he said something along the lines of

Every block of stone has a statue inside it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it.

Here’s another version (Or perhaps he was asked the same question by a second interviewer):

I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.

And another restatement of the same:

The sculptor’s hand can only break the spell to free the figures slumbering in the stone.

OK, now that I think about it, he probably did say that same kind of thing in several ways and many times. (And when I say “Now that I think about it…” what I mean is, “Now that I’ve scanned down the list of 39 sayings of Michelangelo at the first website of famous quotes that I came across…”)

His point makes a lot of sense with carving: You get rid of the stone until everything that’s left is what you want. It’s different, though, with writing. You have to create from nothing. You don’t start with 18 online dictionaries, copy and paste them into a text editor, then delete words until you come up with a novel.

(Now I’m afraid I’ve just given some urbane wannabe an idea and soon his new book will be out; and it’ll be entitled Dictionary Sans Words; and it will find a rare but elite following of hackneyed hipsters who will most certainly call it “hauntingly beautiful.”)

Or perhaps being a writer is more like being a sculptor than I’ve realized.

Perhaps the true art is taking place within the pen, rather than being left behind in a trail of words on the paper like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs. The ink slowly yet steadily pours onto the parchment, leaving its residual mark behind inside the pen like a smoothie you can’t completely scrape out of a blender. Maybe it’s that residue that matters (not in the case of the smoothie, though.)

Or let’s say you write with a mechanical pencil: The true art is the shaping—ever so subtle, ever so subtle—of the graphite inside that hexagonal plastic tube.

And the scratchings on the paper—our precious words—what are those? I’m sorry to say (No, I’m not. I just said that to sound polite.) those are the shavings of the sculptor’s unwanted marble on the studio floor. Sweep ‘em up and throw ‘em out.

Nothing you or I write down with our ink or graphite can match the wonder and infinitude of the possibilities contained in that pen or pencil before we picked it up.

I know, I know….You’re all impressed with how deep that last sentence was. But credit where credit is due and all that:

It was Michelangelo who said

The marble not yet carved can hold the form of every thought the greatest artist has.

“The marble not yet carved.” The ink not yet spilled. The graphite not yet scratched, smeared, erased, and scratched again.

I’ll be honest—which, without care, may lead to melodrama (You’ve been warned.): I’m feeling kinda moved—empowered, hopeful, artistically optimistic—simply looking at a pen and pencil that are here on the table in front me. What potential!

Boundless potential. Limitless prospects. Whole novels, poems, scripts, songs, essays, Dear Johns, and universes—all lying here in a couple of 10¢ Bics. It’s a beautiful thing.

A few minutes ago, I felt guilty for my writer’s block. Now I’m sitting back and admiring my non-work: Look at all the unrealized creativity (O, Roget, have your way:) the latent transcendence, the dormant beauty, the possible paramountcy that I am (by doing nothing) admirably not destroying.

But I can’t thank myself or my idle writing utensils for this moment of overly emotional yet highly perspicacious sophism. No, I must thank Michelangelo.

Michelangelo—and BrainyQuotes.com.