final author's note

debunking writer's block

In writing this story, there have been countless moments where I have sat in front of my laptop and despaired over the next chapter, the next paragraph, the next word, a better word, a mark of punctuation - and I have felt the oft-violent urge to bust my head against the dining room table at which I write. I bit off more than I can chew, I have wailed, both in my mind and on social media. If you have followed my progression in writing this tale on Facebook, then you will recall the various points at which I remarked on the difficulties I was encountering and the honestly crushing sense of anxiety I felt in meeting this challenge I had set.

And it was a pretty big challenge. All things considered, when the idea popped into my head, I didn't imagine that it would wind up being nearly as big as it was - derivation seemed to turn into a hell of a tale overnight, with huge chapters and entire hours of my life sluiced into the creation of what is truthfully the first actual "fanfiction" I have ever written. When I started writing this, I still had the letters S and A on my keyboard; now they are gone, along with the bottom half of I, the arrow on the enter bar, and the key dedicated to the semi-colon.

Now that derivation is complete, I feel like I can finally answer some questions as to the drive to finish it that many of you have observed.

Why this story? Why now? What was the point?

Part of it was because I did - admittedly - want to see if I could challenge myself. Take four books that launched an entire sub-culture and condense it into the timeframe of a single year. Was it possible? In theory, yes; in execution, also yes, but shockingly stressful. I hadn't anticipated the pressure or appreciated all of the major plot points that had to be incorporated as I stayed in-canon. A few of the "month" chapters were a gigantic pain in the ass. Some of the outtakes, too.

The biggest part of it, though, was this whole riot I always hear among writers about needing to have "inspiration" and suffering from "writer's block". Hell, I'll be the first to admit that I, too, have often used writer's block as a way to explain the lack of motivation I felt toward a story at any one particular time. And sure, yeah, maybe writer's block kind of goes along with the trade. But maybe it's also a load of crock.

(I'm about to be real honest here, so maybe take it with a grain of salt.)

Here's the thing. "Writer's block" is such a bloviated, ready-made excuse that there are literally notebooks stamped with the words hiding in bookstores and giftshops and on Amazon. It's become a joke for something that is honestly a seriously soul-crushing lack of productivity.

If you write, then you know what I'm talking about.

Stephen King said, "Stopping a piece of work just because it's hard - either emotionally or imaginatively - is a bad idea. Sometimes you have to do one when you don't feel like it and sometimes you're doing good work when it feels like all you're managing to do is shovel shit from a sitting position."

Confession: I am the owner of the aforementioned notebook.

I came across it about three months ago. I was in Seattle with my mother at the Harborview Medical Center. She is a cancer patient and over the several years that I have taken care of her, we have started a tradition of sorts to ease the stress that constant visitations to doctors will cause. We make it fun. Hospital visits mean fancy caramel-mocha coffee and a trip to the gift shop to look at the unique knickknacks, local chocolates, and inspirational books that litter the shelves. A little ritual just for us.

So, armed with two tall paper cups of coffee from the café across the street from the hospital, I had gone to find my mother in the giftshop. She tends to gravitate toward anything that catches her eye, which makes it hard to find her, and which ultimately means that I must also peruse the giftshop if I want to locate her anytime soon. Not a problem. The Harborview giftshop is a little bigger than other hospitals, but it's warm and I have coffee and they do have cool things. I find a stuffed owl that I will send to a friend. And then, because I have a tiny obsession with collecting notebooks, I meander over to a shelf that looks promising. There's a few cool notebooks, like one that is emblazoned with photo-realistic forest with inspire scrawled across the front. And then there is the one I end up buying.

It's a clever little thing. WRITER'S BLOCK it declares proudly across the front, gold-leaf stamped deep into the cover. About four inches tall and two inches deep, it is filled with unlined, blank white pages. The hard-backed cover is what really gets me, though; it's texturized to feel like woodgrain, its color mimicking that of fresh-cut pine. If you know me, then you know how much I enjoy a good pun. And here was one in my hand - an actual writer's block. A writer's block for the writer with writing blocks? Very, very clever.

Of course I buy it. It's amusing - at first. But then, as does often happen when my mind is idle, I begin to feel indignant about the thing that I have just purchased. A writer's block, I think to myself on the drive home, running my fingers over the notebook with a frown, and then a scowl. A writer's block! Oh! Because it's so common that a notebook like this is actually helpful? Or because it's funny that people - that writers - actually have such blocks? It didn't matter, really.

I began to resent the notebook. Isn't that strange? I set it beside my laptop and the words on the cover would stare at me - while the words on my laptop would stutter, remaining frozen as I struggle to find the next phrase to place in SERPENTINE or LUCENT or GAMMA, all of which I was working on at the time. It felt like the innocuous notebook was mocking me and it didn't exactly help that even with my imagination occupied with three full-length stories of three completely different genres, my creativity was still bombarded with other ideas.

Plot bunnies, we call them, but they're really distractions. Entertaining distractions, sure, but distractions that begin to pile on themselves, stealing attention away from stories that have our priorities, and ultimately adding to that pervasive block in writing that we have all experienced.

The notebook was challenging me - daring me, even. It had thrown down a gauntlet that I was going to pick up. I was going to prove that notebook and the makers of that notebook and everyone who ever complained about writer's block - including myself - that writer's block didn't actually exist.

And I was going to do all of that by writing a story. Speed writing is what I've called it - like the 50K in a month challenge that NaNoWiMo hosts every November. An entire story told completely in as little time as possible. I had the perfect premise, too, so all I had to do was let the story take me where it would. The parameter of the writing of the story was simple: Write as quickly as possible and write as well as I am able. Edit as I go and hope that I am forgiven for any mistakes. Post and move on to the next chapter. Just get it done.

It exploded - derivation came to me in a surge of frenzied energy, fueled by too much coffee and chronic insomnia and the mulish stubbornness that I crown my personality with. It came easy, with flying fingers on key boards and a sense of accomplishment as I pushed that stupid notebook to the corner of the table and delved into this butterfly-effect world I had created.

It was easy, until it wasn't. Of course that amount of energy wasn't going to last. By the time I was at the fourth full chapter, knowing I had at least eight more to go, I was beginning to lag. I suck at estimation; the little story I thought I was doing, a re-write of the story we all loved once, turned into a thing all its own, with demands on my time and my imagination that I wasn't sure I could meet. By the time I got to that one chapter that marked the transition from the rising action into the final climax, I was bone-weary by the writing. It was like wringing blood from a stone. I had to drag myself through the scenes, forcing myself to write it with as many details as I could - forcing myself to not rush, to tell the story honestly and without reservation. All things that are very hard to do when you are also making yourself do something that your body, your mind, your very being is rejecting.

Second confession: For the length of an entire day, I thought about abandoning derivation. Just - leaving it. I really had bitten off more than I could chew and I couldn't gnash my teeth together anymore, let alone force it down my gullet. It was too hard. It was too much.

But then, there was that notebook. The Writer's Block, still mocking me - but not because it was a reminder that I had been blocked. No. Now it was mocking me meanly, with a tinge of victory, as if saying "You could not overcome; you tried and you failed."

For me, failure is not an option. I don't deal with failure well. I hold myself to some pretty impossible standards, sometimes - unhealthy at times, but the product of having to grow up too fast. Something that happens when you're suddenly in charge of the well-being of your parent when you're still in puberty and the role reversal of parent-child becomes irreversible. I haven't been allowed to fail since I was thirteen. I don't fail in school; I don't fail in work; I don't bother with romance so I won't fail there, either. I was not about to fail on this challenge I had set for myself.

No way was I giving in - not so close to the finish.

And so I wrote. I wrote when I didn't want to. I wrote with my head in my hands as I tried to claw something, anything from my mind. I wrote when I couldn't sleep; I wrote when I should have been sleeping. I wrote and I only stopped writing when I finally hit the end.

And I cried when it was done. I'm crying right now as I write this, even.

Relief. I had won. I had beaten the writer's block - figuratively and literally. More importantly, though, is that I proved something that I think can only be learned through experience.

The only writer's block that truly exist is the ones we create for ourselves.

As in all things, we are our own worst enemy.

So, while we all know that the plot of this story was borne out of the idea of how changing one aspect can cause a butterfly effect, and now that you all know it was a self-made challenge to myself to see if I could rise to the occasion - it was also about disproving this whole "writer's block" thing that circulates among those who wield the mighty pen. I'm not going to be popular about saying this, but in writing derivation, I've proved that writer's block is a load of bullshit. At least it is for me, now.

There. It's out there. Cue the rotten tomatoes.

Finally - massive thank yous to everyone who stuck with me through this insanity. You know who you are. A great deal of credit for this story being complete goes to you. Many thanks to all the reviews, favorites, and follows, and my personal gratitude for everyone who recommended and shared the story. At the very least, I hope that derivation delivered something to each of you! I know it delivered something to me.

~cupcakeriot