by Rosanne Bane
“Okay,” I said, as if I were talking to the college kids gathered around waiting for their turn. “On three.”
Swing. “One . . .”
Swing again. “Two . . .”
Swing one last time. “Three!”
I didn’t move.
It wasn’t that I was having a debate with myself about whether I was going to jump or not. I fully intended to jump. I told myself to jump. But I was paralyzed.
My cortex planned to jump. My ego was fully committed to jumping. I wanted to jump; I almost needed to jump to maintain my sense of identity. But my limbic system overrode that conscious intention and I didn’t move.
You may recall that the limbic system doesn’t have access to the language centers (which reside in the cortex), so my emotional brain didn’t say anything. But if it could talk, it might have said something along the lines of, “No-no-no-no-no! Are you crazy? That’s at least thirty feet down. You’ll get us killed! I’m putting my foot down. In fact, I’m putting both feet down. I am not jumping off this cliff.”
My limbic system wouldn’t let my body do what my cortex wanted to do. If I had been smart, I would’ve listened to my limbic system and joined the young woman in enduring the embarrassing but harmless teasing of her friends. But I was stubborn and I wasn’t going to let my fear control me this way.
My limbic system did let my legs move backward, and I walked away. I sat on a rock, took some deep breaths, and talked myself through my fear. “This is safe. They’ve all done it several times. This is just like the high dive at the pool, except it’s twice as high. All I have to do is jump and remember to inhale as soon as my feet hit the water. I can do this. I’m doing this and everything is going to be all right.”
It is possible to act in the face of our fears; otherwise none of us would ever do anything courageous and adventurous. It is possible to calm the body and reengage the cortex to move through resistance.
I went back to the edge of the cliff. I took a deep breath and jumped. I screamed, of course. Just before I jumped, I remembered the scene in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid where Robert Redford and Paul Newman jump off the cliff, each of them holding one end of a gun belt, windmilling his other arm and yelling, “Ohhhhh, shiiiiiiiiit!” So I screamed, “Ohhhhh, shiiiiiiiiit!”
I realized I’d run out of breath and I still hadn’t hit the water yet.
That flipped my limbic system back on and my cortex off. I should have listened to my limbic system the first time it kicked in, but this second time, plummeting off the cliff, was not a good time to lose my cortex’s ability to anticipate future outcomes. For some insane reason—probably some misplaced instinct—I tried to climb back up, even though there was nothing to grab. I kicked my feet and windmilled my arms faster. This did keep my feet from hitting the water for a fraction of a second. In that fraction of a second of complete disregard for the consequences of this instinctual flailing around, my butt hit the water first. I made one of the most spectacular cannonball entries ever. I bruised my tailbone so badly, I had to spend the next week sitting on one of those inflatable doughnuts designed for hemorrhoid sufferers.
Looking back, it’s a funny story and a great illustration of the power of resistance and the dilemma of figuring out which part of the brain to listen to. And I did learn valuable lessons. I experienced firsthand how profoundly paralyzing resistance can be. I proved to myself that I can override my resistance with willpower, that my cortex can reassert itself after a limbic system takeover. I also demonstrated—and felt the uncomfortable evidence of that demonstration—that it’s not always wise to do so. And that once you are committed to the cortex’s plan, it’s probably best to do everything you can to keep that part of your brain in command for the duration of that plan.
What Went Wrong
So what went wrong? Why did this example of working through fear and overcoming resistance have such a painful outcome? By sharing this story, am I reversing my position, to suggest that maybe we should let our resistance and fear dictate what we do?
We can and should overcome our resistance, but we need to exercise care when we do. I used three out of four of the steps needed to resolve resistance effectively:
Recognize
Relax
Respect
Redirect
Missing that one step—respect—meant the difference between “effective” and “painful.”
I did recognize my resistance. It was pretty hard to miss when my legs froze and I couldn’t jump. I did take the time to breathe deeply and reassure myself so that I could relax and bring my cortex back online. And I did redirect the energy of the resistance into forward motion right off that cliff. But I didn’t respect my resistance, which is why it resurfaced at the worst possible moment.
STEP ONE: RECOGNIZE THE RESISTANCE
Resistance by Any Other Name
It’s crucial that writers learn to call resistance by its correct name. Our verbal ability encourages us to think of a multitude of synonyms, and we think we’re not writing because we’re too busy, distracted, lazy, stupid, perfectionistic, unskilled or because we lack willpower and procrastinate too much. We forget that all of these are variations of writing resistance.
The challenge arises because the limbic system doesn’t have language, so we don’t have words for what we feel at times. The limbic system lacks the sophisticated thinking and nuanced analysis needed to recognize the subtler forms of resistance. Even a brain in the midst of a full-fledged limbic system takeover can recognize full-fledged writer’s block, with its accompanying aphasia and paralysis, but this paralysis of wanting and needing to write and not being able to eke out the words is actually pretty rare. In fact, I suspect most writers either procrastinate or distract ourselves away from our writing to keep ourselves unaware that we do not or cannot write the way we want to. We’re intelligent human beings; why wouldn’t we do what we can to avoid that painful awareness? Fear makes us want to look away, but as the Japanese film director Akira Kurosawa said, “To be an artist means never to avert your eyes.” We have to learn to see resistance for what it is, no matter what form it appears in.
Most forms of writer’s resistance are subtler than full-fledged writer’s block and therefore more difficult to recognize. Like the saying about alcoholics, recognizing you have a problem is always the most important step, because until you recognize you have a problem, you don’t think about solving the problem.
There are probably as many unique ways to resist writing as there are writers, but resistance tends to fall into these forms:
Writer’s Block
Full-fledged aphasia and paralysis, actually sitting down with the intention and desire to write and being unable to do so no matter how long you sit there and what you try.
Procrastination
Continually putting off the writing, thinking, “I should be writing and I will, but not right now,” waiting until the last minute to get started, making the mistaken assumptions that you write better under pressure, that it will be easier later, or that you need more time than you have right now, so you shouldn’t even start.
Postponing
Believing that some milestone must be passed before you can even consider writing, telling yourself you’ll write in a few weeks, months or years after you (select one or several of the following): get a degree or other credential, quit your current job, find a new job, retire, get through the holidays, go on vacation, return from vacation, etc.
Distraction
Shifting focus from writing to one or several distractions, including electronic distractions (checking email, voice mail, IM, blogs, Twitter, Facebook or other social media, watching TV or DVDs, Internet shopping and surfing) office or household distractions (deciding to write just as soon as you finish some other task, like cleaning, organizing, laundry, filing, updating recor
ds, sorting the mail, looking for answers in the refrigerator, and sorting your sock drawer), personal and social distractions (recreational reading that gets out of hand, doing just one more crossword or sudoku puzzle, satisfying everyone else’s needs at the expense of your own, needing to take care of another person or animal 24/7 even when that person or animal doesn’t need you to do that).
Perfectionism
Setting unrealistically high demands, obsessively rewriting one section over and over, refusing to accept the necessity of moving forward with an imperfect draft, applying all-or-nothing thinking about the writing and your process (“If I can’t get perfect conditions, there’s no point in even trying to write”), being unwilling to trust the process and ignoring the reality that all ideas go through awkward stages before they’re fully developed.
Hypercriticism and Excessive Pessimism
Related to perfectionism, hypercriticism and excessive pessimism go from all-or-nothing thinking to nothing-or-nothing thinking: assuming that everything you write is and always will be fatally flawed; seeing only the negative; being cruel in your assessment of yourself, your writing, other people and their writing, the situation and life itself; predicting the worst possible outcome of any endeavor and suggesting it’s just easier to not try.
Denial And Excessive Optimism
Maintaining an unrealistically high opinion of the work and yourself, refusing to acknowledge or consider options for rewriting, rejecting any feedback that is not 100 percent praise, assuming that writing is and should be easy all the time, abandoning the writing anytime you’re uncertain what to do, believing that “inspiration will strike” soon and there’s no need to start worrying or stressing or trying until it does, assuming the writing will not need revising and there will be no rejection or setbacks, often followed by complete despair and abandoning the writing when these unrealistic hopes are unmet.
Overscheduling
Keeping yourself too busy to write by committing yourself to so many professional, personal, family and social meetings, appointments and obligations that there is no time left for writing, but thinking that the situation is temporary and being surprised that it’s been weeks or months since you had time to write.
Underestimating Yourself
Committing yourself to writing projects that are safe, easy, boring and completely devoid of opportunities to write what you are passionate about, never submitting your work for publication or applying for contests and grants because you assume you’re not good enough, enrolling in class after class after class and playing the perpetual student, not standing up for your writing and your right to write, letting other people’s opinions count more than your own, and abandoning your vision.
Confusion or Forgetting
Feeling uncertain, hesitant and perplexed, having difficulty figuring things out, forgetting appointments with yourself or others, forgetting that every piece of writing is a puzzle and assuming that if you can’t immediately see how it all fits together, you’ll never solve it.
Sabotage
Any of the self-destructive activities the Saboteur takes against you (described in chapter eight), and failing to recognize resistance for what it is. Not all resistance is caused by the Saboteur; some resistance is appropriate. For example, it wasn’t my Saboteur that paralyzed my legs on that cliff; that was my limbic system responding to real risk. But the Saboteur will use any and all forms of resistance against you whenever it can.
INSIDE THE WRITER’S BRAIN: YOUR CORTEX HAS LEFT THE BUILDING
You may recall from chapter two that when a person is stressed or threatened, the limbic system takes over and the cortex is unavailable. The limbic system will tend to avoid writing because that is the source of the anxiety that triggered the takeover. This, combined with the cortex’s unavailability, is the neurological source of the common forms of resistance.
Losing normal access to your language centers causes the aphasia of writer’s block and the sense of not knowing how to even start writing. Because the cortex is unavailable, you are more easily confused and forgetful. You can’t quite remember what you were thinking about writing, and solutions to relatively simple problems elude you. When the cortex is offline, you are more distracted and may in fact seek out distractions to avoid facing the uncomfortable emotions that triggered the limbic system takeover—frustration, fear, anxiety, dread. Your ability to focus your attention and maintain the motivation you need to take action needed is also out of reach. Finally, since the ability to plan and predict outcomes is a function of the cortex, resistance can show up as overscheduling and excessive pessimism or optimism. Procrastination may arise in part because you can’t access the cortex’s executive functions of predicting future outcomes from present action and motivating yourself to take action.
That’s Life; This Is Resistance
As tricky as it can be, it’s crucial that we distinguish between resistance (in any of its variations) and the messiness of a creative life. We have to be able to recognize when the reason we aren’t writing is not just a matter of circumstances that’ll clear up eventually, but a matter of resistance that requires our attention.
For example, when the research piles up and your notes and drafts are getting so thick you can’t find your desk, that’s the writing life. When you have so many other non-writing appointments, projects and priorities that you can’t find your way to your desk for weeks, that’s resistance. When you have a medical procedure that requires mild anesthesia and you don’t write that day, that’s life. (When you’re able to write about the discomforts of said procedure in a way that makes people laugh out loud, you’re Dave Barry.) But when a routine appointment with your oral hygienist means you don’t write for three days, that’s resistance.
You can always find something to distract you or give you an excuse for not writing—that’s the way life is. You’re crazy-busy at your other job and that keeps you from your writing. Or work is slow and you’re worried about losing the job that pays the mortgage, or you’re unemployed and looking for a job, or you’re a stay-at-home parent and that keeps you from your writing. Someone in your family or circle of friends gets seriously sick and you shift your schedule to support that person. Or . . . or . . . or. There’s always something.
So how do you tell when you’re truly resistant and when you’re just adapting to life’s curveballs? I keep it simple: if you’re not writing when you say you’re going to write, you are experiencing either a true emergency or some form of resistance. If you’re calling the paramedics, police or fire department, on your way to the emergency room, or evacuating because of an impending natural disaster or invasion, it’s a true emergency. If you’re looking for the master shutoff for your electricity or water, it’s a true emergency. Almost everything else is a form of resistance.
And as soon as your situation moves from acute to chronic—that is, as soon as you adapt to the emergency and it becomes the new normal—if you’re not writing when you say you will, it’s resistance. If your computer crashes, that might legitimately interrupt the day’s Product Time. But if your computer crashed two days ago or it crashes frequently, it’s time to show up for Product Time with a pad of paper or on a borrowed computer. If you can’t sleep one night, you might feel too fuzzy-headed to focus on your writing. But as one of my coaching clients who was struggling with pregnancy-related insomnia declared, “It feels worse to not write, so I have to find a way to fit Product Time into this ‘new normal.’”
A former coaching client, Laura G., had severe rheumatoid arthritis and a host of other painful and compromising health challenges that ultimately took her life. Yet she consistently found the time and strength to write. When she could no longer type, she learned to use voice-recognition software. When she was confined to her wheelchair, she had friends help her make her writing space chair-friendly. Each time her mobility and abilities declined, Laura found a way
to adapt to the new normal that kept writing in her life. If Laura had that kind of courage, I think the rest of us can manage to show up for Product Time even if the kids are screaming in the other room, the cat is throwing up on the rug, or we’re struggling with finding our rhythm again after a weeklong vacation break.
I’m not saying it’s easy. But I am saying we can make it simple: either you’re a) honoring your commitments, b) facing a true emergency or c) dealing with resistance. And you need to know which category you’re in.
CHALLENGE: RECOGNIZE YOUR REALITY (AND SCHEDULE ACCORDINGLY)
I show up for at least fifteen minutes of Product Time 99 percent of the days I say I will, and I work through resistance to get there almost every day. If my calendar and my Product Time chart say I’m scheduled to start Product Time at 9:00 a.m. and I’m doing anything else at 9:00 a.m., I know I’m resisting my writing. I know my sleep routines, and I’ve already reviewed my calendar to determine that is it reasonable to show up for writing at 9:00 a.m. on that day (or I wouldn’t have scheduled it at that time). So, short of being on my way to the emergency room, there is no explanation other than resistance. I make it easy for myself to recognize my resistance so I can quickly go through the four steps of Recognize, Relax, Respect and Redirect. I take these four steps nearly every day. Then I write. Because that’s what I said I’d do.
If your calendar and Product Time chart say you’re scheduled to start your Product Time at a particular time, but you consistently find yourself busy with other responsibilities and activities that truly must happen at that time, you need to acknowledge the reality that the schedule is not working for you. Scheduling Product Time when you honestly can’t show up reinforces instead of resolving your resistance. It sets you up for failure.