Is it writer's block? Or a collision of two selves?

May 25, 2024

For most of my pregnancy I have felt a form of writer’s block. Or at least, that’s what I perceive it to be. Not the type of writer’s block where I am devoid of ideas, but the kind where ideas are brewing inside me, but I feel a deep resistance to begin writing. I was texting with a friend the other day who said she experienced the same situation while pregnant. And another friend, and creative consultant, told me she’s had clients also experience this.

Perhaps my creativity is mirroring the growth happening inside my body. Growing inside me, expanding, creating something out of nothing, but not yet ready for birth. My ideas are never-ending and I’ve been trying to keep track. Sometimes they pop in, and then flee a moment too soon, before I have a chance to write them down. Sometimes they feel ever-present, living behind a barrier in my brain, protected from the outside world. A novel or a memoir, short stories, articles, op-eds, ideas to grow The Undefined, dreams of writing daily, really sinking into a routine, writing becoming a true habit. Nothing has come to life; the pages still blank and the chair still empty.

I’ve tried to be kind to myself while stuck—probably not the most appropriate word—in this feeling. Reframing “stuck” to “brewing.” Or “growing” or “expanding” or “getting ready to be born.” Just like the tiny human inside me. She isn’t stuck; she’s becoming whole.

Last fall I worked through Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way with two friends. One of Cameron’s primary asks is for artist readers to write three pages, uninhibited stream of consciousness, every morning — the “morning pages.” I diligently woke up 30 minutes earlier, often forgoing a workout or a meditation to make time. Completing the Artist’s Way almost exactly coincided with my first trimester of pregnancy. My right hand buried in a box of crackers and my left hand holding a pen. Coffee sounded awful, so my early morning wake-ups were devoid of caffeine — maybe some tea after I managed to put something in my stomach.

As one can expect, my morning pages often turned into analysis of how my body felt newly pregnant; how it felt to pretend I was “fine” to everyone in the world; how, if my stomach was empty, I’d have to pause whatever I was doing and consciously breathe to avoid vomiting, then find a snack even though I had no appetite; how I already felt my body changing even though nobody would’ve noticed I was pregnant, compulsively online shopping for new bras because my pre-pregnancy bras no longer fit; wondering how much longer I had with a pair of pants I bought in Paris, already grieving their potential; and counterbalancing anxious spirals of the chances of miscarriage with affirmations about trusting my body.

My routines that ordinarily ensure I remain connected to myself fell by the wayside — meditating and exercising turned into napping, sitting at my desk turned into pretending to be responsive while lying down, hoping nobody noticed what I perceived to be a decrease in productivity. [For another post, pregnancy seriously disrupts our ability to comply with capitalist “hustle” culture, disparately impacting career-driven women and contributing to the glass ceiling phenomenon.] My morning pages were the only routine that helped me connect with myself, even though I had no idea where this self had gone. I wrote daily about how I felt even though I felt nothing like myself. Somehow, the morning pages became a habit. They cleared the muck sitting atop the lagoon. I told myself I would continue the morning pages even after completing the Artist’s Way and the daily habit continued for a few more weeks. Then it tapered to a few days per week. Then it became entirely inconsistent. Some weeks I journaled a few days; others, no days at all.

I still aspire to complete my morning pages daily, like I aspire to write creatively daily, to write a Substack post weekly, to begin outlining a book idea, and to write the first line of many articles. But the resistance is too strong. I’m standing in the ocean, water up to my thighs, wading toward the shore against the current. Feeling the current pull me farther and farther away from my destination. I don’t have the energy to keep pushing toward the shore — my energy right now taken up by an apparently sideways little alien who jabs me with her fist(?) right above my hip bone.

I can visualize myself sitting at my computer, or in front of a notebook, typing or scribbling away. I can feel the flow state. But it isn’t real. Not recently. Even though I need it, deeply. Writing is the intellectual exercise directed at my soul. Wordsmithing, considering language, watching how the words reveal parts of myself, leaving me more connected with who I am in that moment.

Writing, and allowing my writing to be read, is an act of vulnerability. Stripping the layers of myself away to leave me a bit more raw. I want my energy to feel open, to be less protected. Perhaps ironically, the resistance to writing exists during a time when pregnancy has left me more open and raw. I can more easily listen to my body, more easily say “no” when my energy feels deficient, more easily cry when I experience a wave of sadness, joy, or grief. I would have thought writing would feel easier given this openness, but writing is an energetic exercise in its own right — depleting and fulfilling at the same time.

Given the amount of energy my body is expending, perhaps my resistance to writing stems from how little energy is left. It has been easier to show myself grace in this process because I have the “excuse” of growing a human, not that I should need an excuse even when my body belongs to me and only me. But I know my body is working particularly hard; and I know my energy is depleting at a quicker rate even if the depletion isn’t often present in my conscious mind until it builds almost to a breaking point. Until all I want to do is rest horizontally. Until I count down the minutes left on my drive home from work because it means I can stop focusing so intensely on the road. Until I can only manage sitting upright on the couch for the first 15 minutes of a Bridgerton episode (while my husband lurks at the bottom of the stairs pretending like he isn’t into the show) because dinner is over and it is finally an acceptable time to lay in bed. 7:45pm.

Although it has been easier for me to accept the resistance I feel toward writing because of how obviously drained my body feels, there is a disconnect between how I accept needing rest for my body and needing rest for my mind. A part of me believes I should post on Substack with regular cadence, should begin to outline a book idea, or should sign up for a writing class to determine whether or not I would enjoy writing fiction. But the resistance creeps in. every. single. time.

My newfound acceptance for when my body needs rest stems from acceptance of its superpowers as I create a human. And this feels distant from the self that creates a piece of writing or piece of art. Is the I creating a human the same I who writes this post?

The I connected to creation of life is connected entirely to the lineage of all female bodies, and somewhat disconnected from myself as an individual. I (as an individual) only have so much, so little, control over the process of building a human. I can choose to move, to eat nourishing foods, to sleep more hours, to take vitamins. But that’s it. I can’t control whether her heart beats, or how quickly, whether her lungs can breathe efficiently, whether her nervous system develops fully (according to my app, that part is complete), or whether her cells divide in such a way to ensure she has eggs in her tiny ovaries. Is the I that grows this person tapped into something much much larger than the I that types away writing?

Julia Cameron talks about how creativity is an act of creation. An act of a higher power. When I find myself in the flow state while writing or creating art, the act of creation circulates through my body. I am connected to that subconscious force; the same force that helps my body create a full human; the same force that causes my own heart to beat, blood to flow, and lungs to breathe. Without interference, it runs autonomously. And I must allow it all to happen.

Through this reflection — through this writing — I realize that the I that writes and the I that creates a human stem from the same force. Even though when I write, my mind shifts between a subconscious flow state and a conscious intellectual state. At times, words appear on the page without my conscious mind placing them there. But at other times, I must consciously decide which words to use or the order of sentences. This is why writing is an intellectual exercise for my soul. The toggling between the subconscious and the conscious allow my individual self to connect with the self tapped into that act of creation. Just as my intentional daily choices allow my individual self to connect with the subconscious growing of a human.

And the key to this connection? Allowance. Allow the words to flow when they are ready. Without wading against the current. Allow the rest my body needs. What would happen if I let go? Would the two versions of I more easily collide into one? Would I more easily be able to access the flow state that fills me up creatively? How can I allow?

As I move through the final six(ish) weeks of my pregnancy, I consider whether the resistance to writing will naturally lessen. As my body prepares to birth a human, whether it will also prepare to birth my creative ideas. My friend told me that once she gave birth, she felt her writing unleash. I can’t help but hope this happens to me. In the meantime, I will do my best to allow.