Imagine this scenario. You’re out at a restaurant with some friends–people you haven’t seen in a while. You’re catching up, swapping stories, sharing the happenings of the past few weeks. The food arrives. Not bad. Not bad at all. Good conversation. Good food. A fine evening.
And that’s when it happens. Two tables down, a young couple are eating their meal, their eyes darting to and fro from their plates to their two young kids, back to their plates, back to their kids . . . Speaking of whom . . . the kids are antsy, hyper, fidgety, their half-eaten meals picked at but no longer being touched. You overhear some of the chatter–the parents telling the kids to keep quiet, the kids snapping back, eager for a verbal sparring match. The young couple appear tired, exhausted even, while the kids are endless, boundless energy.
It makes you wonder. What’s the backstory? What was their week like? What lies ahead? Why even bring the kids along–why not get a babysitter instead? You observe the couple again–the color of their hair, the shape and contours of their faces; the dimple on the man’s chin–such a prominent feature, it is easily observed from two tables away. There is a tension, too, subtle, beneath the surface, something undefinable yet as real as the food on their plates.
As your friends talk, your mind wanders. You nod at the right moments, your facade of listening holding steady, for now. But you are fully absorbed in the scene you are watching–so much so that you begin to thread a story. Something about the man’s demeanor, his shifting, nervous eyes.
Does he have a secret? Yes! He’s doing something illegal at the office, where he works. But what? And his partner? Does she know? And what is her secret? Options form in your brain, scenarios play out, possibilities, threads, plot points, character flaws, character attributes . . . until, like a switch being turned on, a novel idea has formed. Motivation. Secrets. Shame. Guilt. Triumph. It is all there, formed from the ether, waiting to be written.
You feel an urge to tell your friends you need to cut your meal–and conversation–short. You have to go home! Begin writing . . .
Yeah, but . . .
The words come, unasked for, unwelcome. But they are there, like a rude interloper, ready to take down your enthusiasm.
Yeah, but . . . what do you have to go on? Your idea is flimsy, unformed. You don’t have one-twentieth of the plot you need to begin a novel. Who are you kidding?
Yeah, but . . . the job you have concocted for the man is lab technician for a chemicals firm. What do you know about technical subject matter like that? And the woman, in your hot-off-the-mental-press story, is a lawyer. What do you know about law or the nuances and rhythms of a lawyer’s day?
And the kids . . . you don’t even have any kids. How can you write about parenthood? Being a father? A mother? You’re out of your depth.
These doubts and questions and a hundred others cascade through your mind like a runaway locomotive, poking, taunting, ripping holes through your narrative, just minutes ago birthed in a wild, feverish bout of inspiration and excitement.
Yeah, but . . .
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Every writer deals with this, at one point or another. For some reason, our brains, our thoughts, turn insecure, throwing up roadblocks and coming up with reasons not to pursue our story. We each have defensive mechanisms hardwired into us, seeking to protect us from harm–real or imagined. The thoughts that bubble up are like an overbearing taskmaster hell-bent on keeping us locked in our predefined and safety-ensuring box.
So . . . how do you break out of it? How do you find the inner strength, confidence, and conviction to push through the yeah, buts?
One way is to turn them around, reverse them. So, you don’t know anything about a lawyer’s day? So what? Yeah, but . . . yeah, but . . . I can do some light research. I can talk to Jennifer, who is a lawyer. Ask her about her job. I can read other books that feature lawyers. I can also understand that it’s not rocket science! I am not writing a technical manual on lawyering. I am writing a novel where a character happens to be a lawyer. It’s not a treatise. It’s a story. I don’t need to know everything. The same goes for the lab tech.
As for kids and parenting . . . I was a kid once! I had parents. Again, I am not writing a parenting how-to. I am writing a novel. And, at its heart, a novel is a work of art exploring the human condition–things that are universal to us all. Don’t get tripped up in the weeds.
And plot? Knowing what will happen on page 207 ahead of time? Who wants to know that? Sure–I need some sense of direction, some sense of where I’m going. But I don’t need everything mapped out, to the point of precision. Again, this a novel, not a technical manual. A large part of the writing process is exploration as you go. Allow that room to exist.
So, yeah, Mr. “Yeah, But,” two can play at that game!
Full disclosure–I have been snagged by the “yeah, buts” many times. I certainly have not conquered this beast. And over the past couple of years, I have been in something of a creative drought, so my battle with the “yeah, buts” is especially fraught right now. But I feel like I’m turning a corner, and good things are ahead.
No question about it–the “yeah, buts” are a difficult issue for any writer. The best way to counter them, I have found, is to “yeah, but” right back.
After all, you have stories inside of you. They need to be let out.
Thanks so much for reading!
–Mike
Yeah, but . . . (more objections, then segue to general yeah buts then my own writing slump then how to overcome them end
Eye-Dancers 