Welcome to聽Tough Love. We鈥檙e answering your questions about dating, breakups, and everything in between. Our advice giver is聽Blair Braverman, dogsled racer and author of . Have a question of your own? Write to us at聽toughlove@outsideinc.com.
Six months ago I took the biggest leap of my life: I quit my dead-end job, ended things for good with my on-again-off-again boyfriend, and moved to an off-the-grid cabin in the woods of Montana, with a wood stove and an outhouse. I鈥檝e always loved to write, but never had the time and space to try a real writing project, and I figured big sky country would be the answer. Now I have nothing but space, and time: time to hike, to look at wildlife, to be close to the rhythms of nature, and to write my heart out. My best friend even made me a goodbye present to hang above my desk: a painted sign reading WALDEN II.
My plan for my new life was simple, or so I thought. I鈥檇 rise each morning, drink herbal tea, walk on the same trail, watch wildlife, and write down my meditations about the natural world. Then I would come home to my little cabin and have the whole afternoon to work on my book: a combination of memoir and reflection on nature. I have with me the crates of books that I hauled down four flights of stairs from my old apartment, thinking they would inspire me鈥攏ot just to write, but to work through the trauma that I felt I couldn鈥檛 process in my old life. I wanted to find myself here, through a combination of nature and art. But now, day after day, I have nothing interesting to say about nature, and I feel terrified that there is no me to find.
I haven鈥檛 written anything. I鈥檓 bored with the little trail by my house, and the only wildlife I鈥檝e watched are geese. I don鈥檛 know anybody here. My plan was to be self-sufficient, a one-person retreat, but I didn鈥檛 plan on the kind of loneliness that would make me want to text my ex. My friends back home鈥攊n my old home, anyway鈥攁re nothing but supportive, and tell me they can鈥檛 wait to read my writing. But I have nothing to show them, and I鈥檓 afraid to tell them that I鈥檓 not even enjoying a world they often tell me they鈥檙e jealous I get to experience. I thought this was what I needed to find my true self, but something is wrong, and I鈥檓 afraid it鈥檚 me.
I鈥檓 writing this to you from the parking lot of the grocery store where I come each week to pick up provisions, my only real trips away from the cabin. This question is already too long, because I don鈥檛 want to end this email and start my car and drive back to the place that I guess is my home now. I鈥檓 on my phone, which I told myself I鈥檇 stop using so I could finally focus on what鈥檚 important, but now I don鈥檛 trust myself to know what I need to be seeking. Every time I sit down to write, nothing comes. I don鈥檛 feel healed by the big sky above me鈥攋ust empty enough that I might float right up into it. How do I find my way forward?
Who failed? Where is the failure? You went to Montana to live deliberately, 脿 la聽Hank, and you鈥檝e been deliberate indeed. You鈥檝e started to discover a kind of truth. It鈥檚 just not the truth you wanted to find. Which is part of what makes truth鈥攄eep emotional truth鈥攁nnoying, and part of why so many of us avoid it as much as we can. Our lives are hard enough; if only we could be someone else. Someone who could handle things perfectly. We want to be our heroes, but learn, through the process of emulating them, that we are actually just ourselves.
Of course you have writer鈥檚 block. What you call your memoir鈥攁 chronicle of the kind of feelings you think you should be having in your cabin in the woods鈥攊s actually a first-person novel with a main character whose soul looks like a photoshopped version of your own. But you鈥檙e a writer, not an actor; it鈥檚 not your role to perform on the page. Even if you did鈥攊f you wrote gorgeously about the trees you don鈥檛 care about, the sunsets you鈥檙e tired of watching, and the swirling tea that isn鈥檛 that good anyway鈥攊t would be a shell of a book and it would not touch readers in the way you want to touch them. It would not move them, and it would not surprise them, because in the process of writing you would have faced nothing real about yourself.
Plenty of people have believed that nature would save them; fewer have the guts to admit when it doesn鈥檛.
I think that a lot of writer鈥檚 block comes from trying to write something you don鈥檛 really mean. Fiction, memoir, whatever鈥攜ou have to feel it. You have to care. The work needs to have stakes for you. That鈥檚 how you get electricity on the page; your readers feel the risks you鈥檙e taking. Readers are smart. They sense, even when they don鈥檛 understand. Even when they don鈥檛 know. And there are few things more dull on the page than a performance.
You are living an interesting story. The most interesting story, in this case, is the truth: that you鈥檝e gone to the woods to find meaning and you cannot find it. That you are trying every day, without witnesses, without even neighbors, and still you can鈥檛 bring yourself to care about wild geese. Plenty of people have believed that nature would save them; fewer have the guts to admit when it doesn鈥檛. And now you鈥檙e stuck with the same problems you had before but you don鈥檛 even have a toilet. That鈥檚 interesting. And it鈥檚 funny. I would read that book.
The next time you sit at your typewriter, I want you to be honest. You鈥檙e not writing for your friends, who keep offering to read your manuscript. You鈥檙e not writing for Thoreau. Forget about readers. Forget about judgment. Wipe that from your mind. All you鈥檙e trying to do is write about how you really feel. I know you鈥檙e capable of it. After all, you sent me this letter, didn鈥檛 you?
Play the proverbial therapist: write a sentence, and then write how you feel about that, and then write how you feel about that. Start a page with 鈥淚鈥檒l never admit鈥斺 and then fill it. Write an angry letter to whoever hurt you, or an angry letter to yourself. Write a letter to the stupid geese who have not helped you at all. Write down your greatest fear. Look at it. What would happen if it were true? Is it true? Imagine it鈥檚 true; what鈥檚 your greatest fear now?
Write things you鈥檒l never let anyone read. For every insight, ask yourself why. You wish you could watch television instead of watching your wood stove every night. Why? Because you鈥檙e bored. Why? Because your rituals aren鈥檛 as meaningful as you thought they鈥檇 be, and you want a distraction from your own mind. Why? Because being in your mind reminds you that you鈥檙e not the person you thought you were. Why? Who did you think you were? Why did you think that? Why did you need to think it? What are the stakes of losing that illusion? Ask why鈥攚rite why鈥攗ntil you want to scream. Until you can鈥檛 stare at the words anymore, or you fall through a trapdoor into something new. Then go for a walk. Not so boring now, is it? Walk until you鈥檙e ready to come back to the page.
Here鈥檚 the thing. Life, in all it鈥檚 complex and banal detail, is like one of those magic eye pictures. It鈥檚 only when you look at it long enough, and in the right way, that the images鈥攖he deepest stories鈥攕tart to appear. But first you need something to look at. That鈥檚 what you鈥檙e doing now, writing all this down, even the parts of your life that seem tedious, incongruent, even humiliating. You鈥檙e creating the field that your real story is going to rise from. You have to stop all this self-editing, because you won鈥檛 know what鈥檚 part of the story until you know what the story is. And it鈥檚 then, and only then, that you can decide whether you want to tell it.