Page Fright
The world is watching and you're a tabula freaking rasa...
As a writer, I constantly call on things that I learned as an actor—character, motivation, blah blah Stanislavskycake. (Writing is an actor’s dream—you get to play every character in the story.)
A less obvious similarity is the feeling of “going up” during a performance—when the line you knew cold has suddenly been replaced by the Spinning Beach Ball of Doom.
The audience stares at you, the other actor(s) stare at you, and soon you’re in an anxiety head-lock. What scene is this? What play is this? You contemplate faking your death but it wouldn’t be fair to the rest of the cast.
The blinking cursor on an empty page can feel like that. How many times has your mind been churning with ideas, but as soon as you get to the computer, your brain throws a 404 error? There are scientific and reassuringly non-neurotic reasons for this, but what fun would that be to talk about?
I don’t experience stage fright. (I know this shocks some of you, by which I mean none of you.) But I’ve experienced the worst-case scenario of people who do. But I do get “page fright,” and anxiety is at the heart of both.
So what do you do when you’re frozen in front of a literal or figurative blank page?
Fill the silence.
When you go full tabula rasa, don’t just stand there—do something. Do some stage business. Say something (in character) to stall. Get mental inertia working for you.
It’s exactly the same with page fright. Don’t just sit there—type something. Type some description. Type nonsense words. Type what the scene is going to be about as soon as you start to write it “for real.”
Break the grip of anxiety by getting rid of the empty space any way you can.
Repeat the question while you think of a response.
Take a page from politicians and celebrities: give yourself breathing room before you reply. You know the answer, it’s only the wording that’s lost. Rephrase your cue (“You received a letter from Mr. Owen’s secretary?”) and give yourself a springboard into a reply that gets you back on track. ( “It seems none of us has ever met our mysterious host….”).
In a novel, a new scene answers the story question that ended the previous one. Start that blank page with a rephrased question and then give the answer. Now you have words on the page and a reminder what the scene needs to accomplish. (Forget about show-don’t-tell—you’ll cut this anyway.)
A character does nothing without a reason.
Do they need to inform, persuade, or deceive the other character? To gain info?
What would your character say or do to accomplish their immediate goal? Write that. Forget about the right words and focus on what they need to do for the character or the scene.
The audience only sees the reality you show them.
If it works, there is literally no wrong answer. The correct line or discarded plot thread literally does not exist for them.
Okay, I’m making this point for myself. Who else freezes up when given two options of equal merit? Just me? If writing two versions of a scene in order to decide which is better doesn’t sound nuts, then this is for you: Plan A or Plan B, the plan on the page is always the best plan. Pick one and make it work.
Don’t wait for a sign.
A scene partner can throw you a lifeline, but the ghost of Thespis won’t. Don’t wait on a muse.
There will never be a right time or a good time to start a project, whether it’s a book, a degree, a business, a Substack newsletter, a program of monthly webinars and writer resources.... There will be recessions, pandemics, earthquakes, insurrections.... Don’t wait for the best time.
There *will* be times when it’s time to adjust course, to re-evaluate your resources, and assess where you are versus where you want to be. Don’t wait. Full stop.
Love it. Page fright solidarity!