If you’ve ever grappled with anxiety around writing, you know it can be uniquely painful and bewildering. Maybe you’ve felt like you weren’t good enough, or like trying to create was only going to result in heartbreak and humiliation, or like you were too old and what’s the point. (Insert the script running through your head right here.)
But why? Why are we talking to ourselves like that? What purpose would that serve?
Well. Let’s talk about brains!
There is a primitive part of our brain called the amygdala: almond-sized nubbins buried deep in our brain parts. Seth Godin (see video below) calls this the Lizard Brain, because it’s basically the equivalent of, well, a lizard brain. The lizard brain’s job is to help us survive, so it’s always vigilant for anything that signals food, sex, and (important in our case) danger.
The lizard brain, the amygdala, works great when there’s real trouble. It’s always ready with a fight-or-flight response whenever we might need it. The problem is that the lizard brain doesn’t know the difference between real trouble and emotional trouble. According to the lizard brain, taking risks or standing out of the crowd is a poor idea indeed. Standing out in the crowd means getting eaten. So imagine that poor amygdala, deep in there, fretting whenever you try to create, thinking there’s a panther crouching in the bushes. This is the source of your writing anxiety: fear of panthers.
(Now, if you ask a neuroscientist, they will probably roll their eyes. The lizard-brain theory is simplistic and, truth be told, a little gimmicky. Are there are other parts of the brain also involved in this fear response? Is that all the so-called lizard brain does? This is up for debate. Still, it’s a useful metaphor in thinking about—and discussing—this kind of fear.)
Here’s Seth Godin talking about the lizard brain.
Please note that while Godin is addressing a crowd of entrepreneurs and business types, these concepts apply just as much to any trying to create anything. If you’re pressed for time, he begins talking about the lizard brain about 9 minutes in.
He talks about this fear really kicking in when a project is nearing completion, but unless I have an unusually active amygdala, I’ll have to differ with him on that. My inner lizard is all over me from the beginning of a project straight through to the end. But I’ve always been an overachiever that way.
So now that we know what’s going on, how do we stop the lizard brain from keeping us down? We can’t shut it up completely—it thinks it knows best, and fighting it can be exhausting. What you can do, however, is 1) recognize what’s happening when it kicks in, and 2) give it a little reassurance.
One way to reassure the lizard brain is by breaking down your writing goals into smaller, more manageable chunks. This is a little trick to appease the lizard brain. (We’re not wandering away from the herd completely, amygdala; we’re just venturing a few inches out for some fresh grass. There, there.)
If you’re starting out, I recommend sitting down to write for fifteen or twenty minutes at a stretch. If you’re writing for fifteen minutes, the stakes are low. We want that, right now. We want low stakes. (And if that fifteen minutes stretches into an hour or longer? We’re certainly not going to question that! Maybe the lizard brain quieted down enough to let you do a big chunk of work, and that’s great.)
If you have a project you’re trying to tackle, break it down. Find the smallest unit of work that won’t freeze you up. Maybe that’s even less than fifteen minutes. Maybe you’ll work more slowly than you hoped, but if you keep at it, you will for sure make progress.
The next thing that helps is routine and consistency: establishing writing as a habit. What could be less dangerous than a habit, after all? A habit tells the lizard brain that this is nothing to worry about, just part of the routine—that you’re confident the panther is never crouching behind a bush on Tuesdays at 9 a.m.
Your inner critic — your lizard, whatever you want to call it — may throw out a few warning shouts, especially as this is still a new habit, but (we hope) not enough to paralyze you.
Recognizing the lizard brain
Now, it would be much easier to overcome the lizard brain if it were obvious about what it was doing. If we literally heard a voice in our head that squeaked “Danger! Step away from the writing because writing scares me!” whenever we sat down to work, why, we’d chuckle, pat our heads, and get to work, while our loved ones called in a team of psychiatric professionals.
No, the lizard brain might be a primitive lil’ nugget, but it’s tricky. It wants to keep you safe, by any means necessary. Instead of fear, you may feel disinterest, anger, or even depression. You may wonder why you want to write when you seem to have no ideas and you get a stabby pain in your temple whenever you try. The lizard brain works in surprisingly subtle ways.
Do any of these sound familiar?
Your brain goes blank when you sit down to write.
All your ideas suddenly seem tired.
Actually, you’re the one who’s tired. Far too tired to write.
You realize you have to do some research before you can write. The research will take at least six months.
You accidentally delete the story you were writing or forget to save it and your computer crashes.
You’re totally planning to write, but first you have to check your email.
Before you sit down to write, you’re just going to check social media. For a few hours.
You sit down to write and suddenly you’re googling your ex.
If you’re writing memoir, you decide you’ll have to wait until everyone you’re writing about is dead.
Whenever you want to work, it seems like some huge crisis arises in your life that you’ve got to take care of.
You would write but first you need to eat all the Girl Scout cookies in the house, and then you need to be filled with self-loathing, so really you’re quite busy.
You’d write but first you need to pick a fight with your spouse or child or mom or cat.
You sit down to write and your arm is hurting you, actually it’s your left arm, isn’t that a heart attack?
You’re going to start writing, you are, but first you need to take a course or read a book on writing or read ten books and then get an MFA.
Rationally we know these excuses are weak. But when they strike, in that moment they can feel awfully real, painful, and urgent. That’s the lizard brain doing its thing. Once you can identify what’s going on, the illusion gets stripped away. It doesn’t exactly make the discomfort go away; that comes with time, practice, and courage. But you must begin by locating what’s holding you back. Every time you sit down to write, listen for what comes up.
Get to know your lizard brain. How does it manifest itself? Keep a notepad near you while you’re writing, scribble any thoughts or physical sensations that come up. A sudden feeling that you’re too old or too young? Tightness in your chest? An urgent need to image-search moles like the one you’ve been obsessing about?