Deja Vu Blogfest Cognitive Therapy for Writers

Today is the Deja Vu Blogfest! Hosted by DL Hammons, Lydia Kang, Nicole Ducleroir, and Katie Mills (Creepy Query Girl), this one's all about a post-gone-by. Here's mine. I originally posted it about a year ago, near the end of December. It was actually the second in a two-post series called "Cognitive Therapy for Writers." The first is here. This one's all about how to conquer those thoughts that get you down ...


Raaaawr! All right. So, we've established that everyone has a Sneaky Brain, the part of you that whispers all sorts of nasty things that make you feel bad.

 You know, like:

• If I don't get an agent or get published, I freaking suck as a writer.
• Because that agent/editor rejected me, I am a failure.
• I got a few rejections this week/today/in the last hour, so that means no one will ever want to represent/publish me.
• I wrote one book/chapter/page/sentence, and now I can't think of what to write next. I've run out of words FOREVAH!!!!! AAAAAAH!!!!!!!

Let's pause right here and acknowledge that not everyone who writes is going to end up a published author. That's the way it is. Language is powerful, but it can be difficult to wield. The art of storytelling adds another level of difficulty. And then there's marketability ... whoa.

SO, taking into account that I, or you, might be among those who reach as far as we can but still can't close our hands around that elusive prize, how do we keep feeling OK? How do we keep our Sneaky Brains from sapping us of whatever talent and energy and creativity we have? How do we stay on track and keep writing, keep telling the stories we want to tell?

We all have Smart Brains, too. We should use them.

Don't be afraid to fight dirty.

 1. Recognize those sneaky thoughts. Listen hard. You have to HEAR and recognize what Sneaky's saying, because those thoughts can become pretty automatic over time, meaning you stop hearing them and just skip straight to the drinking-Wild-Turkey part of the equation. Don't. Listen. What do you hear?

If you hear any of the following words, perk up and slap on those boxing gloves:

ALWAYS
NEVER
SHOULD
ONLY
FOREVER

If you find yourself thinking "sure, I had some success a year/month/day/hour ago, but THAT DOESN'T COUNT ... ", do some pushups, man, because you've got some work to do.


Or if you hear "since she rejected me, that means EVERYONE will", strap on some brass knuckles. You've got a fight on your hands.

After you've recognized what the Sneaky Brain is saying ...


Just like this dude.
But probably not as ripped.



2. Recognize Sneaky as a bully. Sure, it's inside your brain, but that don't mean it speaks the truth. When I work with kids, we "externalize the problem". Picture me (see stick figure above) talking in funny voices with puppets strapped on my 18-inch fingers.



 OK, don't. Instead, picture Sneaky sitting in front of you--and see what a liar it is. Those things it's whispering are a one-way ticket to depression. Despair. Giving up. What right does it have to do that to you? What right does ANYONE HAVE TO DO THAT TO YOU?!? I don't care if the bully resides between your ears. It's still a bully.

Once you recognize that:

3. Confront the bully and talk back to it. Logic is not its friend. If someone's done something to upset you, like they rejected you or gave you a bit of harsh feedback, and your Sneaky Brain is saying "it's because they hate your writing and think you're a tool", use your Smart Brain to say, "Really? 'Cuz

1. they only read a tiny sample of my writing--or only a query, or
2. they had some nice things to say, too, or
3. I got a request/compliment, etc. from this same person/similarly skilled person(s) before, or
4. they probably spent a total of 60 seconds looking at it because they had 300 other queries waiting, or
5. the idea probably just didn't float their boat, but it could float other boats ...

You get the point. Use your Smart Brain to be ... smart? Use logic. Be a skeptic. If the Sneaky Brain says you're a failure because you got one rejection, I mean, WTF? Really? How many agents and editors are out there?

If it says "you should have an agent by now" or "you always mess this up" or "you will never ..." Oh, geez. What does it know? This process is frustrating enough without Sneaky going to illogical extremes. Use your Smart Brain to question how the things it says could possibly be true. If you can't, that just means your Smart Brain's out of shape, NOT that Sneaky speaks the truth.

And if it whispers "the only way to be successful and happy is to get published," your Smart Brain should be screaming, "I am more than a writer. And there are many kinds of writers. And I write for many reasons. And sometimes, the end result isn't what it's about. Sometimes, it's the JOURNEY." Then, maybe toss out some obscene hand gestures for good measure. Stupid Sneaky Brain. Gut it with a spoon, my friends. That's what it deserves.

You don't have to be the only one who talks back to Sneaky. I'll bet you have friends or family or beta-readers or intriguing-strangers-you-meet-in-a-coffee-shop who can help you. Listen to their encouragement and don't discount it. But know this: no voice will ever pack a punch as powerful as your own Smart Brain.

So ... confession time. I'll be going on submission sometime in the new year*. And you know what? I'm going to be using every single one of these strategies every single day to stay calm and sane and happy. I know it won't always be easy. I know my Smart Brain won't win every round. BUT, I also know my Smart Brain is pretty damn smart. No matter what happens, I'm going to be OK. I'm going to be successful. And I'm going to define what that means for myself--I won't let anyone, including my own Sneaky Brain, define it for me.

That shapeless lump is my vanquished Sneaky Brain.

What about you? What challenge are you facing now? What's that Sneaky Brain telling you? And just how do you plan to kick its a$$??

*HEY! Guess what? I lived through it! Sane (for the most part)! And still happy, still writing, still looking forward to whatever comes next.

Art and Love Therapy for Evil Little Boys

Since our return from NH two weeks ago, my three boys have been on the verge of fratricide. At summer camp, they were all in separate cabins and left to torment only those in their own age bracket. And their counselors, poor scarred 18-year-olds who still probably wake up at night in a cold sweat.

But now they have turned on each other like wolves, guided only by my new 14-year-old babysitter who was left with no recourse but to lock them in the basement and blast the "Frozen" soundtrack at them from the stereo. I fully sanctioned the activity. When they finally broke free my eldest son snatched an empty Vodka bottle from the recycling bin and chased young Mordred (as they call her) down the street brandishing it at her. I am sure the neighbors have an even finer view of us than they did before!

The evil reached its pinnacle yesterday afternoon, when 1) Eldest Son hauled Middle Son across the driveway, leaving him with horrible asphalt burns 2) Littlest Son scratched Middle Son so viciously that 3) Middle Son kicked Littlest Son clear across the room and cracked his head into the record cabinet housing the turntable.

The babysitter had long been let off duty, and I hastened downstairs to the screams. The accusations flew fast and fierce.

"He hurted me worser than I did him so he should be punished badder!"

"I did NUFFINK."

"I did nothing; however, I am sure I shall be blamed as I always am, because this is the course of things."

That last speaker, age 10, then flung the TV remote at my head and, as it bounced off my skull, I shouted "GO UPSTAIRS!"

"You always punish ME and not THEM!" he shouted. "Just because I hit you in the head with something you punish ME! Is this fair? Oh, you are such a good mother!"

He was right. They all went into a big fat time-out while I fumed about what I would do to PUNISH them. For wasn't punishment the only acceptable solution? I fretted that I was a bad mom. I didn't know the least thing to do right now. What would serve justice for their naughtiness?

Then it came to me. I would kill the little buggers with kindness. I gathered them in the living room and proposed several options to make reparations. They were:

1. You will each write a heartfelt letter to both brothers expressing that you love them and WHY. The letters must be of a reasonable length and written to the best of your abilities.

This got feedback:

"I dunno how to spell!"
"This is the worstest!"
"Oh shoot me now."

2. You will perform a skit representing the theme of "Brotherly Love." The skit must be of reasonable quality. It may not include battle scenes or death.

This also got feedback:

"But skits without conflict suck."
"Can we have just one battle scene? It could, like, lead up to a scene in which we all hug?"
"Will you be filming it? Cause if so, NO."

3. You will parade down our street singing a song that I will quickly compose called, "I Love My Brothers and My Brothers Love Me."

Feedback:

"I will nevah evah do that."
"Option Three sucks."
"Shoot me now."

Middle Son was openly weeping at this point, and Eldest Son was thrashing about in chair rubbing at his eyes. Littlest Son was staring glumly into space.

So, all options voted down, I told them that they had to collaborate to devise Option Four themselves. And they had to do it without arguing and come to a polite and genial agreement amongst the three of them as to what Option Four would be. This was, of course, the secret behind Option Four. The devising of the option was the activity in itself. Whatever they cooked up would simply be bonus material.

I left the room and returned in about five minutes. During that time, they had all mutually consented to make gifts for each other. The gifts would be made out of clay. They were very keen to get started. There was no talk of screen time. They were, in fact, excited about their plan.

I got out a bucket of air-dry clay and put on some music and they made these. They aren't done yet; they still need to be painted and presented. But they check them throughout the day to see if they are completely dry yet, and Middle Son keeps asking when he can give his presents to his brothers.

A magnificent dragon.

Handmade necklaces.

Strange stubby things?

After the experiment was over we met in a circle for a group hug, during which the boys, unprompted, said things like:

"I love you, my brother."
"My brothers is the best!"
"Hugs and love! Hugs and love!"

We concluded it all with a "Go Team!" cheer, after which I solemnly reminded them that any of the previous options could easily be invoked at any time.

The next day we heard a long, piercing scream from the bathroom. Middle Son had sprayed perfume directly into Littlest Son's eyes. He claimed he had been spraying it to "cleanse the room of bad smells" and that he had sprayed it far from Littlest Son's face. In fact, the victim had had his back turned to him!

Littlest Son cried out that his brother had "broken the bond of brotherly love."

A forensic reenactment of the crime revealed that the lie was preposterous, and the offender was sent to bed. The next day, I decided to bring down Option One (letter writing) as the penalty.

The gist of the letter read, in sum:

"I did absolutely nothing wrong and have no guilt whatsoever because I am innocent and did nothing wrong and am innocent. Will you forgive me? Love, your brother."

I shall start work on my original Brotherly Love song shortly, which will be filled with uniquely embarrassing references such as:

Brothers never argue, brothers always share.

Brothers even give up their last pair of underwear.
My brothers are my blood, to them I'm always true.
If they ever called upon me, I'd even wipe their poo.

Public performances forthcoming.

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In defense of therapy

A couple of weeks ago, I posted about an Economist article looking at the supposed promise of a new psychological therapy called cognitive-bias modification (CBM); that article implied that the short-term, therapist-free nature of CBM made it preferable to more traditional kinds of therapy.

I wonder what Jonah Lehrer thinks of CBM. Back in December, in a post to his Wired blog entitled In Defense of Therapy, he wrote:

When anti-depressants work, they are little blue miracles. But they often don’t work, at least not at rates higher significantly higher than placebo. (Plus, they often have unpleasant side-effects, which leads more than half of patients to stop taking the drugs shortly after the worst symptoms disappear. And then they relapse, which helps explain why patients treated with SSRI’s have relapse rates above 75 percent.) And that’s why I’m troubled by the drop in talk therapy, as most studies demonstrate that the most effective treatment for depression is pharmaceuticals coupled with a good therapist....

What we often forget is that therapy alters the chemical brain, just like a pill. It’s easy to dismiss words as airy nothings and talk therapy as mere talk. Sitting on a couch can seem like such an antiquated form of treatment. But the right kind of talk can fix our broken mind, helping us escape from the recursive loop of stress and negative emotion that’s making us depressed. Changing our thoughts is never easy and, in severe cases, might seem virtually impossible. We live busy lives and therapy requires hours of work and constant practice; our cortex can be so damn stubborn. But the data is clear: If we are seeking a long-lasting cure for depression, then it’s typically our most effective treatment.

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