How to open a clamped-up clam; or, How I used parts work to move through writers block and write this essay

It was supposed to be easy.

When I sat down to write today’s essay, I felt full of fresh ideas, images, and energy. The sights and sounds and smells and feelings of joy and contentment from our anniversary weekend in an Airstream upstate had stayed with me, and I was excited to share them with you. I hadn’t written all weekend, I hadn’t even journaled, and I had all these words swirling around in my head just waiting for me to put them down on the page.

So I opened my laptop, then Substack. Started a new draft. Took a deep breath in, exhaled slow, and started to type.

Then backspaced. Started over.

Backspaced again. Started over again.

Third time’s a charm.

I meant fourth.

Okay, what if I start fresh in a new new draft? What if I write the ending first? What if I write to one specific person on my email list? What if I stop writing for anyone else and just write for myself? What if I write about a completely different topic? What if I write stream-of-conscious? What if I try a different format? Maybe a poem? What if I just finish one of my 130+ drafts instead?

With every new attempt, my blood pressure rose. The words were right there. I could literally hear them in my mind. Why couldn’t I just get them out? I felt frustrated, angry, and physically clamped shut, like a clam that had just washed up on shore next to a hungry seagull. Nothing was getting in—or out.

I wish I had recognized this as my body’s cue to give it some space. I didn’t.

Instead, I spent the next [TIME REDACTED] looking for inspiration in other writers’ latest essays, motivation in articles with extreme titles like “How to Never Waste Another Second on Writers Block Ever Again,” and distraction in texts, emails, and snacks. None of it helped. If anything, it made the situation worse. I went from feeling like a clamped-up clam to a guilty, stupid, time-wasting clamped-up clam.

“UGHHHHH.” I exhaled my frustration loudly into the otherwise quiet apartment.

Then, I closed my eyes and spoke to the part of me that was blocking my writing.

“Okay,” I sighed. “I’m sorry. What do you need that I’m not getting?”

The answer came through immediate and clear: Lunch.

“Okay. I can do that.”

I closed my laptop and went into the kitchen to make lunch.

Then I asked it, “Where would you like to eat?”

Window.

“Okay.”

I stood by the kitchen windows and ate my leftovers. The sky was gray. There were a few birds flitting around in the tree out back. I looked down and saw that the small yard behind our building was overgrown and vibrant green. A thick, leafy vine I hadn’t noticed before covered the fence to the neighboring yard.

When I finished eating, I asked that same part of me, “What next?”

Move, it said.

“Okay. Let’s start with tidying up.” I put my dishes in the dishwasher and wiped down the counter. Then I gathered up the trash and recycling and took it downstairs.

Back inside, I asked, “All good?”

More, it said.

“Okay. Let’s go for a walk.”

I leashed up Fish (our dog) and grabbed my library book off my bedside table. It was due back yesterday. I put on my jacket, slipped my keys in my pocket, and put my phone on the counter. I wanted to give this part of me the walk it was asking for—and that meant giving it my full attention, without screens or distractions. Then I asked if there was anything specific it wanted from the walk to the library.

It replied, Details. Details. Details.

So I walked and I noticed. I looked down at the sidewalk and up to the sky. I made eye contact with my neighbors and paused anytime Fish wanted to give something a good sniff. I felt the breeze on my face.

I read fading stickers on lampposts; I looked for faces in painted-over graffiti. I saw a tiny dog in a big window, tiny flowers in a rotting window box, a tiny baby strapped to someone’s chest. I felt the pavement under my feet.

I heard laughter and music and birdsong and the sound of Fish’s toenails clicking along on the sidewalk a half-step behind me. I smelled a man’s cologne as he walked by. I caught the scent of coffee as we passed a café, then the earthy smell of damp soil as we skirted a man digging in the tree bed outside his brownstone a few blocks later. I felt my heart beating in my chest.

I saw a woman in a hot pink jumpsuit. I saw a man smile at Fish, then heard a woman say, “That’s a cute puppy!” I laughed and thanked her. I saw a teenager with a pink star pimple patch on her forehead. I saw Midnight the black bodega cat slink under a parked car. I felt grateful and joyful and content.

When we got back home, I gave Fish a cookie and drank a glass of water. Then I checked in with the part of me from before.

“Now what?” I asked.

Now we write.

I smiled. The clamped-up clam had opened up.