WORKING WITHOUT AN ECHO

By Clay Stafford

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There are stretches when work and life carry on, yet the world goes strangely muffled, and I’m left facing a reflection I don’t repetitively acknowledge. The first time I became aware of this was after years of working in the collaborative arts of television, film, and theater, when, without those lively moments, without the noise, silence itself became its own uncanny yet welcoming mirror. To this day, the likeness I see unnerves me.

The experience I’m thinking of wasn’t dramatic. Nothing collapsed. Nothing extraordinary happened. I changed where I wrote. I was living in Los Angeles then, surrounded by the hum of other people’s stories. That was all. I was young. I switched employment and went from the noise of collaborative rooms to the hush of a rented space on my own. Nothing refashioned in my profession except the location and the environment. I kept doing what I promised, tending the responsibilities I chose, still delivering work, but without the usual affirmations. Where daily life had once been bustling, there were now no replies in hallways, no nods in breakrooms, no signs in studios that anything I was offering was reaching beyond my own effort. In the absence of feedback, I learned that the material I was writing and the life I was living were now without endorsement, and the meaning of things changed when nothing echoed back.

Without response, the work felt different beneath my hands. I still had the discipline to continue, but without reflection or resonance, I began to feel the dull ache of questions rising from somewhere older than ambition, closer to the ribcage: What is this for? Does any of this matter? Had I mistaken movement or activity for direction? It surprised me how much the small, ordinary reassurances had once steadied me. A single thank-you, a simple hurrah, being noticed in passing, none of it had seemed important at the time, but when it disappeared, I felt the floor shift a little. I realized how soundlessly I had leaned upon them.

What steadied me again wasn’t a surge of motivation or a sudden breakthrough. It was a kind of returning, almost like walking back to the trailhead after getting lost. I noticed that the reasons I began hadn’t dissolved just because no one was nodding along. The values underneath the effort remained, unchanged and unmoved. The silence hadn’t drained them of meaning; it had only stripped away the applause I didn’t know I’d been listening for.

Working without affirmation brought me face to face with a question I hadn’t needed to ask before: did the work matter only when it was witnessed, or did it matter even here, in secret, when there was no audience to gather the story? It was an uncomfortable distinction. There was no performance in that space, no cleverness, just me and the truth of what I cared about.

Staying with the work in that lonely townhouse on Bedford Drive, where jacaranda petals stuck to the windshield, wasn’t about mettle. It wasn’t about proving anything, not even to myself. It felt smaller than that, more silent. I continued because continuing felt more honest than stopping. The pull didn’t come from momentum or reward; it came from alignment, as if turning away would have been a small betrayal of something I couldn’t name.

In that hush, something shifted. It wasn’t confidence or inspiration. It was a steadier posture, days spent without waiting for an echo, returning without asking to be met halfway. There was nothing heroic or cinematic about it. I certainly didn’t feel that. I simply stayed.

Affirmation did come back eventually, and the validity of the choice I had made did come, though in indirect ways I couldn’t have predicted. By then, the ground beneath the work had already changed. It no longer asked to be seen to matter. The meaning of what I did through my work had moved inward, even to a place where applause, even though it later came, couldn’t reach it.

I once believed that meaning required an audience. Now I suspect that the audience only revealed what was true long before anyone clapped. When the echo disappeared, and I kept going anyway, the work stopped asking who was watching and started quietly telling me who I was. It was from there that I became.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

Getting out of a Writer’s Slump

By Leslie Conner

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All writers have found themselves in the not-so-ideal situation—feeling like they’ve fallen into an abysmal ditch or they’re at a standstill at the foot of an insurmountable mountain. This sensation is most affectionately called “Writer’s Block.” But I prefer not to use that term because it sounds too formidable, like the perfect antagonist. 

I choose to use “Writer’s Slump” because it more accurately portrays the predicament (and my horrendous posture at the keyboard). Writer’s Slump is the inevitable condition visited upon anyone who takes on the task of writing anything, whether you are schlepping away at a short story, a mystery novel, or a memoir. You’re gonna run smack dab into that wall and a groan of recognition will escape your lips. 

You’ve seen this wall before. We all have. 

And there is nothing more defeating than staring at that wall with nothing to say to it but a string of obscenities. It can be frustrating, but it doesn’t have to be immobilizing. I’m here to share a few tips that I use when the creative train in my brain derails somewhere in Albuquerque. 

1. Skip Ahead. If you are writing a scene of two characters in a diner and you’ve spent more than two paragraphs describing how the characters are holding their cups of coffee, just stop. You’ve hit the wall, and you’re trying to drive through it by boring everyone to death. There are times when I know that I need a scene with two characters having a conversation in a diner, but I’m not quite sure how it’s going to play out. In other words, I haven’t figured out the purpose. So, I meander around describing everything just to keep writing, but I end up with miles of nothing. That’s when I know I need to skip ahead to a later scene. Getting the characters into the next predicament can (a lot of times) help me to figure out what should happen before it. Writing what you do know will help you to fill in the blanks of what you don’t know yet. 

2. Work on Something Else. If there is no skipping ahead on this story, you might consider pulling out an abandoned short story or rough draft of another novel. I do this all the time. If you drag your brain through something you haven’t read in a while, it’s like rewiring the synapses. Getting yourself in a completely different world with completely different characters makes you focus on anything other than what you were struggling with in the first story. And then when you come back to that story later, you’ll see what you need to do, clear as day. Almost like it was right there in front of your face taunting you like Road Runner does to Wile E. Coyote. 

3. Go to another creative thing. Writers are creative people, and their creativity is not limited to just writing. Most authors I know enjoy many other creative hobbies. So, when you are stuck in the mire with your story, pick up the guitar or sit at the piano, get the canvas out, or take some artsy black and white photos of your cat (even if he doesn’t want you to—and he, most likely, doesn’t). I can hear you saying now, “but writing is my jam. I’m not good at anything else.” Well, that’s just not true. Everyone has talents that they don’t consider talents. You could bake the most incredible red velvet cake or whip up a mean spinach artichoke dip. Maybe you’re great at knitting socks for dogs or growing tulips. Whatever it is that you love to do—that you lose yourself in—go do that until the writing muse makes her grand entrance again. 

4. Go to the woods. If steps one through three don’t help, the most reliable way to break through a slump is to go outside. Nothing clears out the gray matter clutter better than some fresh air. Go to the nearest park and take a hike. Get lost in the trees, sit and ponder the reflections on the lake—wherever you can go that removes the sounds of civilization from your consciousness (you know those pesky things like cars, phones, televisions, and people). There is nothing better to restore your sense of calm and creativity than communing with the birds. They always have a story to tell, and if you’re lucky, you can hear it. 

A Writer’s Slump is just a dip in the road. You aren’t a bad writer or a failed creative person if you find yourself sitting in the mud puddle every once in a while. But if you are diligent about inviting your creative muse to come back to you, she will. And it probably wouldn’t hurt to have some donuts there for her, too.