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The Writer Unplugged

March 15, 2016 | 3 min read

This is a guest post by Selena Chambers, who writes in Florida. Selena is co-author of the Hugo and World-Fantasy nominated THE STEAMPUNK BIBLE (Abrams Image), and is currently writing a travel guide to STEAMPUNK PARIS (Pelekenisis Press) with Arthur Morgan out later this year. You can follow her at: www.selenachambers.wordpress.com or steampunkparis.com.

Distraction is the greatest form of resistance a writer faces on a daily basis. I’ve been struggling with it for years, and have come close to throwing my laptop in the trash and running as far away from the publishing game as possible. What kept me from giving up? Slowly realizing that other writers (especially those who seem like they have their act together in the public eye) and creatives struggle with the same issues. Evading distraction and finding focus is, of course, a personal journey and you have to find what works for you and your environment, but in speaking with my friends and gazing into my own navel, I have realized that distraction comes in two forms: that which takes you closer to writing, and that which takes you away from it.

The former is Life and all its abstracts: birth, death, health, sickness, economy, employment, politics, friendship, family, solitude, love, sex, hate, education, and travel. True, not much writing is happening while undergoing these experiences, but they all inform it by putting you physically in the world to observe, absorb, and feel. It shapes your perspective, gives you an impulse and ultimately grants you something to say.

The other kind of distraction, that which takes you away from your writing, are the activities designed for amusement and instant gratification and while relaxing, do very little to inform the work, even though we may trick ourselves in to thinking so. For some, it may be playing video games, binging on Girls, fingernails that need clipping, or in my case, going online.

By no means is this some kind of Jonathan Franzen rant. I love the internet. It is ubiquitous with all the things, and while that is a modern-day marvel, its pervasiveness can be a modern-day time sink. When I sit down to write, I have no problem ignoring my eyebrows and the cat bunnies blowing by like tumbleweeds under the A/C vents, because I can resist the urge to get up from my desk to go handle them. Not so the online “to-do” list, which is much harder to disregard because all the tools are right here at my fingertips.

More often than not, on days when the writing is like digging into dry Georgia clay, I find myself mulling over this list. With a few clicks, I am out of Scrivener’s composition mode, and am in Safari riding the instant gratification wave of multitasking immediacy. I’ll send out queries, answer e-mails, answer social media direct messages, respond to tags and mentions, make a blog post, share the blog post, console in friends and families tribulations, cheer on peers and colleagues triumphs, read this timely article and discuss that timely article, read this stupid drama and discuss even more, scan recent calls for submissions, research a story idea, seek source texts, and when all of that is done, pay bills. I can kill a whole day checking things like this off and feel pretty good about myself. The next day, however, when I am back with that blank page, I would realize how much was left undone and how much more was now left to do.

On on that next day, I try to unplug. To do this, I have to get completely away from the computer. Sure, you can deactivate your Facebook, turn off wi-fi, unplug the router, or install some sort of time management or focus software, all of which can be turned back on, plugged in, or disabled. If I really want to avoid distraction, I scrawl in longhand or peck on a typewriter. Even with these two methods, I inevitably come back to computer when I have to transcribe into Word, which sometimes feels redundant and archaic. Even so, at the end of the day I feel more accomplished and nearer to my true writing goals than all the networking, posting, and chasing I do online. Social media and the writer’s platform is one of the puzzle pieces to gaining and maintaining a successful writing career, but what has become even more bewildering is that unplugging and working with focus and without noise is even harder for the twenty-first century writer to navigate.

The Haunting

Hitting “publish” on an essay or a blog always stirs up insecurity — the overthinking, the over-editing. The fear that someone will call me out for not being a real writer.

I initially hesitated to make writing part of my freelance work. My background is in photography and design. Writing was something I gravitated toward, but I had no degree to validate it. No official stamp of approval.

Like many writers, I started with zero confidence in my voice — agonizing over edits, drowning in research, second-guessing every word.

I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.

I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.

If my words weren’t my own, they couldn’t be wrong. Ghostwriting meant safety — no risk, no vulnerability, just words without ownership.

I still remember the feeling of scrolling to the bottom of an article I had written and seeing someone else’s name, their face beside words that had once been mine.

The truth is, I always wanted to write. As a kid, I imagined it. Yet, I found myself handing over my work, letting someone else own it.

I told myself it didn’t matter. It was work. Getting paid to write should be enough.

But here’s the thing: I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.

I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.

The Disappearing Act

This was true when I was writing under my own name, too. The more I worried about getting it right, the less I sounded like me.

I worried. I worried about how long an essay was (“people will be bored”), finding endless examples as proof of my research (“no way my own opinion is valid on its own”), the title I gave a piece (“it has to be a hook”), or editing out personal touches (“better to be safe than be seen”).

I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting. Advice meant to help only locked me in. It created a sentence rewritten to sound smarter, an opinion softened to sound safer, a paragraph reshaped to sound acceptable.

I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting.

But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.

It took deliberate effort to break this habit. I’m not perfect, but here’s what I know after a year of intentionally letting my writing sound like me:

My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.

But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.

The Resurrection

The drive for acceptance is a slippery slope — one we don’t always realize we’re sliding down. It’s present in the small choices that pull us away from artistic integrity: checking how others did it first, tweaking our work to fit a mold, hesitating before saying what we actually mean.

And let’s be honest — this isn’t just about writing. It bleeds into everything.

It’s there when we stay silent in the face of wrongdoing, when we hold back our true way of being, when we choose work that feels “respectable,” whatever that means. It’s in every “yes” we say when we really want to say “no.”

If your self-expression is rooted in a need for acceptance, are you creating for yourself — or for others? Does your work help you explore your thoughts, your life? Does it add depth, energy, and meaning?

My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.

I get it. We’re social creatures. Isolation isn’t the answer. Ignoring societal norms won’t make us better writers. Often, the most meaningful work is born from responding to or resisting those norms.

But knowing yourself well enough to recognize when acceptance is shaping your work brings clarity.

Am I doing this to be part of a community, to build connections, to learn and grow?

Or am I doing this to meet someone else’s expectations, dulling my voice just to fit in?

The Revival

Here’s what I know as I look back at my writing: I’m grateful for the years spent learning, for the times I sought acceptance with curiosity. But I’m in a different phase now.

I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.

I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.

It’s our differences that drive growth. I want to nurture these connections, to be challenged by difference, to keep writing in a way that feels like me. The me who isn’t afraid to show what I think and care about.

So, I ask you, as I ask myself now:

If no one was watching, if no one could judge, what would you write?