Writer’s Block: Elizabeth Ball

All Lit Up: Tell us about your new book, Missy Whynaught. What can readers expect?

ELIZABETH BALL: At its heart, Missy Whynaught is about relationships I’ve had (mostly with dudes) that I still can’t, for the life of me, figure out. So, I rewrote them in ways that mostly didn’t happen. The central relationship being that with my father, who, like the majority of the characters, was as much a perpetrator as a sufferer. These people fascinate me. They pull at my heartstrings. They confuse me to no end. Is it their suffering that blinds them to the hurt they cause? Are they really suffering or is it a story we tell ourselves to make their hurtfulness easier to swallow? Like Missy, I am drawn to them like a drowning rat. But who’s to blame when the filthy beast’s back on the loose? As readers witness Missy go from one verminous relationship to another in her search for love, I expect they’ll laugh and cringe. They may want to hug her. Or yell at her. Depending on their own experience, they might identify with being unable to break unhealthy relationship patterns, even if—especially if—they know better. Surely others will call BS and be disappointed in her lack of evolution. But some have requested a sequel, which is no small potatoes, right? They can expect that, too. 

ALU: If you weren’t an author, what do you think you’d be doing? 

ELIZABETH: The more apt question is: If you could do anything you wanted, what would it be? An author, I’d say. I have three jobs that aren’t particularly compatible with one another: (single) mother, social worker, author. For better or for worse, I can’t quit motherhood. In retrospect, I might have stopped at one, but that is a moot point. Social work also felt like a good idea at the time, except who knew it would morph into a pathological saviour complex? All that to say, until very recently, due to an unsavoury mix of financial reasons and crippling self-doubt that makes it hard to even call myself an author, the writing pot was always first to go on the back burner. I’m trying really, really hard, though, to make it the main meal moving forward. God only knows what that’ll taste like. But besides keeping the offspring alive, it’s the only thing I want to do. 

ALU: Where do you find inspiration for your characters? 

ELIZABETH: I envy writers who create characters from scratch. I can’t. My imagination isn’t that powerful. When I try, I eventually get bored, and then I know the reader will too. Ditching that, I return to my brain’s bank of real-life people I’ve collected over the years for future inspiration, pluck one out, and—voilà!—either a story emerges, or it’s back to square one. Fortunately, I have an excellent memory that borders on creepy, and, in contrast to most writers, am an extrovert, so my collection is extensive. Usually, I don’t know the person I’ve plucked from a hole in the wall. A brief encounter, maybe something I’ve heard. What sticks is usually some absurd incident they lived through or their one-of-a-kind predicament. Then I plug in all sorts of untruths that don’t resemble the OG at all. Trouble can pop up when the plucked OG does have a personal connection to my world. I really should figure this conundrum out. 

ALU: What does a typical writing day look like for you? 

ELIZABETH: A successful writing day requires going to great lengths to avoid domestic distractions and interruptions. If I weren’t a smoker (shhh, don’t tell anyone), I would write at a cafe or library. Instead, when I am not at my day job or have a child home sick from school, a doctor’s appointment for said sick child, or receiving phone calls from teachers or upset neighbours about children who are healthy enough to be out in the world wreaking havoc, amongst other inconveniences, I head straight to my kitchen table, where, amidst the morning mess, awaits my laptop. Tick-tock, it tells me, you’ve only got until 2:50 pm. Don’t get dressed, don’t brush your teeth. Just reheat yesterday’s coffee and, for the love of God, don’t do something stupid like call your mum or scroll for a new dress, where the next thing you know you’ve lost the whole day. Channel that ADHD hyperfocus superpower of yours and give my keys four to five hours of good tapping. The rest can wait. So that’s what I do. And I like to do my nails while I’m at it, as it’s the only time I sit still long enough to let them dry. Even better when I can squeeze in a run, which I’ve come to learn increases the chances of more good days. Shame I don’t actually enjoy running. Maybe if I quit smoking… 

ALU: How do you overcome creative blocks when they arise? 

ELIZABETH: My Granny’s ghost, aka my superego, wanted me to skip this one. “If you don’t have anything nice to say, Elizabeth, don’t say anything at all. Especially if it’s shameful.” Unlike my superego, I adored Granny. But I was never what you might call the most obedient granddaughter. As a child, I ran to Granny when I was sick. And for my panic attacks. She could empathize because she had them too. “Just don’t tell anybody.” I know she’s spinning in her grave about Missy Whynaught. We often spin together. She’d be equally aghast at my oversharing about my creative blocks. It’s worse than the flu. Worse than a root canal. T or F: Did they once land me in the hospital? In the thick of it, no deep breathing, no journaling, no long walks with loved ones can convince me that I am doomed never to write again. Everything sucks; do something useful with your life. Certainly don’t talk about it. Folks with mental health stuff shouldn’t even be allowed to have children, never mind write books. But maybe if it wasn’t such a stigma, Granny could have ditched her shame. And maybe, like me, she’d have written a book. And had her anxiety led to crippling creative blocks or vice versa, I could have shared what works: Ride the wave, Granny. That and lean heavily on modern medicine.