A friend of mine called me last week, sobbing. She's had writer's block for several weeks, and the more she worries about it, the more entrenched the block becomes. Now she's at the point where she feels as if she's underwater, without enough breath to reach the surface.

I can certainly understand that feeling. I've recently overcome a block of my own.

"Are you afraid you have nothing to say?" I asked. "Do you need to live a little? Maybe let things 'compost' a bit?"

No, that wasn't the problem, she said. She was worried about big life issues – possible layoffs and a romance that wasn't working – two more things I understand.

"What if I lose everything?" she asked. "What if I can't find another job? Should I give up my apartment? Move back in with my parents?"

"Slow down," I told her. "Every 'what if' pushes an image or phrase back down into the whirpool. How do you normally get past a block?"

She couldn't think of anything, so I told her about two approaches I've used.

When I first moved to Boston, I'd hop in the car and drive three hours north, to Goose Rocks Beach, in Maine. There, the water is cold, not frigid, and the tide washes in hundreds of sand dollars each day. I'd grab a pail, wade in to my waist, and bend down, over and over, reaching for the round white shapes that look like communion wafers.

I'd bend and scoop until my legs went numb. Then I'd carry the bucket up to my towel, set it down, and head back toward the water. After an hour of floating in the sun and the salt I'd be totally limp, every worry dropping to the ocean floor below.

"I'm not really the nature type," she told me.

"So try something more urban," I suggested. "Pinball, followed by a large chocolate ice cream. There's no faster – or cheaper – form of escapism."

"Pinball?" she asked incredulously. "My life and career are falling apart and you want me to play an arcade game?"

"Yes," I explained, "because the game is a metaphor for what you're dealing with."

I told her all about the machine I used to play in grad school. The lights would flash – yellow, red, and white – each time I earned bonus points. But when I missed a simple shot, the ball rolling right between both flippers, the carnival-like music would grow louder.

"Great," she laughed. "A game with attitude that's going to mock me. No thanks."

"So try prayer," I said. "Or yoga."

She groaned, so I went back to the pinball idea, explaining how my first game was always annoyingly fast – ball one, two, and three going where they shouldn't. Game over. Another two quarters.

But once my mind shifted into neutral, the games lengthened and scores began to rise: 300,000, 500,000, 1,000,000. Occasionally I'd even win a free game. By that point, my worries, like the silver spheres, were
completely under my control. Red, yellow, white. Goodbye.

She wasn't convinced by my low-brow approach to her high-minded problem.

"Look, whatever you do, just cut yourself some slack," I said before we hung up. "Don't try to force it. Just stop thinking."

I know I gave her good advice, but it probably didn't help. It didn't help me a few weeks ago, when friends told me the same thing. Neither did reading an article called "Blocked" in a June issue of the New Yorker, by
Joan Acocella. In the first few pages Ms. Acocella lists a whole range of theories – biological, psychological, linguistic – why writers shut down, and she names many prominent authors who never regained their ability to write. After the third page I was so discouraged, I threw the magazine aside in disgust. Most serious writers have reached this point once or twice.

Most people also know that the block won't subside until you've dealt with some of the underlying fears. That was certainly the case for me.

One night I found myself walking toward a Ferris wheel near the harbor of a city I was visiting. I couldn't explain why I was so drawn to the ride – perhaps it was the red, yellow, and white lights. Or maybe it was the giant circle.

Either way, as the wheel slowly turned, I thought about a comment I'd heard at a poetry reading the night before. "I go to my doubt every day," said one writer.

Many poets do. But we get in trouble – I do, anyway – when we stay in that place too long. Doubt is like a lover that does nothing but slap you around.

The Ferris wheel helped me calm my thought some, but the red, yellow, and white lights weren't enough. I needed more altitude and perspective, so I went to the observatory 94 stories above the city. From there I could see patterns in the traffic and the water that I hadn't noticed before. Everything moved to a gentler rhythm. I relaxed for the first time in weeks.

My block didn't fully give way, however, until I was back in Boston, waiting for my suitcase at the baggage carousel. One bag after another moved toward me, briefly looking like mine. I started to notice certain patters and colors, much as I did when I collected sand dollars. "Oh," I thought, "this is just like writing. I don't create the patterns, I just notice them. I let them move through and past me."

A few days after my friend's phone call, I rang her just to check in. We spent an hour talking about the fine balance writing requires: sometimes you take action, sometimes you just let go. The same is true when thinking about layoffs, or any big challenge. You take the necessary steps and do everything you can, but when life pins your arm behind you, you must stop fighting until a new thought or option comes along.

She wasn't saying much, so I read her a passage from that New Yorker article, which I eventually finished: "With so many ordinary facts lurking behind its impressive name, writer's block may come to seem just that, a name, and names can be dangerous.... Possibly, some writers become blocked simply because the concept exists, and invoking it is easier for them than writing.... But for most writers the danger of 'block' is that it gives them something to scare themselves with."

"That didn't help," she said sadly. "It's almost as useless as your pinball idea."

I stand by the pinball method. Whenever I start playing, even in my mind, my worries become like the large silver balls – something I can knock around. Red, yellow, white. Winning score.

My friend still hasn't tried the game, but perhaps she'll find another way to take aim at her fears. I'd love to see her knock them away, rather than waste time worrying – as I did for several weeks. It's so much easier to take a deep, slow breath, still the surface of your mind, and begin to look for patterns, in whatever way they choose to arrive. Eventually a phrase or image will replace those shiny balls. Red, white, and yellow, sound and sense intertwined.

Red, yellow, white. Game over.