There is a Miss Manners school of thought when it comes to writing instruction that appears in many books, articles, and advice interviews from editors or agents

The attitude leaks out from the language they use. They will advise you to always show and not tell, then follow their injunction with the words, “Telling instead of showing is the hallmark of a lazy writer.” As if there were no other reason, besides poor character and bad manners, that a writer might tell rather than show, such as “exposition was needed to convey background information quickly” or “the humor depends on the ironic undertones of the narrative voice.”

Other advice-givers on writing believe it is self-indulgent to ever use the word “I.” They claim it is rude to the reader. (Sorry memoirists! Maybe you could write biographies instead? Or books about cats. Everyone loves books about cats! Ahem. Just do not mention your cat.)

I used to fret about being called a lazy or self-indulgent writer to the point that on many days my worries kept me from writing at all. However, the name-calling was part of a bigger picture. It grew out of a larger system of thinking about writing that kept me from writing for years.

There was a story about writing – partly unconscious –that I used to believe. In high school I saw writing as an already-in-progress game that others allowed me to play, but only as long as I did as I was told. The rules had been already fixed long ago; they were bigger than me, and all I could really do was go along with them and hope to fit in.

The rules had existed before I was born, kind of like The Ten Commandments, and who was I to challenge them? In fact, the venerable game of writing had been going on since the invention of cuneiform by the ancient Egyptians or their geographic neighbors, the starting gun of the super-serious game that Others controlled and always would.

I had imagined that each generation had its own authorities to define and enforce the rules of writing – in Rome, in ancient Greece, in every place where writing came to be practiced. Generation after generation, the torch of policing writing had been passed to an elite segment of the population until the Modern Age in which at last, the torch of writing fell into the hands of prim elderly ladies with pursed lips and English degrees called “editors” or bespectacled men in tweed suits called “professors” or “book critics.”

According to my fabricated story, the consensus among the torch-bearers was that would-be writers had better mind their manners if they wanted to join the conversation. They should never say anything politically incorrect or be rude or talk about themselves or offend or say anything that might cause “the reader” a moment of discomfort.

The Writing Guardians – which sometimes made generous appearances in writing magazines – also gave advice about how writers should structure their work habits. “Discipline,” they said, “cold hard discipline. That means deadlines, Missy.” A strong sense of duty was required because writing is not, and should not be, fun; fun is for amateurs. The way you could tell of you were writing correctly was if it felt like grueling labor; if writing did not feel a little like coal mining, you were probably doing it wrong. The modern torch bearers, editors, agents, and seasoned professionals advised that “serious” writers should sit down at their desks at the same time every day and write for eight hours nonstop, or meet an arbitrary and ambitious word count, even if they had an excruciating backache or their cat knocked over a bookshelf.

In my mind brutal self-coercion was what I had to do if I wanted to get anywhere as a writer. As a result I felt chronically guilty, chronically blocked, and chronically miserable.

And no wonder. I saw writing as being all about Herculean feats that I should do. The authorities, the gate-keepers, the torch-bearers of language had a ton of “shoulds,” which were really just rules in the ongoing game that Others allowed me to play.

The story I believed about writing made writing feel like drudgery. The story did not work for me, and when I realized that it was a bad and untrue story, I tossed it.

The problem with a story about “shoulds” was that as soon as I thought I “should” do anything, a childish resistance would crop up. The creative ten year old in me who used to write vampire tales without anyone telling her would refuse to play a game that reeked of guilt and duty.

As I tried to write, I would end up distracted by my intransigent inner child as I tried to calm her and explain to her that now was not a good time for her to go outside and play with her puppy or eat a pudding pop. Meanwhile I would stare at the clock, peck at the keyboard, and wonder when the whole terrible, tooth-gritting, mind-shattering ordeal would all be over.

Everything changed for me when I realized there were no authorities and there were no rules. There are many self-appointed pseudo-authorities who quote rules like “Never say the words then and very, but they are just people and they have nothing to do with me and what I write.

When I am writing, there is just me and my pen or my computer. Anything goes. No one is looking over my shoulder. In fact, no one really cares what a single writer is doing. The problem is not about obeying anyone, and it is not about having discipline. So what was my problem?

It was figuring out a way to get my kicking inner ten-year-old, with all of her rebellious energy, on my side so that I would not have to constantly fight myself to get words on the page. To do that I needed to entice her, and I found a wonderfully effective way: write deviantly.

A lot has been written about how to get over block, but for me it is really simple: All I have to do is to do everything wrong. When I write in order to behave, my writing limps. (Sorry, Miss Manners of the Literary World).

My writing belongs to me, not a bunch of prim, fussy, easily shocked elderly ladies or thin-lipped, sneering critics.

The lure and power of writing lies in the forbidden – and this is true not just with content but with work habits. See how long your “block” lasts when you forbid yourself to write more than a single sentence and really enforce it for, say, three hours. When I say enforce it, I mean really enforce it, surrounding the computer with starving pit bulls if necessary.

How does it feel to force yourself to stop writing? How does it feel to have the weight of guilt and obligation on the opposite side of the scales? Did you want to write more than a sentence? Or were you relieved that you could stop?

Maybe you were relieved you could stop. But if you really want to be a writer, I bet not.

Work habits are only one way to be deviant. What about the content? Try this: When you do permit yourself to write again, write something you are not supposed to write. Start by writing a list of ways you are supposed to feel in certain situations.

For example, at funerals you “should” be sad. At birthday parties you “should” be happy. There are emotions prescribed for almost every formal occasion. Now, think back. When you were in those situations what did you really feel? Maybe you did feel happy at a birthday party, but there is probably some situation where the feeling and situation did not match — a vacation gone awry, a funeral in which you did not feel anything. Find the discrepancies between how you were supposed to feel and how you felt; the raw honesty of those insights can keep you writing for hours.

But if that is too tame, go farther. Go after religion, say. Any religion will do. Scrape the whitewash off the politically sacred. Question tradition. Challenge the status quo. Cuss like a maniac if it facilitates flow. Take the advice Sue Monk Kidd gave to writers: Go for the jugular. Write about things that engender discomfort.

As for work habits, write at odd times. Write at night when you are supposed to be sleeping, Write at the dinner table when you are supposed to be attending to conversations. Instead of writing for an even hour, write for 33 minutes and 6 seconds. Writing does not care if you do it in even numbered hours. It is perfectly possible to write an awesome story in two hours, 42 minutes, and 7 seconds.

Natalie Goldberg, author of Writing Down the Bones, introduced a term for work habits that are compulsive yet passionless: “goody-two-shoes” writing. The phrase refers to habits of writers who write every day but never progress because they are only being dutiful — that is, they are only going through the motions. Despite their impressive “discipline,” they take no risks and fail to connect emotionally with their writing.

They are only doing what they have been told they are supposed to do: Write every day. She writes that being dutiful is “a waste of energy because it takes tremendous energy to just follow the rules if your heart isn’t in it.” She recommends taking time off writing to “recharge.” She goes further, saying: “Be willing to put your whole life on the line when you sit down for writing practice.”

I agree. Toss away duty. Kick deadlines out the door. Do away with anything arbitrary and let the Miss Manners of Literature go gnaw on a doily.

Whatever you believe you should be doing in writing, try turning it on its head. Limit writing to a few sentences rather than forcing yourself to meet a time goal. Write unapologetic passages of pure exposition (telling rather than showing). Try using trite expressions in a way that somehow works, maybe by establishing an ironic or tongue-in-cheek tone.

In doing so, you will turn writing from a stagnant activity to a dynamic one. Writing “wrongly” on purpose is like trading unseasoned steamed broccoli for peanut butter fudge or a muddy rain puddle for a swimming pool.

Even if you do all these things and they work, at some point you will encounter the old advice. It will be hard not to take it seriously because the advice-givers will have the seal of tradition on their side or “common sense.”

But sometimes common sense is not sense at all, just bad ideas propped up by familiarity and repetition.

The world is full of writers who play strictly by the rules and quote them at every opportunity. Let them. Let other writers be disciplined and self-critical. Let them procrastinate and say wry cynical things about writing and compare it to coal mining or digging ditches. But there are enough miserable writers already. The world does not need more of them.

I would rather follow the advice of Ray Bradbury: “Write what you love and love what you write.” Write what you want to write. Write it how you want to write it. Write hedonistically and unapologetically and relentlessly and say things, deviant and audacious things, that others are afraid to say.

If you succeed, you are likely to be criticized. But I am willing to bet that you will not be blocked.

If you enjoyed this post you might like my other writing. Take a moment and sign up for my free starter library. Click here. Also my new novel “Remembering the Future” is available for purchase on Amazon.