I’ve always had the feeling that when a writer starts to write about writing, there’s a good chance that he’s out of ideas. Whether it’s a novel about a tormented author, a movie following independent filmmakers, or a sitcom revolving around a team of mad-capped sitcom writers, something about it seems at best self-centered, and at worst straight-up lazy. It’s just too easy. Got writer’s block? Why not write a story about an author with writer’s block? Problem solved.

Other professions do not have this luxury. A mechanic cannot resort to fixing himself when an engine problem has him baffled any more than a chef can taste his own tongue. (Though I would like to see both of these things attempted.) But when an author feels devoid of inspiration‚ or simply lacks the knowledge or experience to turn that inspiration into something palpable‚ he or she always has the safety net of looking inward, of exploring the creative process. It’s a safety net for the artistically tormented, a cushion for those so privileged as to lack personal drama and emotional hardship from which they may draw upon. We’re a fortunate lot.

But I would be hypocritical to berate other writers for indulging in this kind of introspection. I’m not going to pretend to be the kind of person who can draw upon my own wealth of experience and knowledge. No, my moments of clarity and insight shine as brightly as a dyslexic kid at a spelling bee, and can be counted on a shop teacher’s fingers. Despite my best efforts to acquire ‚Äúlife experience through an ongoing series of bad decisions, I’ve somehow managed to sidestep any wisdom that might have come with these misadventures. There’s a reason it took me ten years to finish college.

This is not to say that, when done by someone besides me, this kind of self-awareness cannot be used in incredibly imaginative and fruitful ways. Literature, film, and even television are riddled with examples to the contrary. Think of the final seasons of Seinfeld. Love it or hate it, the show got a whole lot of mileage out of pitching their own show to a group of NBC producers who were considering a pilot episode of a television show that (wink, wink) just might be a big success. In Charlie Kaufman’s script for Adaptation, a frustrated screenwriter, coincidentally named Charlie Kaufman, resorts to writing a screenplay about his own frustrated experience writing a screenplay. Watching the film unfold is like speeding down a bridge that is being built as you drive, and any minute you could just fall off the edge. The story barrels forward, constantly on the brink of the character’s still-incomplete script. The only problem is that at some point, the bridge does end, and the story plummets into the trap of a Hollywood thriller. While a clever exercise in writing, it makes for a rather dissatisfying dénouement.

In a twist on this kind of writing, Italo Calvino’s If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler explores not only the author’s perspective, but the reader’s as well. Ten first chapters of ten unrelated books are strung together with a second person narrative in which ‚ÄúThe Reader’s attempt at reading is thwarted at every turn. The story leads him to an author stricken with writer’s block who, after his interaction with The Reader, is inspired to write a book whose plot bares a suspicious resemblance to that the very book you are reading. It’s maddening at times, but it’s a brilliant exploration of the processes of reading and writing.

Clearly there is some merit to writing about writing. It is, after all, a craft like any other, and one that deserves attention. But the fact remains that the writer occupies a privileged position, one from which his or her knowledge of writing alone seems justification enough to pontificate on the topic. The result is too often a lukewarm account of a life devoid of insight and emotion. For every Adaptation, there’s at least one It’s Like, You Know. (Count your blessings if you don’t know the show to which I am referring) And for every Calvino, there are a dozen guys like me, wasting your time with self-referential musings on some dark corner of the Internet.

I guess I was just out of ideas.