Writer’s Block Isn’t Real: Here’s What’s Stopping You

You were writing fine yesterday.

The story was moving. The characters were talking. You knew where the novel was going.

Then something happened.

You opened the manuscript, stared at the screen and couldn’t write another word.

We call this writer’s block.

But what if you’re asking the wrong question?

Instead of asking, “Why can’t I write?” perhaps you should ask:

“What am I about to write that I don’t want to feel?”

Because sometimes you’re not out of ideas.

Sometimes you’ve reached the part of the story you’re afraid to write.

 

Maybe Your Brain Is Trying to Protect You

Imagine you’re writing a novel about a child growing up.

The opening chapters come easily. You introduce the family. The house. The school. The neighbourhood. Maybe you even find yourself enjoying the memories the story brings back.

Then the inciting incident happens.

The child has to face something difficult.

Suddenly, the writing slows down.

You check your email.

You make coffee.

You decide the kitchen really does need cleaning.

Finally, you sit in front of the computer and stare at the blinking cursor.

Nothing.

You tell yourself you’ve developed writer’s block.

But have you?

Or has the story wandered too close to something personal?

Maybe your protagonist’s childhood is beginning to resemble your own. Maybe the scene you’re about to write touches a memory you’ve spent years avoiding.

You may not even consciously realize it.

All you know is that yesterday you could write.

Today you can’t.

Sometimes the wall in front of a writer isn’t a lack of ideas.

It’s emotional resistance.

And on the other side of that wall is something the writer doesn’t want to confront.

 

The Werewolf-on-the-Moon Test

Here’s a simple experiment.

A writer says to you, “I’m stuck. I have no idea where my novel should go.”

So you say:

“No problem. Add a werewolf.”

They stare at you.

“Have the werewolf steal a rocket ship and fly to the moon.”

Immediately, the writer says, “That’s ridiculous. I don’t want my story to go in that direction.”

Interesting.

If you truly had no idea where the story should go, why did you reject my idea so quickly?

The answer is simple.

You do have a sense of where the story belongs.

You may not know the next scene. You may not know the ending. But somewhere inside you is an understanding of what the story is and what it isn’t.

The problem may not be that you have no ideas.

The problem may be that the story wants to go somewhere uncomfortable.

And you’re quietly pulling it in the other direction.

 

Your Life May Already Contain the Story

New writers often say, “I don’t know what to write about.”

Look around.

Your life is full of characters.

The uncle who tells the same story every Christmas but changes one detail each year.

The neighbour nobody trusted.

The teacher who frightened you.

The friend who could make an entire room laugh and then became strangely quiet when everyone went home.

The person you loved.

The person you couldn’t forgive.

Writers have always borrowed emotional material from life.

F. Scott Fitzgerald did it throughout his fiction.

The golfer Jordan Baker in The Great Gatsby was influenced by real-life golfer Edith Cummings. Fitzgerald’s former love, Ginevra King, helped inspire Daisy Buchanan and other wealthy, unattainable women in his fiction. Scholars have also connected Gatsby to people Fitzgerald knew, including the mysterious Max Gerlach.

Fitzgerald didn’t simply photocopy these people and place them in a novel.

He transformed them.

That’s the important part.

Real life gives you the raw material.

Fiction gives you permission to reshape it.

You don’t have to write your childhood exactly as it happened. You don’t have to put your father, mother, teacher, or former friend directly into your novel.

Take the feeling.

Take the strange habit.

Take the argument you still remember twenty years later.

Take the moment someone looked at you and said something you’ve never forgotten.

Then give it to a character.

Your life is not necessarily your story.

But it may be the quarry where you find the stone.

 

Are You Writing the Book You Think You Should Write?

There’s another kind of writer’s block I’ve noticed.

Sometimes a writer isn’t afraid of the story.

They’re bored by it.

They’re writing for the market.

They’ve read that thrillers are selling, so they’re writing a thriller.

Romance is popular, so they start a romance.

Someone tells them publishers want a particular kind of protagonist, word count or genre, and suddenly they’re trying to manufacture the “correct” novel.

Then they wonder why they don’t feel like writing.

Maybe there’s nothing wrong with their discipline.

Maybe their heart simply isn’t in the book.

Ask yourself a difficult question:

If nobody could ever publish this novel, would I still want to write it?

Your answer may tell you something.

Writing for a market isn’t automatically wrong. Professional writers think about readers and markets all the time.

But there’s a difference between shaping a story for readers and dragging yourself through a story you don’t care about because you hope someone will buy it.

Sometimes what we call writer’s block is boredom wearing a respectable hat.

You May Be Afraid of What Happens If You’re Good

This one is harder to admit.

What will your family think?

What will your friends think?

Maybe you’re writing an erotic novel and imagining your aunt reading it.

Maybe you’re writing about a dysfunctional family and worrying that everyone will recognize themselves.

Or perhaps the fear is stranger.

What if the book is good?

Really good.

What if people suddenly expect something from you?

It’s comfortable to dream about writing a great novel. In the dream, the novel is always brilliant.

Nobody criticizes it.

Nobody misunderstands it.

Nobody gives it three stars and writes, “I don’t understand the hype.”

An unfinished novel is safe.

A finished novel can be judged.

Sometimes the blank page isn’t frightening because we might fail.

It’s frightening because finishing means we finally have to find out.

 

Or Maybe Your Story Has Simply Run Out of Fuel

Not every case of writer’s block hides a childhood wound.

Sometimes the story is broken.

Your protagonist doesn’t want anything badly enough.

Your antagonist isn’t applying pressure.

Nothing terrible happens if the hero fails.

The characters are standing around waiting for the author to entertain them.

I’ve run into this problem myself.

I stare at a chapter thinking, What happens next?

But that’s often the wrong question.

A better question is:

What does my protagonist want right now, and who or what is stopping them from getting it?

If I can’t answer that question, the problem may not be writer’s block.

I may have a story-engine problem.

Characters with strong wants create movement.

A woman wants to save her family home.

A developer wants to tear it down.

Now we have scenes.

A detective wants to prove a man is guilty.

The suspect wants to destroy the evidence.

Now we have scenes.

A teenager wants to leave a small town.

Her dying father needs her to stay.

Now we have scenes.

Want creates movement.

Opposition creates story.

If you’ve stopped writing, check the engine before blaming yourself.

 

Try This Before You Say You Have Writer’s Block

The next time you find yourself staring at the screen, don’t force yourself to write another thousand words.

Open a blank page.

Write one question at the top:

What am I avoiding?

Then answer it without trying to sound clever.

Maybe you’re avoiding a painful scene.

Maybe you know the story needs to kill a character you love.

Maybe the protagonist is getting too close to your own life.

Maybe you’re bored with the novel.

Maybe you’re afraid someone will recognize themselves.

Or maybe your protagonist simply has nothing left to fight for.

Write the answer down.

That’s it.

You don’t have to fix the entire novel that night.

Just identify the door you’ve been refusing to open.

 

The Scene You’re Avoiding May Be the Scene Readers Remember

Imagine you’re writing about a boy sitting outside his parents’ bedroom while they argue.

You’ve avoided the scene for weeks.

Finally, you write it.

You remember something from your own childhood. Not the argument itself, but a small detail.

The boy notices a thin line of yellow light beneath the bedroom door.

Every time his father’s voice gets louder, he stares at that line of light.

He tells himself that as long as the light stays on, everything will be okay.

That’s the detail a reader remembers.

Not because you followed a writing formula.

Not because you found the perfect adjective.

Because somewhere inside you, you understood that feeling.

You went there first.

Then you brought the reader with you.

Maybe writer’s block isn’t always a wall telling you the story is over.

Sometimes it’s a locked door.

And before you walk away from your novel, it may be worth asking why you’re so afraid to see what’s on the other side.

 

You might be interested in these blogs…

WHY MOST TWIST ENDINGS FAIL IN NOVELS

WHY YOU SHOULDN’T START AT THE BEGINNING 

WHAT JOKES TEACH US ABOUT WRITING NOVELS