How To Write When You Can't Write

I think the only way to write when you're experiencing any type of emotion that could be a potential blocker is to simply write.

That sounds stupidly obvious. I know. But most advice about writer's block is stupidly complicated when the answer has been sitting right in front of you the entire time.

You don't need a ritual. You don't need the perfect playlist. You don't need to journal about your feelings first or meditate for twenty minutes or wait until inspiration strikes you like lightning. You need to sit down and put words on a screen. Or on paper. Or on a napkin. I don't care where. Just somewhere.

Here's what nobody tells you about writing when you're going through something — grief, anger, confusion, exhaustion, whatever it is — the writing that comes out of those moments is usually the best stuff you'll ever produce. Not because suffering is romantic. It's not. But because real emotion strips away all the performance. You stop trying to sound smart. You stop editing yourself mid-sentence. You stop caring whether it's "good enough" and you just say what you actually mean.

That's where the real writing lives.

Stop waiting for the right moment.

There is no right moment. There never was. The people who write consistently aren't doing it because they woke up feeling inspired every morning. They're doing it because they made a decision. They chose to show up regardless of how they felt. That's it. That's the whole secret.

I've written articles when I was angry. I've written when I was grieving. I've written when I had absolutely nothing left in the tank and every sentence felt like dragging a boulder uphill. Some of those pieces outperformed everything else I've ever published. Because readers don't connect with polished. They connect with real.

Perfect doesn't exist. Stop chasing it.

There is no such thing as perfect form, perfect content, perfect purpose, or perfect writing. Writing is what you make it. It's about showing up when you're riding high and showing up when you're face down on the floor. That's what separates someone who writes from someone who talks about writing.

You decide what you create. You decide what you communicate. You decide what you build. And whether you realize it or not, you're deciding right now what kind of legacy your writing leaves behind. Every day you don't write is a day you chose silence over impact.

The blank page isn't your enemy. Your standards are.

Most people can't write because they've convinced themselves that what they produce needs to meet some impossible bar before it deserves to exist. That's backwards. First drafts are supposed to be ugly. They're supposed to be messy and raw and half-formed. That's their job. Your job is to get them out of your head and onto the page. You can clean it up later. You can't clean up nothing.

I've published things I wasn't sure about. Things that felt too personal. Too rough. Too honest. Those are the pieces people message me about at 2 AM saying "I needed this." Every single time.

So here's your entire strategy when you can't write:

Start.

One sentence. That's all. Don't think about the headline. Don't think about the structure. Don't think about whether anyone will read it. Write one honest sentence. Then write another one. Before you know it, you've got something. And something is infinitely better than the nothing you were protecting yourself with.

When you can't write, just start. No matter what emotion you're experiencing, just write. The world doesn't need another person waiting for the perfect moment. It needs your voice. Right now. Exactly as it is.

Keep writing.