Writing When You’re Burnt Out

“You’re not lazy. You’re tired. And that’s a very different thing.”

Let me be real with you: burnout is a beast. It creeps in quietly, often disguised as laziness or lack of discipline. But it’s not that. It’s the result of running on empty for too long — emotionally, creatively, mentally — and still expecting yourself to perform like you’re full of inspiration and energy.

I’ve been there more times than I care to admit. And I used to beat myself up over it. “Why can’t I just push through? Other writers are out here publishing books, building platforms, outlining trilogies. Meanwhile, I’m staring at a blinking cursor and questioning every life choice I’ve ever made.”

Here’s what I’ve learned: writing when you’re burnt out doesn’t mean writing like you used to. It means learning to meet yourself where you are.

🔥 What Burnout Actually Looks Like (For Me)

It’s not just being tired. It’s dreading the very thing I once loved. It’s rereading the same paragraph ten times because my brain refuses to focus. It’s opening my document, staring at the words like they’re in another language, and then closing it again because the pressure is too much.

Sometimes burnout looks like avoidance. I convince myself I’ll “do it tomorrow” — and then tomorrow becomes a week, a month. Other times, it’s perfectionism cranked up to eleven. If I can’t write the perfect scene, why write at all?

It’s also physical. Headaches. Insomnia. That heavy, weighted-down feeling in your chest. Your body keeps score, and eventually, it taps out.

Sometimes it shows up as irritability, where every little thing — emails, social media notifications, someone asking me how the book is going — feels like an attack. And I hate that, because I love writing. But in burnout mode, even the love feels heavy.

There have been days when I’ve set a timer for just five minutes and told myself, “Just open the doc. Just look at it.” And even that felt like too much. That’s when I know I’m deep in it.

✏️ Writing Through Burnout (A Little Bit at a Time)

When I’m deep in it, I lower the bar. Like, way down. Some days, my goal is literally: open the document. That’s it. If I write a sentence, it’s a win. If I journal instead of working on my WIP, that’s still creative output.

I stop trying to write “good.” I give myself permission to write garbage, knowing I can clean it up later. (Spoiler: sometimes the “garbage” isn’t half bad.)

I also switch formats. If prose feels too rigid, I write dialogue. If dialogue is too much, I make aesthetic boards or playlists for my characters. Sometimes I just daydream scenes in the shower. That still counts. All of it counts.

I once wrote an entire scene in the Notes app on my phone at 2am because I couldn’t sleep and had a stray idea. That felt good. Not forced. Just a moment of connection. Sometimes that’s all I need to get through the fog — a single thread of creative joy.

There’s also something to be said for writing completely off the grid. No pressure. No expectation to share or publish or make it perfect. Just words that exist because I made them. That’s writing, too.

🧠 Reconnecting With Why I Started

One thing that helps? Remembering why I write in the first place. For me, it’s about connection. Escapism. Imagination. That spark I felt as a teen writing stories in the margins of my school notebooks.

When burnout hits, I revisit the books that made me want to write. I reread old fanfiction. I talk to other writer friends. I read craft books — not to make myself productive, but to remember the joy of learning how stories work. Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose was one of those books that reminded me what I loved about storytelling when I needed it most.

Sometimes I even re-read my own old work. Not to cringe (though I definitely do), but to remind myself that I can finish things. That I have done this before. That the words will come again.

Or I’ll read something so beautiful it makes me want to create. Like, it literally hurts not to. That kind of ache — the good kind — can pull me back into the rhythm.

💬 Letting Myself Complain (and Then Letting It Go)

Yes, I complain about writing. A lot. And I’ve learned that’s okay. Sometimes the best thing I can do is vent, dramatically and unapologetically: “Why is writing so hard?! Who invented plot holes?! Why do I even do this to myself?!”

Once I get it out of my system, I usually feel better. The frustration has somewhere to go. And sometimes, I even laugh at myself — which is its own kind of healing.

Then I breathe. And I try again.

I used to feel like if I complained, I wasn’t being grateful. But now I know it’s not about gratitude — it’s about release. It’s okay to love writing and still struggle with it. Those things can exist at the same time.

💛 Tiny Joys Count, Too

When everything feels overwhelming, I look for small joys. A sentence that flows. A character line that makes me giggle. A plot twist that clicks into place like a puzzle piece.

I celebrate the small wins — writing for ten minutes without checking my phone, editing a messy scene, brainstorming a new idea. I keep a list of “little things I did today that still count.”

Because they do count. Every word, every spark, every breath of inspiration is part of the process.

Burnout tries to make us forget that. But joy — even the tiniest flicker of it — can be a breadcrumb trail back to the story.

Final Thoughts

Burnout doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means you’re human. It means you’ve been working hard, caring deeply, and probably ignoring your own needs for too long.

Writing through burnout isn’t about forcing yourself. It’s about finding gentler ways to keep the creative flame alive. It’s about choosing softness over shame. It’s about trusting that your spark isn’t gone — it’s just resting.

You don’t have to write every day. You don’t have to be prolific to be valid. You just have to keep going — however that looks for you.

If you’re in it right now, I see you. I’m with you. And your stories are still worth telling, even if it takes a little longer to tell them.