When You Need a Little Nudge to Write

Here are some of the strategies and shortcuts that help me focus and get back to writing, even when I feel the worst about it.

Dear I Have Notes,

I recently left my legal career of nearly 12 years to pursue my writing. Things began decently enough, but slowly backslid into a general apathy and laziness that I can’t seem to snap out of. Without the tensions of responsibility and the tightness of scheduled time, I am simply floating through my days. My writing has all but stopped. My guilt and shame have increased tenfold. During the later years of my law career, I worked freelance and handled my own schedule, workload, and clientele, so I expected I would use similar skills in writing. But things just haven’t translated for me. How do you balance the distractions and fantasies we can so easily drift off into and focus on the work? How do you hold yourself accountable when there is no punishment or consequence if you don’t? I have started my novel; I feel passion and interest in it each time I work on it, and I lose myself in the project. But I cannot get myself to the desk and I am betraying myself in this way. I cannot go on wasting such a precious opportunity that so many dream of.

— Disappointed in Myself

Dear Disappointed,

I decided to try to answer your letter now, because I’ve just been through a week of terrible writing days, the sort of days that used to make me feel as though I should pack it all in and do something else with my life. Writing last week was like trying to swim through peanut butter—I tried and got nowhere, just ended up with a mess on my hands. I’m also feeling a bit disappointed in myself. At the same time, I know that I’ll wake up tomorrow and drink too much coffee and sit down at my desk and try to write for a little while if I can. What makes you a writer? It’s not a book contract or a byline, or the number of hours you’re able to devote to writing. It’s the commitment you’ve made to it and to yourself.

I know that you are frustrated and feel stuck. I hear that you want accountability, perhaps a system that will reward you when you do the work and punish you if you don’t. I have felt this way too! But I do want to point out that you’ve only recently left your job, and it’s not easy to make a change like that and then launch an entirely new creative endeavor. You are trying to do something you have never done before. Try not to blame yourself if it takes a while longer to adjust and find your way. You are not wasting your time if you are using it to learn and figure out what you want your writing life to look like.

I have come to see my writing as ongoing work that ebbs and flows; there are times that are more productive and times that are far less so. Admittedly, patience has never been a strength of mine, but I’ve had to learn to cultivate it and show myself grace when writing is a struggle. It’s not just about being kind to myself, although I believe that I deserve kindness and care, and that you do as well. It’s the only way I know to do this work. Yes, I could push and push and drive myself to hit a deadline, or blame or punish myself if I don’t, but at what cost? How long could I approach my writing with fear and guilt and self-loathing before I no longer had the resources or the desire to keep working on it?

You asked how I focus, do the work, hold myself accountable. I think I’m able to do so largely because I have learned to think about accountability in terms of my own needs, as well as the needs of the work. Apart from rest, patience, and faith—and reminding myself that I have written things I’m proud of before and will do so again—here are some of the strategies and shortcuts that often help me focus and get back to the desk:

I do my best to silence my inner editor, the one who wants every sentence to be perfect, because it’s impossible to draft anything with her in my head.

I set a timer for 20 minutes, half an hour, whatever block of time seems manageable, and tell myself that I only need to write until the time is up.

I read a favorite book, letting the familiar words run through me. Nothing makes me want to write more than reading poems or stories I love like old friends.

If I’m working on a longer project, like a book, and feel overwhelmed by the scope of it and all I haven’t done yet, I try to pick tiny, achievable, fun-size goals: not a whole section or chapter, but a scene. Or not a whole scene, but a key paragraph or description or bit of dialogue.

I go back to something I’m stuck on and read through it, putting no pressure on myself to write. Often, I’ll get caught up in the draft and find myself revising it a bit, even if I only wind up adding or changing a few lines; if not, it still helps to sit with the work and think about it for a while.

I consider whether I’m feeling blocked because I am anxious or afraid, or perhaps trying to write about something I’m not actually ready to write about.

I consider whether I’m feeling blocked because I recently wrote a very hard scene or chapter or essay, and haven’t taken the time I need before starting on something else.

I set aside any high-pressure projects, things that might be hanging over my head, and try to eke out just a few lines of something new or fun, following my questions and curiosities. Sometimes I’ll do this in a notebook, because it feels less daunting than a blank Word document and reminds me that I’m only writing for myself.

I go back to my big, messy brainstorming document and choose a stray idea or an orphaned line to jump off from.

I pick a writing prompt from a craft book or old class notes, or search for a good one online. (Here’s a whole list of writing exercises, should you need one.)

I call or text a writer friend and ask if they will give me a deadline and check in with me on that date; I offer to do the same for them if they would like that.

I bribe myself. Do I want a muffin? Thai iced coffee? My favorite meal for dinner? Well, then, I know what I need to do.

I go for a long walk and let my mind wander and then return to whatever writing problem I’m wrestling with. The combination of thinking and movement, the change of air and scene, is always helpful to me.

I clear a full day on my calendar (often, this is only possible on the weekend) and think of it as a one-day writing retreat. I build it up in my mind, tell myself it is something to look forward to—what luxury, an entire day to write! I can work at home or take myself somewhere else; the only rule is that I must be offline, phone out of reach, and focused on writing for as much of the day as possible.

If I can’t write about anything else, I write about why I want to write, why it’s important to me, why I am choosing to give it my time even though I feel stuck.

You’ll note that many of the above function more as gentle nudges than anything else. There are no strict rules here, no punishments, no maximizing goals—I am not trying to master writing or drive myself until I no longer want to write at all, but to instead practice it in a way that is sustainable. This leads me to a humane and fairly straightforward strategy: If nine out of 10 writing tasks feel impossible on a given day, I try to focus on the one thing that might be possible.

Even when I fear that it’s going badly, writing is often a comfort and a reminder of what is important to me. Doing it, having done it, is what convinces me that I will do it again. Sometimes, the days when I feel the worst about my writing, when I hate all of my sentences and the sound of my own thoughts, are the days when it’s most important to persevere, even if I am just spending time thinking or planning or reading as opposed to increasing my word count. Generally, the longer I avoid a project, the harder it will be for me to believe in or return to it.

But again, I think that patience, more than anything else, is necessary if you want to establish and maintain a writing life. Patience is what will keep you working over the long term, help you maintain your faith in your work and grow into your ambitions. Patience is what you need in order to rest and then return to your toughest project, that book you want to write, when you’re at the end of a week or a month of bad writing days, alone at your desk, without peers or teachers or anyone who can do the work with you, and there is no guarantee that you will finish what you’ve begun or convince others to see its potential. If you have the patience to write after and through times like that, you’ll have made it a habit—something you can do from muscle memory—and hopefully, you can keep showing up for yourself and your work for years to come.