Day 176 – There’s no such thing as writer’s block

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The Myth of the “Blocked” Writer: Why Terry Pratchett Was Right

“I’m just waiting for inspiration to strike.”

If you’ve spent any time around writers, you’ve heard it. It’s usually accompanied by a dramatic sigh, a stare out of a rain-streaked window, and a total lack of actual words on a page. We call it “writer’s block.” We treat it like a divine affliction—a spiritual wall that descends upon us, rendering us incapable of stringing a sentence together.

But what if the wall isn’t real?

The late, great Terry Pratchett once famously quipped: “There’s no such thing as writer’s block. That was invented by people in California who couldn’t write.”

It’s a brutal take, but it’s one that every professional should consider. If we strip away the romanticism of the “tortured artist,” what we’re left with is a simple truth: Writing is a job, not a mood.

The Comfort of the “Block”

Why do we cling to the idea of writer’s block? Because it’s an incredibly comfortable place to hide.

If I tell myself I have “writer’s block,” I am absolved of all responsibility. I’m not lazy; I’m “blocked.” I’m not failing to meet a deadline; I’m “waiting for the muse.” It transforms a technical failure—my inability to organize my thoughts or commit to a draft—into a mystical psychological condition.

The reality is that “writer’s block” is usually one of three things:

1. Fear: You’re afraid the words won’t be perfect. Perfectionism is a form of procrastination.
2. Lack of Preparation: If you don’t know what happens next in your story or your article, you haven’t done the heavy lifting of outlining or research.
3. Fatigue: You’re tired, and your brain is telling you to take a break. That’s not a block; that’s just biology.

Writing as a Blue-Collar Trade

Pratchett wasn’t belittling the difficulty of writing; he was elevating it to a craft. He treated writing like a plumber treats a leaky pipe or a carpenter treats a frame. When a plumber has a pipe to fix, they don’t sit in their van waiting for the “spirit of plumbing” to descend. They pick up a wrench and get to work.

If you sit down to write and the words aren’t coming, don’t call it a “block.” Call it “the hard part.”

The hard part is where you realise your opening paragraph is weak. The hard part is where the middle of the essay sags. The hard part is showing up at 8:00 AM, staring at a blinking cursor, and deciding to write a bad sentence just to get the gears moving.

How to “Unblock” (Without the Drama)

If you want to move past the myth, stop waiting for the lightning bolt. Try these, provided you’re willing to do the work:

• Write garbage on purpose: Give yourself permission to write the worst first draft in history. You can’t edit a blank page, but you can fix a bad paragraph.
• Lower the bar: Sometimes the block is just a result of trying to write a masterpiece in the first pass. Aim for “functional” instead of “brilliant.”
• The 15-Minute Rule: Commit to writing for just 15 minutes. No distractions. Usually, the resistance vanishes once the momentum starts.
• Break the outline: If you’re stuck, it’s likely because you’re trying to force the story in a direction that doesn’t make sense. Revisit your notes. The problem is usually structural, not spiritual.

The Bottom Line

There are days when writing feels like pulling teeth with a pair of rusty pliers. That’s not a block—that’s just the cost of doing business.

So, next time you feel that familiar resistance, don’t look for an excuse. Don’t blame your environment or your creative juices. Pour a cup of coffee, sit down, and accept that writing is labour. As Pratchett knew better than anyone, the only way to get through the “block” is to write your way out of it, one word at a time.

What do you think? Is “writer’s block” just a fancy excuse, or is it a genuine psychological barrier for you? Let me know in the comments.

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Day 175 – Generating Electric Tension

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The Static of Solitude: Generating Electricity from the Void

In the quiet corners of our lives, we often look for grand catalysts to spark change. We wait for lightning, for a massive surge, for the dramatic shift that flips the switch from darkness to light. But as Paul Auster masterfully demonstrates in his haunting novella Ghosts, the most persistent electric tension doesn’t come from a thunderstorm. It is generated by the friction of almost nothing at all.

In Ghosts, Blue is hired by White to watch Black. He sits in a room in Brooklyn, staring out a window, day after day, waiting for something to happen. Nothing happens. And yet, the tension in the book is palpable—it is a live wire humming with a lethal, invisible current.

How does Auster generate such high-voltage suspense out of such absolute emptiness? The answer is a lesson in the physics of the human psyche: Voltage is measured by the gap, not the density.

1. The Power of the Potential Difference

In electrical engineering, voltage is the difference in potential energy between two points. If two points are identical, there is no flow. If they are vastly contrasted but held in proximity, the potential for a spark becomes infinite.

Auster creates this “potential difference” by placing Blue in a state of sensory deprivation and forced observation. By stripping away the noise of the world—the plot, the dialogue, the movement—he creates a vacuum. When you remove everything, the smallest stimulus starts to vibrate with impossible weight. A man across the street shifting his chair; the color of a notebook; the act of writing a report that says nothing. In a void, these tiny inputs act like high-frequency waves. We are conditioned to look for meaning, and when the narrative denies us that meaning, our brains begin to arc across the terminals of the story, creating heat, pressure, and electric tension.

2. The Loop of Infinite Reflection

Ghosts is a hall of mirrors. Blue watches Black, but Blue is also being watched by White (or is he?). The act of observation becomes a closed circuit.

When you generate energy from “very little,” you must create a feedback loop. In the novella, there is no external power source. The energy comes from the loop itself—the circularity of the characters’ existences. Because the characters cannot escape their roles, the tension builds internally. It is a kinetic process: the harder you try to resolve the nothingness, the more tension you generate. Auster shows us that the most exhausting, high-voltage way to live is to remain trapped in a state of unresolved surveillance.

3. The Art of the Static

Think of the static electricity you feel on a dry winter day. It’s barely visible—a tiny prick against your skin—but it is the result of a massive buildup of separated charges.

Auster writes with “static” in mind. He keeps his prose sparse, almost clinical. He doesn’t give us the “lightning strike” of a dramatic climax. Instead, he maintains a steady, low-humming current of uncertainty. By withholding information, he forces the reader to provide the energy. We are the ones who supply the voltage; we are the ones who worry, who speculate, and who feel the jump-scare of a simple sentence like, “Black is reading a book.”

Generating Your Own Spark

If you have ever felt the crushing weight of a quiet Sunday, or the agonising tension of waiting for a message that never comes, you understand the physics of Ghosts. We don’t need grand events to feel the thrill of the “electric.” We only need:

• A Vacuum: Remove the distractions that act as insulators.
• A Gap: Set up a situation where you are observing something you cannot influence.
• The Loop: Allow yourself to ruminate on the point of contact.

In the end, Auster teaches us that “very, very little” is actually a massive reservoir of power. You don’t need a hurricane to light up the room. Sometimes, all you need is a single, solitary figure in a room, waiting for the silence to speak.

The tension isn’t in the event. The tension is in the waiting. And that, as it turns out, is enough to power an entire world.

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