Day 149 – What really is writer’s block

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The Myth of the Blank Page: Why “Writer’s Block” Is More Than Just a Stuck Pen

Every writer knows the sensation: you stare at the cursor, blinking rhythmically against a stark white screen, and your brain feels like a locked door. You can’t find the key. You call it “writer’s block.” You blame it on the caffeine crash, the deadline pressure, or a lack of inspiration.

But have you ever stopped to wonder if the term itself is actually to blame?

If you trace the history of those two words back to their source, you’ll find that “writer’s block” isn’t a medical condition or an inevitable creative cycle. It’s a diagnosis—and one that carries a heavy, somewhat dark, psychological weight.

The Invention of a Diagnosis

For most of literary history, writers simply struggled. They had “dry spells,” they “hit a wall,” or they were “out of ideas.” Then, in 1947, a psychoanalyst named Edmund Bergler coined the term “writer’s block.”

To understand Bergler, you have to understand the era. He was working in the shadow of Sigmund Freud, and he viewed the creative process through a very specific, psychoanalytic lens. Bergler didn’t think you were stuck because you were tired or uninspired. He believed that the “block” was actually an unconscious act of self-sabotage.

According to Bergler, writers were suffering from a deep-seated, masochistic drive. He argued that the writer unconsciously sabotaged their own work to enjoy the “self-constructed defeat” of failing to write. In his view, the agony of not being able to finish a manuscript wasn’t a struggle against a narrative problem; it was a psychological compulsion to suffer.

Is This Really About Word Counts?

If we accept Bergler’s definition, then “writer’s block” stops being a productivity issue and starts being an internal conflict.

This is where things get interesting. If you’re struggling to reach your daily word count, you usually look for practical solutions: try the Pomodoro technique, change your environment, or outline your chapters more clearly. But if the problem is actually a subconscious desire to sabotage yourself, those practical fixes will never work.

By framing our struggles as “writer’s block,” we’ve inherited a diagnosis that suggests the problem lies deep within our psyche, rather than on the page. It turns a professional hurdle into a personal failing.

Moving Beyond the “Block”

Maybe it’s time we retire the phrasing. When we tell ourselves we have “writer’s block,” we are giving ourselves permission to stop. We are turning a temporary lapse in flow into an identity—a “blocked” writer.

Perhaps the next time you feel stuck, you shouldn’t ask, “Why am I sabotaging myself?” or “How do I overcome this block?” Instead, try asking:

• Is this section actually necessary for the story? (Maybe you’re stuck because the narrative is heading in the wrong direction.)
• Am I exhausted or burnt out? (Sometimes, the tank is just empty.)
• Is my goal too big? (Breaking a chapter into 100-word segments is far less daunting than “finishing the book.”)

Writer’s block might be a useful shorthand for the frustration of the craft, but it’s worth remembering that it was invented by a man who looked for internal demons behind every closed door. You don’t have to be a masochist to struggle with a sentence. Sometimes, a hard day of writing is just a hard day of writing—no analysis required.

Next time the words won’t come, don’t blame your subconscious. Just close the laptop, take a walk, and remember: you aren’t “blocked.” You’re just in the middle of the work.

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Day 148 – From a single spark

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The Art of the Spark: Why Your Best Ideas Don’t Happen at a Desk

We are taught from a young age that productivity is a sedentary activity. We’re told to sit down, open the laptop, force a furrowed brow, and “get to work.” We treat creativity like a math equation: Inputs + Desk Time = Output.

But if you look at the creative process of the world’s most interesting thinkers, you’ll find a common truth: The best work rarely happens when you’re forcing it.

I don’t sit at my desk and think. That’s not how the magic works. For me, the process is far more ethereal, and infinitely more effective.

The Midnight Line

My creative process starts in the quiet, disjointed landscape of a dream. I wake up, often in the haze of the early morning, with a single line etched into my consciousness. It’s a fragment—a stray thought that feels like it carries the weight of a thousand words.

I write it down immediately, before the logic of the waking world can dilute it. And then, I look at it.

At that moment, the line is just a point—a single dot on a blank page. But that dot is powerful because it’s unresolved. It isn’t a finished sentence; it’s a compass needle. It can lean in a dozen different directions.

Inventing the Context

Here is the secret that most people are too afraid to admit: I don’t always know what my own ideas mean at first.

When I look at that line, I’m not analysing it. I’m playing with it. I’m acting as an architect for an idea that has no home yet. If the line is strange or opaque, I have to work backward. I have to invent a context. I have to build a world around that fragment so that it finally makes sense.

This is the opposite of the “desk-bound” approach. Instead of starting with a rigid structure and trying to fill it, I start with a spark and wait to see what it sets on fire.

The Death of Failure

When you view creativity as a process of discovery—of waking up and following a thread—the fear of failure evaporates.

If I sit down to write a “perfect” piece of work and it doesn’t land, it feels like a failure. But if I wake up and write down a line, and then spend my day trying to figure out what that line could be, there is no such thing as failure.

If the direction I choose doesn’t quite fit, I simply change the context. If the concept doesn’t work, I turn the page. Every attempt is just another way of exploring the potential of that original point. It isn’t a mistake; it’s a draft. It’s an exploration. It’s the process of turning fog into solid ground.

Your Next Step

If you feel blocked, stop trying to force your brain to function like a machine at your desk. Let go of the need to have a “final plan” before you begin.

Start with a line. Don’t judge it. Don’t worry if it doesn’t make sense yet. Treat your idea like a point that can lean in any direction, and give yourself the freedom to invent the world that houses it.

After all, the most compelling stories aren’t the ones we plan—they’re the ones we discover by listening to the quiet fragments of our own minds.

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Day 148 – From a single spark

…

The Art of the Spark: Why Your Best Ideas Don’t Happen at a Desk

We are taught from a young age that productivity is a sedentary activity. We’re told to sit down, open the laptop, force a furrowed brow, and “get to work.” We treat creativity like a math equation: Inputs + Desk Time = Output.

But if you look at the creative process of the world’s most interesting thinkers, you’ll find a common truth: The best work rarely happens when you’re forcing it.

I don’t sit at my desk and think. That’s not how the magic works. For me, the process is far more ethereal, and infinitely more effective.

The Midnight Line

My creative process starts in the quiet, disjointed landscape of a dream. I wake up, often in the haze of the early morning, with a single line etched into my consciousness. It’s a fragment—a stray thought that feels like it carries the weight of a thousand words.

I write it down immediately, before the logic of the waking world can dilute it. And then, I look at it.

At that moment, the line is just a point—a single dot on a blank page. But that dot is powerful because it’s unresolved. It isn’t a finished sentence; it’s a compass needle. It can lean in a dozen different directions.

Inventing the Context

Here is the secret that most people are too afraid to admit: I don’t always know what my own ideas mean at first.

When I look at that line, I’m not analysing it. I’m playing with it. I’m acting as an architect for an idea that has no home yet. If the line is strange or opaque, I have to work backward. I have to invent a context. I have to build a world around that fragment so that it finally makes sense.

This is the opposite of the “desk-bound” approach. Instead of starting with a rigid structure and trying to fill it, I start with a spark and wait to see what it sets on fire.

The Death of Failure

When you view creativity as a process of discovery—of waking up and following a thread—the fear of failure evaporates.

If I sit down to write a “perfect” piece of work and it doesn’t land, it feels like a failure. But if I wake up and write down a line, and then spend my day trying to figure out what that line could be, there is no such thing as failure.

If the direction I choose doesn’t quite fit, I simply change the context. If the concept doesn’t work, I turn the page. Every attempt is just another way of exploring the potential of that original point. It isn’t a mistake; it’s a draft. It’s an exploration. It’s the process of turning fog into solid ground.

Your Next Step

If you feel blocked, stop trying to force your brain to function like a machine at your desk. Let go of the need to have a “final plan” before you begin.

Start with a line. Don’t judge it. Don’t worry if it doesn’t make sense yet. Treat your idea like a point that can lean in any direction, and give yourself the freedom to invent the world that houses it.

After all, the most compelling stories aren’t the ones we plan—they’re the ones we discover by listening to the quiet fragments of our own minds.

…

Day 146 – Writing exercise

After what happened, he knew that his first day at the post office was also going to be his last.

…

Of course, it depended on what your version of a post office was.

To most, it was a place where one went to buy stamps and put mail into collection boxes, and where letters and parcels arriving there were sorted and delivered.

To a select group of people, charged with protecting the country and its people from foreign intervention, a post office was something completely different.

It was a post where a selective group of experts worked, a team of operatives, their handler, the researchers, the briefer, the supply chain.

Those posts were called post offices and their employees were postal workers.

We had post offices all over the world, though it would be true to say that when overseas, they were part of the embassy or consulate.

We coexisted with other services, those more well-known and had a much higher profile.

It was the perfect cover, because anyone clever enough to hack into the post office computer servers would find we were all simply ordinary people.

Who did extraordinary things.

Sometimes.

….

As the officer at the training establishment said when we were given a departing lecture before getting our first assignments, we put the secret into a secret agent.

Most of us thought that was amusing, being only ten out of the two hundred that applied.  I had only applied as a joke, after spending two years roaming Europe after graduating from University.

I didn’t want to become a lawyer, and had fought the family tradition as long as I’d could until succumbing to pressure.  Like father, like son, like his father before him.

It was more about power and wealth, two things I was not interested in.  Call it rebellion, but unlike my brothers and sisters, I did not like the life that it afforded us.  Perhaps once, but once you mingle with the less fortunate, you get to see the world as it really is.

It was something my gather couldn’t understand.

So, according to my parents, I went off the rails.  I became the black sheep, the one everyone has; the others turned out just fine, thank you.

I saw them once before I finally disappeared, when they were in Paris at the apartment that my paternal grandmother had bequeathed to my father.

She had died the week before, and I made the effort to go to her funeral.  She had understood my disdain, though she did not understand why I stayed away.

I meant to stay out of sight, but my sister, Eileen, had seen me standing back from the others and came over, at first not recognising me.

She was not as bad as my brothers, had her moments of both acquiescence and rebellion, but had settled down to follow tradition.

I had expressed disappointment and our last words were harsh.

I watched her come over, trying to figure out who would turn up at a funeral and not want to be seen.

It was cold, but it was not why a shiver went down my spine.  Fear?  Maybe, but I just saw my father, and that brought back a far worse memory.

“Do I know you?” She asked.

“Does it matter?”

Then her expression changed.  Recognition.  We could change our appearance, sometimes radically, but not our eyes or voices.  Especially in a moment where we forget we’re playing a role.

“Gerry?”

I sighed.  “Don’t tell the rest of them I was here.  They wouldn’t understand.”

“And i would?”  There was a touch of anger in her tone, not surprising.  “Where have you been?”

“Bumming around Europe.  You know,  I sent postcards.”

To her, no one else.  Whether she kept them or tossed them in the bin was of no consequence.

“Yes.  When you felt like it.  Are you coming home?”

“No.”

“You going to see the others?”

The thought had crossed my mind until I remembered the last argument with both my parents.  I had expected some support from my mother, but she just agreed with my father.  It was the deciding factor in leaving.

“No.  I got sick of the same old arguments.  Dad cut me off, so I learned to fly on my own.  It’s a whole different world out there.”

“You’d cut your nose off to spite your face, Gerry.  You finished your law degree, then wasted it.”

That was my father speaking.  She had a mind of her own.  Once.  Now she had folded perfectly into the family mould.

“Law is boring.  Working for my father would be even more so.  We both know his attentions are firmly focused on the prodigal son, James.  The rest are just pawns to be manipulated.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.”

I shook my head.  She would, like the others, never understand.

“So what are you going to do?”

“Diplomacy with the state department.”  It was the go-to explanation of our lives to anyone we used to know.  “I get my first posting in a few days.  It’ll probably be somewhere in Africa, knowing my luck.”

She looked me up and down, and I suspect she didn’t believe a word I was telling her.  She was the only one who could tell when I was lying, though I was a lot better at it now than back then.

“So, this is it, and you’re off again.”

“I’m the black sheep, Sis.  The stain on the family name.  I think I have reached Uncle Harry’s level of infamy.”

“So that’s what Dad was going on about.  The one in every generation.  Wow.  Despite the fact you’re nothing like him.”  Then she rounded on me.  “Unless you are.  What’s really going on with you?”

I could imagine my father filling her head with nonsense.

“I simply chose a different vocation.  See the world, help solve crises before they become crises, not help criminals get away with murder.  I’m sorry if I have a conscience, and it doesn’t suit family values.  I think I’ve seen and heard enough, Eileen.  Tell them you saw me or not, I don’t care.”

It was foolish of me to think they might have changed.  They had not.  If anything, my father had succeeded in turning my siblings against me, and if that was the case, so be it.

It made it easy for me to just walk away and never see them again.

…

I was sent to Rome for my first posting.  In the briefing with the assignments officer, I was told that the handler, Jacob Weissman, was old school, a man who had a particular way of doing things, and he expected obedience.  He was also in the last year before retirement.

It was also the office with the highest turnover of agents.  The incentive to go there was that if I lasted the distance, I would be considered for a leadership role.

It wasn’t particularly high on my list of priorities; I was more interested in getting experience in the field first, and that generally took five years at least.  If you survived.

I flew to Rome on a Wednesday and was due in the office on Thursday.  I’d been to Italy and Rome before, post graduation and didn’t like it, instead staying in Florence, and getting lost in the ancient history.

The Rome post office was in a back street, cobbled roadway and ancient bricks, making the inside very cool compared to the heat outside.

There was a man in a suit sitting at a desk with a computer and, no doubt, a gun ready to shoot anyone who looked like trouble.

I gave him my letter of introduction, which was specially coded and verified by fingerprint.

He gave me a temporary pass that got me into the main office, where I was met by the administrative officer and taken to the situation room.  There, the panel was waiting.

Jacob Weissman, handler and Head of Station.

Rebecca Abernathy, Administrative Officer.

Julie Grassmier, Operations Manager.

Bethany Myers and Jack Blumenthal, the research team.

Five on one side of the table and me on the other, just like my university admissions interview.  Not a welcoming smile among them.  I had expected one or more agents to be in attendance.

Jacob opened the file he had in front of him.  It was thin, with plenty of room for additions.  It held the documents from the training camp.

“Gerald Walker.  Any relation to the Pittsburgh Walkers?”

There would be nothing about any relation to anyone in the file. The interview at the training camp made the same association, which I denied.  Different branch, distant relatives, we didn’t associate with them for obvious reasons

“We have the same surname.”

“Not the answer to the question I asked.”

I could see that Jacob and I were not going to get along.

“No.  No relation.”

I looked at the five faces in front of me, and not one was friendly.  I could see why there was such a large turnaround of agents, and how easy it could be that the first day could be the last.

Jacob looked especially unwelcoming.

“We do things differently.  We do not usually take new recruits out of the Academy, but we’re a man down and apparently you’re it.  We do not like mavericks or loners.  You will proceed to the brief.”

“As you wish.  What about liaising with the local authorities?’

“If you come in contact with them, which you should assiduously avoid at all costs, then you will come to me, and I will handle it.”

“Do they know about us?”

“They do nothing unless it is necessary.  You are expected not to put yourself in their way.  They take a very dim view of us working on their patch, so discretion is necessary.”

“Is there an assignment?”

“One is in development.  Get acquainted with Rome while you can.”

The folder closed, the interview, introduction, whatever it was, was over.  My only impression from it, Jacob was a micro-manager, and it was going to be impossible to work with.

…

From what I remember of my last visit to Rome, it had a lot of ancient sites, and we had made a point of visiting most of them.

It was a period when my sister had decided she was going to study archaeology and that her father would be happy to sponsor a dig somewhere in Egypt or Italy, preferably near the Mediterranean, so she could stay on a yacht.

Her father wasn’t particularly pleased, humoured her and like everything she did, it lasted a month or two; then he declared it boring and moved on.

She still stayed on the yacht for a few weeks with her suitably impressed friends.

I wasn’t that interested then, but this time I bought a guidebook and decided to go full on tourist.

That first day I visited the Colosseum and tried to imagine what it was like back in the days of ancient Rome and the people who had graced the seats looking down on the carnage that was supposed to be ‘games’.

Like throwing Christians to the lions.

Like Gladiators fighting to the death.

Like accidentally noticing a particular woman who was following me, or perhaps it was my overactive imagination.

It felt like the home team were putting me through a few exercises to see if they hadn’t made a mistake putting me in the field.

So the watcher became the watched.

I considered the odds of anyone even knowing that I was in Rime, and if they did, why I was there.  Unless it was mandatory for all staff passing through the embassy. An exercise to keep us on our toes.

I saw her five times, one actually looking in my direction.  She did not appear to be with anyone else, but good surveillance required more than one person and preferably a four-man rotating squad.

I moved to the city ruins not far from the Colosseum, and it appeared she had not followed me.

The next day, I visited the Trevi Fountain, and while sitting back having a cup of coffee, I found her, trying a different disguise but nonetheless easily identified to the trained eye.

She was definitely following me around.

Having planned to visit and got a ticket for the Parthenon, I took my time before heading to it in an annoyingly slow stroll that made it difficult for surveillance. 

Once outside, I waited for my moment, dodged her and went inside.  As soon as she couldn’t see me, I knew she’d follow me in.

Inside, there was nowhere to hide, so I took up a posting by some columns not far from the entrance.  Of course, my interest was not entirely taken up with the surveillance team; right now, it was in the large concrete dome that had been standing for a very long time.

Certainly a lot longer than our man-made structures.

I watched her do a circuit of the main hall and end up standing next to me.  Was it a deliberate move to unsettle me, or something else?

She knew that I knew she was following me.

That meant, as far as I could tell, she was one of the Italian police forces, the plain clothes suggesting a branch of the Carabinieri.

She looked sideways at me and had a half smile.  “You are a very interesting man, Gerard Walker.”

I shrugged.  It was a bit late to play the confused or apprehensive tourist card.  “You have me at a disadvantage.”

“As it should be.  Your handler, for want of a better description, knows the rules and yet he continually breaks them.  That would indicate he has not told you the ground rules for operating in this country.”

“Probably not, but I  have specific instructions from the people back home, which I’m sure you are aware of, of which I promised to observe “

The smile widened.  “Words, Gerald Walker, words you believe I, and my superiors want to hear.  Your predecessors went down the same path, and they did not fare well.”  She handed me a card.  “Before you launch World War Three, give me a call, and time, day or night.  You will find that cooperation with the appropriate authorities will make life for you much simpler and safer.  My compatriots sometimes shoot first, then ask questions.  Have a nice tour.”

“You should be my guide “

“I have criminals to catch and watch over errant spies.  Never a free moment.”  She sighed, then left.

To be honest, for a moment, I believed she was trouble, whether working for Italian law enforcement or not.

How could she possibly know I was in the city and what I would be doing there, unless…

Someone in the embassy told her.

Or she had more on the inside, reporting everything.  If it was, my money was on Jacob, trying to boost his retirement fund before leaving.

Working with local authorities was always part of the transparency catchphrase people like you think was a manageable option, but it wasn’t.  There were things that no one needed to know beyond the objective being achieved.  The how was almost always by any and all means available.

Using the phrase kill or be killed always seemed unpalatable, and no one, if they were not personally faced with a life or death situation, would ever understand.  I hadn’t yet, but the point was, until you are, taking a life was never a good idea.

It was described to us as the worst-case scenario.

Another was having your cover blown

Effectively, the moment she approached me, my usefulness was over.  Clandestine operations only worked if you remained clandestine.  That she and her whole department knew meant I should report it and ask for reassignment.

I had to consider that it was Jacob’s intent all along, not only for me but also for others in his group.  The question to ask was why?

…

I doubt officers back in the training establishment ever expected to hear from their graduates again, unless sent back to hone their skills or learn new skills and techniques.

I was determined to break that mould.  The problem I had was being caught out before I started.  I was not sure that had happened before, or if it had, whether it was significant, or a stain on my record.

I called a number for emergencies only.

And left a message.  Typically, there was no one on the other end.  After an hour had passed, I believed that no one really cared, that this was a test, and I was failing miserably.

Two hours later, my cell phone rang.  I was sitting in a park watching the rest of the work
I’d been getting on with their lives, and I was beginning to believe this was not what I expected or wanted.

What had happened to the other candidates before me who had found themselves in a sticky situation?

I answered with a noncommittal, “Yes?” As per protocol.

“Your mission, in case you haven’t worked it out by this time, is to find who it is that is betraying our agents to the local authorities.”

“That wasn’t explicitly expressed.”

“You have to read between the lines.  If you hadn’t come to a similar conclusion, you would not have called.  We have lost three agents in the last 12 months.  Find them.”

“The leak is not at your end?”

“No.  Handle it any way you see fit, but it stops now.  Understood?”

“Understood.”

I felt rather than saw a person sit on the other end of the bench, odd, because there were several free nearby.

A glance took in the woman who had accosted me earlier.

“No criminals to be chasing down?”

“Only errant spies.  I believe you made a call.”

I tried not to look shocked, but I was not that clever yet.

“How…”

“I’m paid to know everything, yet surprisingly often still left in the dark.  My superiors must thing is need to know, and I need to know.  You and I, I’m told, are about to become good friends.  We are seeking the same person.”

“Who are you?”

She smiled.  “I believe I am what you might call the Cheshire Cat.  She looked over at another bench where a man was sitting.

He wore a trenchcoat, smoking a pipe and reading, or pretending to read, a newspaper.

“Go over to the conspicuous man on that bench, and he will verify who I am, and give the code word your masters gave you back home.  I’ll wait.”

This was like a bad 1960s spy movie.

I shrugged.  It was either going to be an interesting assignment, or my life was over before it started.  Either way, at least I got to see the Ancient Roman Ruins.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026