More about my second novel

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Zoe is now painfully reminded why she did not get involved with other people, why it was better to be responsible only for herself.  It was easy, perhaps to blame John for making his own problems by not heeding her advice, but, just the same, she felt a small shred of responsibility for his current situation.

After learning that John has been kidnapped by Olga, Zoe first goes to see an old colleague, and Yuri’s friend, Dominica to interrogate her, then meets up with Yuri, and it does not end well for one of them.  After telling her he’s the elusive Romanov, Yuri informs her of the fact that Olga has taken John and that Worthington is about to use John’s mother as leverage against her.

Not knowing immediately where Olga is, but believing she will not kill him because Zoe will come to her, she detours to take care of Worthington, having finally realised why he was searching for her.  In another of her many disguises, room service visits his room, and Worthington gets more than dinner served up to him.

Of course, Yuri lies. He is not Romanov, and Romanov is not trying to kill her, but find her.

Who is she? Well, you’ll have to read the book to find out.

And, as for Olga, well, hell hath no fury than a woman avenging a woman avenging her son!

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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.

…

Day 149 – What really is writer’s block

…

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.

…

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.

…

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.

…