Write Ugly

Imagine a plumber standing in your kitchen, scratching their head and mumbling: “Sorry, I’ve got plumber’s block.” You’d laugh. Or panic. Either way, they’d be out of a job.

Now imagine telling your friends you’re suffering from writer’s block. Nobody blinks. In fact, they nod sagely and offer sympathy—as if you’d just been diagnosed with some rare creative paralysis.

But I’ve got news for you Brothers and Sisters: writer’s block is a myth. It’s a ghost. A bedtime story for procrastinators.

I was listening to Seth Godin on the Bob Lefsetz Podcast and he came up with this: “Writer’s block is imaginary.”

And he’s right.

Godin’s not the first to say this, but he says it with such clarity, that if you’ve ever announced to the world that this is what you have, it should sting like vinegar in your eye. He calls writer’s block a "made-up malady"—something invented to give creative people an excuse to stop doing the work the moment it gets uncomfortable.

This is not a neurological condition. Nobody ever got delivery driver’s block or wrestler’s block. When things get tough in those jobs, you dig in. You keep moving. You figure it out because you have to.

But we—those of us who write—have somehow agreed that it’s noble to suffer. That it’s artistic to wait for the muse. To stare out the window and say, “I’m blocked.” (Well, you might have, but I never have because I was raised on pulp).

Blocked by what? Fear, mostly I would guess. Fear of being crap. Fear of not living up to our own taste. Fear of being ignored, or worse—noticed.

But honestly, it’s just a story you tell yourself to avoid the truth. Warren Ellis said it best with these words of wisdom:

“Writer’s block? I’ve heard of this. This is when a writer cannot write, yes? Then that person isn’t a writer anymore. The job is getting up in the fucking morning and writing for a living.”

Godin has another line: “Nobody ever gets talker’s block.”

Think about it. You don’t freeze up when chatting about your dog. You don’t wait for divine inspiration to talk about how shitty the weather is. You just talk.

And the more you talk, the more you figure out what you actually mean.

Writing should be the same. Write pages of crap if you have to until you write well. You get it down, even if it’s junk. Especially if it’s junk. Because that junk is compost—it turns into something better only after it exists.

But you can’t edit a blank page. You can’t revise an idea that lives only in your head. You have to get it out.

And hey, sometimes, junk isn’t junk at all. Sometimes it’s how you actually write when you don’t think you have to impress anybody.

What If You Just Stopped Believing in It?

What if you simply stopped believing in writer’s block? Like you’d stop believing in Santa after catching your dad stuffing presents under the tree. You don’t need therapy—you just see the trick and move on. The next time you say you’re blocked, try asking: “Blocked from what?” Then write whatever comes up. Even if it’s just:

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“This is pointless.”
“Why is my coffee already cold?”

Guess what? You’re writing. That’s it. That’s the game. You don’t forget how to drive your car every time you get in it and writing is exactly the same. Ellis was bang on the money: when a writer can’t write, they’re not a writer anymore.

I probably like the tough love concept more than I should…

There’s nothing stopping you but fear and expectations. Shed them. Get ugly. Write the worst thing you’ve written all year—just to get the wheels turning again.

Because at the end of the day, the cure for imaginary writer’s block is painfully simple:

Write like nobody’s watching. Then hit publish anyway.

I’m not alone in thinking this. Terry Pratchett had this to offer: “There’s no such thing as writer’s block. That was invented by people in California who couldn’t write.”

My old buddy Bukowski piled on": “Writing about a writer’s block is better than not writing at all.”

So write ugly.

And then keep writing.