Some days, I sit down to write and immediately feel like an imposter.
I stare at the blinking cursor like it personally wronged me. I reread old sentences and cringe so hard my soul could leave my body. I question every idea, every plotline, every paragraph break. And that’s before I even write anything new.
On those days, I don’t feel like a writer.
But I write anyway.
Here’s how.
1. I Lower the Stakes (Like, Way Down)
I give myself permission to write garbage. It can be crap, it can be chaos. The only rule is that words must leave my brain and hit the page. They don’t have to be good. They don’t have to make sense. They just have to exist.
Sometimes I open a blank doc and name it something like “weird mess 27.” It helps.
2. I Start With a Thought, Not a Goal
Instead of aiming to write a scene or finish a chapter, I just write down what I’m thinking.
“I’m tired. I don’t want to write. This character feels flat. I kind of want cake.”
Yeah, maybe it leads to my character actually craving cake, but that’s it. That’s the start. And sometimes, a real sentence sneaks in after that. Then another. Then it’s writing. I can always edit it afterwards (but let’s not even think about editing right now, because that opens up a whole other can of pressure worms).
3. I Pretend No One’s Going to Read It (Because They’re Not—Yet)
When I don’t feel like a writer, I stop trying to write like one. I write like I’m venting. Like I’m journaling. Like I’m texting my future self who’ll hopefully fix this mess later. (“hi, jac! don’t forget Main’s got a hell of a goatee, we gotta come back and describe this magnificent beauty whenever you feel like describing someone’s facial hair. ugh.”)
Anyway.
I’ve gotta let it be bad. I stop chasing brilliance and start chasing done.
Because spoiler: no one’s reading this draft. Not yet. Maybe never! And that’s incredibly freeing.
So I write like no one’s watching—because they aren’t. And that usually gets me unstuck faster than pretending I’m some tortured literary genius with a perfectly curated writing routine. I’m just me. With a cake (I gave in). Typing stuff.
4. I Switch Tools
If my usual doc feels stale, I move to something new:
- A fresh Google Doc
- A different font (Google’s ‘Lora’ always saves me. For a while, anyway.)
- A different writing app, like Pages or even the Notes app
Sometimes the tool is the problem, not the writer. Or so I’d like to believe. (Let me believe.)
5. I Remember: Feeling Like a Writer Is a Lie
(…and honestly, so is the idea that thinking about writing doesn’t count—I went on a whole tangent about that here.)
There’s no ceremony where someone hands you a scroll and says, “You did it. You’re officially A Writer.” Most of us are just people with stories and a deep urge to say something—whether it’s beautiful, messy, barely edited. We just can’t keep ourselves away from a page. (Maybe this is an addiction.)
But if you write? You’re a writer.
Even if you feel like a gremlin pretending to be a human pretending to be a writer.
Especially if you feel like a gremlin.
Panicked halfway through. Published anyway.
—me, definitely a gremlin tho
