There comes a point — usually somewhere between draft number three and “why am I doing this to myself?” — when writing stops feeling like magic and starts feeling like dragging a reluctant elephant up a hill. You sit down, open the document, and instead of words flowing like a river, you get… a trickle. A stubborn, reluctant, slightly muddy trickle.
And then the whisper arrives:
“Maybe I’m just tired of this.”
If that’s you, take a deep breath. You’re not broken. You’re not a fraud. You’re not “done” as a writer.
You’re just… tired.
And there are ways back from here.
I’ve been a professional author for over twenty years. I’ve written through family crises, heartbreak, financial panic, and the occasional existential meltdown. I’ve also written through the ordinary exhaustion that comes from showing up again and again to shape stories out of thin air. And I’ve learned this:
Creativity isn’t a machine. It’s a living, breathing thing — and sometimes, it needs care rather than pressure.
So let’s talk honestly about how to write when you’re tired of writing — and how to fall in love with it again.
First: It’s Okay To Admit You’re Burnt Out
Writers are excellent at two things:
- Making up stories
- Pretending we’re fine while quietly falling apart
We tell ourselves creative martyrdom is noble — that “real writers” grind relentlessly. But writing while exhausted is like trying to cook a gourmet meal with no ingredients and an unplugged oven. You’re only going to scorch something.
So before we get practical, ask yourself — gently:
Am I tired because I’ve been working hard?
Or am I tired because I’ve been fighting myself?
There’s a difference between healthy effort and creative self-punishment. Naming the fatigue is the first kindness you can offer yourself.
Why Writers Burn Out (Even When We Love Writing)
Burnout doesn’t arrive in a dramatic cloak. It sneaks in with reasons that feel sensible at the time:
- Too much output, not enough filling the well
You write constantly, but you rarely read, rest, or daydream. - Perfectionism dressed up as “high standards”
Every sentence must be flawless the first time.
(Spoiler: it won’t be.) - Chasing validation instead of truth
When likes, reviews, or sales become the point — writing becomes pressure, not play. - Life. Just… life.
Jobs. Kids. Stress. Health. Sleep. Relationships.
You are not a brain in a jar — your real world affects your creative world.
Once you understand why your spark dimmed, you can learn how to protect it — and how to relight it.
Step One: Lower the Bar (No, Lower Than That)
When you’re tired of writing, “just write 2,000 words” is the least helpful advice on earth.
So we’re going to do the opposite.
Shrink the task until it feels almost silly.
- 10 minutes.
- 100 words.
- One paragraph.
Think of it like coaxing a shy cat out from under the bed. You don’t clap your hands and yell, “WRITE A MASTERPIECE.” You sit nearby. You soften. You let the story remember you’re safe.
Here’s a powerful reframing:
You’re not writing a book today.
You’re just showing up for the story.
Consistency matters — but compassion matters more.
Step Two: Reignite Curiosity Instead of Productivity
Exhaustion often comes from turning writing into a job description rather than a playground.
Try this question:
“What do I actually find interesting right now?”
Not what you think you should write.
Not what would impress anyone.
Just… what sparks a little “ooh” in your brain?
Maybe it’s:
- A character who lies for noble reasons
- A haunted house that refuses to be haunted
- An apprentice villain who’s secretly bad at being bad
Follow the thread — even if it doesn’t “fit” your current project. Curiosity is oxygen for creativity. Let yourself breathe.
Step Three: Fall Back in Love With Reading
When I’m tired of writing, I read.
Not to study.
Not to analyse structure.
Not to beat myself up because someone else is “better.”
Just to enjoy language again.
Pick books that feel like comfort food or delicious surprises — stories that remind you why you wanted to do this in the first place. Reading restores rhythm, voice, and wonder. It fills the well you’ve been drawing from.
And sometimes the spark returns not at the keyboard, but in that quiet, joyful moment where you think:
“Oh. Stories still matter to me.”
Step Four: Change Your Writing Environment
Your brain links places with emotional states. If you’ve been staring at the same tired wall while forcing chapters, your creativity now associates that desk with stress.
So change it up.
- Write in a café where the hum of life might energise you
- Sit in the garden and let your thoughts expand
- Try pen and paper — slow, tactile, forgiving
- Dictate ideas while walking
Movement breaks patterns. New environments whisper new possibilities.
Step Five: Rediscover Play
Here’s an experiment I love giving my coaching clients:
Write something intentionally terrible.
Not just messy — gloriously, laughably awful.
Why? Because perfectionism is the enemy of joy. When you remove the pressure to be good, your imagination loosens its shoulders and starts dancing again.
Write:
- An over-dramatic soap opera scene
- An argument between two kitchen appliances
- A villain complaining about poor working conditions
You’ll laugh. You’ll relax. And, like a shy cat again, your creative voice will creep back toward you.
Step Six: Make Micro-Promises to Yourself
Large goals feel heavy when you’re exhausted. So we move to micro-promises — tiny commitments you can keep even on rough days.
Instead of:
“I’ll write a chapter every day.”
Try:
“I’ll open my document and write one sentence.”
Seriously. One.
What happens next is magic. Momentum builds not from pressure, but from showing up and keeping promises to yourself. Trust grows. Resistance softens.
And on the days when one sentence is truly all you manage?
You still win. Because you stayed in relationship with your writing.
Step Seven: Talk Kindly To Yourself (Yes, Out Loud If Needed)
Writers can be brutal self-critics. We’d never speak to a friend the way we speak to ourselves.
So here’s a practice:
When you catch the inner critic saying things like:
- “You’re washed up.”
- “Real writers don’t struggle.”
- “You’ll never finish.”
Respond — gently but firmly — like a mentor would.
- “I’m allowed to be tired.”
- “Struggle is part of the process, not proof I’m failing.”
- “I don’t have to do everything today.”
You cannot bully yourself back into creativity. You can only invite yourself back.
Step Eight: Let Life Back Into Your Writing
Sometimes burnout happens because our world shrinks to the size of a screen.
So live a little. Reconnect with the part of you that experiences life, not just narrates it.
- Go somewhere you’ve never been
- Listen to different music
- Talk to people whose stories surprise you
- Try a new hobby
- Notice the textures, smells, colours of your day
Stories grow from experience, not isolation. Refilling your life refills your writing.
Step Nine: Ask — What Do I Need Right Now?
Not what does the book need?
Not what does the market want?
Not what will impress anyone?
You.
Do you need rest?
Structure?
Inspiration?
A deadline?
Freedom?
Community?
Silence?
Exhaustion often comes from ignoring your own needs in service of the work. But you are not a machine attached to a keyboard. You are a human being who writes — and your wellbeing matters.
Step Ten: Remember — This Is A Season, Not A Verdict
Creative fatigue feels permanent when you’re in it. But it isn’t.
There will be days — I promise you — when you’ll write a sentence that makes something inside you lift again. When a character surprises you. When you laugh at your own dialogue. When you realise you’ve been typing for an hour and didn’t notice the time pass.
Your spark isn’t gone. It’s resting.
And rest is not failure.
Rest is part of the rhythm.
A Gentle Plan For Rekindling Your Spark
If you like something practical to hold onto, here’s a soft structure you can use for the next two weeks:
Day 1–3 — Rest & Refill
- Read for pleasure
- Walk or move your body
- Journal how you’re feeling (no judgement)
Day 4–7 — Tiny Re-entries
- 10 minutes writing max
- Keep it playful or exploratory
- Celebrate any progress — truly
Day 8–14 — Rebuilding Momentum
- Increase to 20–30 minutes
- Revisit your main project gently
- End each session before you’re drained
Slow. Kind. Sustainable.
That’s the path back.
You’re Still A Writer — Even When You’re Tired
One last truth before we finish.
You don’t stop being a writer because your words slow down. Writing isn’t measured in daily word count, social metrics, or public recognition. It’s a relationship — between you and the stories you care about.
Sometimes that relationship needs space.
Sometimes it needs tenderness.
Sometimes it needs silliness.
But it’s still there.
So if you’re tired right now, be gentle with yourself. Lower the bar. Play. Read. Rest. Show up in the smallest, kindest way you can.
Your spark is waiting for you — and when it returns, it will burn warmer, steadier, and truer than before.
And I’ll be here cheering you on.
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