Procrastination: Why Writers Self-Sabotage

You’ve made your plan. Scheduled your writing time. Brewed the coffee. You know exactly what scene you’re supposed to write today.

And then… nothing.

My current work-in-progress had started to sprawl. The kind of slow, aimless sprawl that kills interest fast. I paused, listed the key scenes, and sat down to write. But the new scene would shift the story’s direction. It didn’t derail it, exactly, but I had to refocus on what really mattered.

I didn’t have the answers yet, so I started doing… other things. Not writing.

Days passed. I wrote a couple of paragraphs, but kept rewriting and tweaking them. Meanwhile, I cranked out 1700 words about magical artifacts. Interesting, but not actual progress.

I knew what was happening: procrastination. Again.

What finally helped? Accountability. I belong to a weekly writing goals group. One I founded decades ago. Each Monday, we check in, and knowing I had to report in snapped me out of it.

I finally wrote the scene and finished it late Sunday night, and I was happy with it.

Too bad I didn’t start sooner. I might’ve written three scenes instead of one.

What Self-Sabotage Looks Like

Self-sabotage often feels like productivity, until you realize you’ve been orbiting the work, not doing it. Here are five common traps:

1. Perfectionism Disguised as Productivity

You want the opening paragraph to sing, so you rewrite it 12 times… and never move on.

Author Nora Roberts states the folly of this practice best. “You can fix anything but a blank page.”

Instead of getting caught in the rewrite loop, try this approach: Write first, edit later. Use brackets or comments to flag what you’ll clean up later.

In a nutshell: Draft first, edit second—no rewrites mid-stream.

2. The “Research” Rabbit Hole

One quick Google search turns into a deep dive on Shoshone beadwork. (That’s where my 1700 words of artifact notes came from as I orbited the writing I should’ve been doing.)

Try this: Use a placeholder in your draft like [Research later] and keep writing. You can fill in the facts and details when you have a draft to work with.

3. Impostor Syndrome

“Who am I to write this?”
“This story’s been done before.”
“I’m not a real writer.”

That voice isn’t the truth; it’s fear pretending to be helpful.

A 2020 study in The Journal of General Internal Medicine found that up to 82% of people experience impostor syndrome, especially high achievers.

Remind yourself: No one else can write your version of this story.

4. Fear of Success

You’re getting closer to finishing, but suddenly, you stall. Because what happens when someone reads it?

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.” – Marianne Williamson. Her quote suggests our real fear is the magnitude of our own potential. True power comes with responsibility, and that can be intimidating. Embracing our strengths means stepping up, being seen, and making an impact, something many of us quietly resist. This quote is a call to stop playing small and to recognize that when we fully own our abilities, we inspire others to do the same.

Try this: Notice when you slow down. Ask yourself what feels threatening about succeeding?

5. Procrastination Masquerading as Planning

Worldbuilding, outlines, beat sheets, etc. are all good things. But if you’re still planning after six weeks and haven’t drafted a scene, it might be fear in disguise.

Try this: Set a hard “start writing” deadline. Plan, then commit to draft, even if it’s messy.

Why We Do It: The Psychology Behind the Freeze

Self-sabotage isn’t laziness. It’s a safety response.

Creative work is emotionally risky. I’ll never forget the first time I shared a chapter from my book The Inheritance with a critique group. It was my first work of fiction and it felt like handing over a piece of my soul.

When your brain senses that kind of vulnerability, it often defaults to avoidance.

Reorganizing your desk? Safer than facing judgment.
Rewriting instead of drafting? Safer than finishing.

Here’s what’s going on beneath the freeze:

·       Writing Is Vulnerable

You’re exposing your thoughts, voice, and imagination. Of course it feels risky and your brain treats it like danger.

·       The Brain Prefers Comfort, Not Growth

Creativity brings uncertainty. And the brain hates uncertainty. So it nudges you toward safer activities, even chores.

·       Perfectionism Is a Form of Control

If you don’t finish, you can’t be judged. If you’re always “almost there,” you never risk failure. But you also never grow.

How to Write Anyway: Practical Tools

You don’t need to out-muscle your inner critic. You just need a few smart ways to keep moving:

·       Write a Bad First Sentence on Purpose

Start ugly. Intentionally. Even if it’s, “This is a terrible opening sentence.”
Now you’ve started.

·       Time-Limited Sessions

Set a timer: 20 minutes of writing ugly. You can survive that, and often, you’ll want to keep going. (I’ve used this exercise for decades and it works really well for me).

·       Create a Ritual, Not a Goal

Light a candle. Play a specific playlist. When you focus on showing up instead of output, pressure fades and consistency grows.

·       Talk to Your Inner Critic Like a Character

Give your critic a name, a weird voice, an identity. Mine’s part snooty editor, part gremlin. Naming it helps tame it. (I’m still working on a name so she’s not tamed yet. I’m currently calling her Grimelda Crabb.)

·       Reward the Behavior, Not the Result

Celebrate writing, not just word count. Five minutes of writing = five minutes of music, chocolate, or playing your favorite game.

Writing Isn’t Just About Finishing Stories

Writing isn’t just about finishing stories, articles, etc. It’s about learning to keep going, even when fear shows up wearing a clever disguise.

Self-sabotage is tricky. But now? So are you.

Burnout Isn’t Just “Being Tired”

Are you running on caffeine and willpower, pushing to meet deadlines while your to-do list only grows? You finally sit down to write, but your mind stalls, not from lack of ideas, but from sheer exhaustion.

Burnout is more than being tired. It creeps in when your schedule is packed, your energy is depleted, and you don’t feel you have the time to rest. It’s what happens when the passion for writing collides with pressure, and taking time to rest feels like something you haven’t earned. Writers often believe every spare moment should be spent writing, but creativity can’t thrive without space to breathe.

If your joy is gone and writing feels like an obligation, you’re not alone. Burnout is real. It isn’t due to laziness. It’s depletion, and it’s common among writers. The good news is, there are ways to come back from it.

What Causes Writer Burnout?

Burnout doesn’t just show up out of the blue. It builds slowly, fed by our habits and the pressures that deplete our creative energy. Here are some common causes:

  • Constant pressure
    Things that rule the writer’s life, like tight deadlines, word count goals, and pressure to maintain a social media presence, can turn writing into a duty rather than a passion.
  • Creative perfectionism
    That inner critic convinces us that our writing isn’t good enough. That thinking can halt progress and drain the joy from the writing process.
  • Seclusion
    Most writers work alone. Without regular connection or feedback, stress compounds and motivation dwindles.
  • Always on mentality
    When writing reaches into every part of life, it’s hard to switch off. Without clear boundaries, you can end up feeling you haven’t earned a rest or that the task is impossible with all that needs doing.
  • Lack of tangible results
    Writers don’t get much immediate recognition or income, which can be disheartening and make it hard to keep going.

Burnout is like a signpost that reads: We need a new approach. Don’t think of it as a sign of weakness, but realize it is an indicator to shift how you’re working, not why you’re writing.

How to Fight Burnout Without Quitting Writing

So something needs to change. Let’s focus on that. Here are a few ways to reconnect with your writing without walking away from it.

Adopt Slow Writing

  • Set lower daily word counts
    Lower expectations help reduce pressure. Even 200–500 words a day is progress as you recuperate.
  • Focus on quality
    At times, it can be easy to focus on word count, but in the end, you have a slew of words but not much you can use. This only adds to the problem. As you slow down, allow depth and clarity to matter more than output.
  • Try writing sprints (and stop before you’re drained)
    Short bursts of creativity can often be more productive than long, exhausting sessions. I used this idea while working on my novel, The Inheritance. At the time, I was working full time and caring for family obligations. I set a cooking timer for 20 minutes. It felt freeing to write in sprints. I didn’t feel obligated to reach any other goal but 20 minutes. When the timer rang, I was often surprised by what I had accomplished. It was energizing.

It’s okay to write less. It relieves pressure but still allows you to make progress. What matters is writing consistently with manageable endurance.

Make Rest Part of Your Schedule

  • Schedule downtime like you schedule writing
    Rest is one of your strongest weapons against burnout. Look at it as fuel needed to reignite your creative energy. According to OSHA, taking breaks can improve performance.
  • Incorporate non-writing creative outlets
    Painting, music, photography, and even walking can restore creative energy. For me, early morning walks take me away from the screen and let my mind wander naturally, connecting thoughts and thinking things through before I sit down to write.

Create Connections

  • Join a writing group or community
    Sharing your wins, struggles, and receiving and giving feedback can relieve that feeling of isolation. It can help to connect with others in the writing community.
  • Talk about burnout openly
    Talking openly with others helps reduce shame and builds support.
  • Co-write or sprint with others
    Even virtual sessions with other writers can offer camaraderie and accountability. I belong to a writing accountability group. We share our goals and accomplishments each Monday. It’s a great place to connect with others, vent, share struggles, and even share ideas and advice.

Redefine Success

  • Track and celebrate your accomplishments

It’s easy to feel like you’re not doing enough, especially when your goals are ambitious and your to-do list never ends. I often catch myself feeling behind, even when I’ve made real progress. But when I check in with my accountability group and look back over a week or a month, the reality doesn’t match the feeling. I’ve usually done far more than I gave myself credit for.

Finished a scene? Revised a chapter? Hit a small milestone? That all counts. Tracking your progress gives you a more honest view, and celebrating those wins, no matter how small, helps rebuild momentum.

  • Let go of perfectionism
    We need to remember that progress is success. A rough draft is better than a blank page. This is how I’ve been approaching my latest WIP.
  • Adjust expectations
    Not every writing season will be productive, and that’s okay. We need to remain flexible as we navigate life.

Set Boundaries Around Your Writing Life

Create a work schedule that works for you. This structure sets up boundaries with fixed work hours.

  • Designate writing hours and non-writing hours
    This is something I’ve had to learn the hard way. Instead of feeling like I must write every free minute, I’ve come to embrace time off. Doing this gives your brain space to rest and reset.
  • Create physical or mental ‘off switches’
    These are things that help separate writing from everything else. Like me, it can be going for a walk. Others I know have a separate office space, and when they are not in that space, they are not at work.

The bottom line: Burnout doesn’t mean you’re broken or a failure. It means you’re human. The solution isn’t quitting; it’s writing in a way that cares for your mind and creativity.

The Unreliable Narrator in Memoirs: How Memory Shapes the Stories Writers Tell

I was in my twenties, already married with two young kids, sitting at a bar with a friend who was dating one of our closest friends. The guys were with us that night, but I can’t remember exactly where they were while she and I were talking. What I do remember is this: she was falling in love, and I saw it.

“You guys are going to get married,” I said.

She laughed, took a drag from her cigarette, and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “No way.”

So I challenged her. “Let’s bet on it. If you get married within two years, you pay for a romantic weekend away—for my husband and me.” At that point, we couldn’t afford little luxuries like that, and the idea of a getaway would be a dream come true.

They did get married within the two years. My husband was the best man, I was the matron of honor, and our kids were the flower girl and ring bearer. I was so happy for them and excited that hubby and I would have a chance to get away.

After the wedding, I reminded her about the bet. She looked at me, totally blank. She remembered our bet, but differently. She wasn’t joking.

I never got that weekend away. But what stuck with me wasn’t the lost trip—it was the way our shared memory had splintered. She couldn’t give me the details of what we bet. For me, it was vivid.

That’s the thing about memory: it’s personal, it’s patchy, and it changes with time. Which is why, when writing a memoir, we’re all unreliable narrators, even when we try to be truthful.

What Writers Need to Know About Unreliability

I’ve written both fiction and nonfiction. In fiction, an unreliable narrator is a stylistic choice, used for tension or intrigue. In memoir, unreliability isn’t a choice—it’s a reality.

We misremember. We forget. We revise memories in light of new understanding. This doesn’t mean we’re dishonest; it means we’re human. And readers will understand that.

Here’s how to work with that truth:

  • Acknowledge your lens. Use language that signals subjectivity, “as I remember it,” or “to the best of my recollection.”
  • Welcome complexity. If others remember differently, say so: “She always insisted it happened another way.”
  • Question your assumptions. Ask: Is this how it happened, or how it felt? Both matter, but they’re not the same.
  • Be transparent. Ironically, admitting what you don’t know builds trust.

When memoirists try too hard to sound certain, they risk sounding false. Embracing unreliability doesn’t weaken your story, it deepens it.

Memory Is Messy—And That’s a Strength

Memory doesn’t work like a camera. It’s a collage of fragments, emotions, secondhand stories, and the distance of time. We remember selectively, emotionally, imperfectly.

That’s not a liability in memoir, it’s the point. Your job isn’t to deliver a court transcript of your life. It’s to evoke what it felt like to be you in that moment. That’s what resonates.

Lean into that:

  • Use sensory detail: the smell of rain, the scratch of a wool sweater, the way the hall light glowed through a cracked door.
  • Focus on emotional beats: a shift in a relationship, a betrayal, a realization.
  • Be honest about uncertainty: “As best I remember,” or “I’ve told this story so many times, I no longer know where the truth ends and the retelling begins.”

Memoir isn’t about perfect accuracy. It’s about emotional clarity.

How to Use Unreliability to Strengthen Your Memoir

Unreliability isn’t something to fix—it’s something to explore. When you acknowledge the fallibility of memory, you add nuance and resonance. Readers aren’t looking for a fact-check; they’re looking for truth, especially the kind that wrestles with doubt.

Invite your reader in. Let them hear your questioning voice:

Grandma’s father killed himself—I think it was winter, though I can’t be sure.

Maybe he meant it kindly, but it didn’t feel that way.

She said she apologized but her sister says she never did. I’ll never know.

Memoir isn’t journalism. It’s reflection. The value lies in perspective, not objectivity. When two people remember the same event differently, include both versions:

My brother swears it happened at our grandmother’s house—I remember it on a beach. But we both agree on how it felt: strange, sad, unforgettable.

Your story becomes richer when you make room for contradiction.

When to Be Cautious

While embracing subjectivity, there are limits:

  • Ethical responsibility: Avoid portraying others in ways that are knowingly false or damaging.
  • Don’t hide behind disclaimers to avoid accountability.
  • Legal caution: If writing about real people, consider name changes and consult legal advice if needed.

Truth vs. Truthfulness

Memoir isn’t about what happened as much as it’s about what it meant. Readers crave emotional truth, not flawless memory. Embrace your flawed, fragmented recollections. Let your doubt be part of the narrative.

Next time you question a memory, don’t wait for certainty. Write it anyway, and let the uncertainty become part of the story.

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