Why Can't I Write Even When I Want To?

Sophie Campbell
January 20, 2025 | 3 min read

Yes, writer’s block is real, and yes, researchers have figured out why it happens.

Sarah J. Ahmed and C. Dominik Güss, in the Department of Psychology at the University of North Florida, explored this topic in their study "An Analysis of Writer’s Block: Causes and Solutions." They found that common causes fell into one of four categories.

Let’s take a closer look at each.

#1 Physiological or Affective

When you’re experiencing a period of stress, anxiety, burnout, or fatigue, completing even the simplest of tasks can feel like climbing a mountain. Research shows that stress and anxiety “notably impact a person’s working memory and many other mental processes” and make it difficult to think clearly. Trying to write in this state, especially when you’re required to conjure up creative ideas and fluid prose, is difficult.

Similarly, if you’re experiencing depression or grief, the inability to put pen to paper is, understandably, intensified even more. Emotional turmoil or low energy negatively impacts your information processing and executive functioning – both of which are required for writing.

Writing through difficult times can be cathartic and even therapeutic. But sometimes, you need to prioritize rest and recovery.

#2 Motivational

Self-motivation plays a huge role in writing, especially prolific writing. But when writing shifts from being a rewarding activity to an obligatory one and you feel like you’re not actively enjoying the process, you’re probably experiencing a motivational block.

This type of block can also include evaluation anxiety, where self-criticism or the fear of criticism and rejection from others inhibits your ability to write.

At one time or another, many writers fear their work will be judged or even ridiculed. When that fear sets in, it can cause the writer to enter a freeze response. Freezing can take the form of a lack of original, creative ideas, difficulty expressing your thoughts on the page, or getting even one word down on paper.

This type of block can also include evaluation anxiety, where self-criticism or the fear of criticism and rejection from others inhibits your ability to write.

#3 Cognitive

Sometimes, you’re determined and excited to write. But your brain has other ideas. One of the cognitive causes of writer’s block is perfectionism.

Perfectionism is particularly difficult to overcome because perfection doesn’t exist. Trying to perfect your work can lead to “rigid all-or-nothing thinking, toxic comparison and a lack of creativity”.

When you edit as you write and try to make every sentence flawless in the first draft, it will slow you down and sometimes even stop you in your tracks. If you’re experiencing a cognitive block, you may also fixate on grammar, sentence structure, formatting, and all the other things that simply don’t need to be prioritized during the drafting process.

Perfectionism is particularly difficult to overcome because perfection doesn’t exist.

Of course, cognitive blocks can also look like planning too much and not writing enough, or not planning enough for a complex project that requires a lot of research.

#4 Behavioral

Procrastination is something everyone does at some point or another. It’s human to feel the urge to avoid difficult tasks and look for distractions — and we have easy access to a lot of distractions these days. If you think about your latest writing project and want to avoid it like the plague, you’re experiencing a behavioral block.

If you think about your latest writing project and want to avoid it like the plague, you’re experiencing a behavioral block.

This type of writer’s block can also take the form of having an irregular schedule or lack of structure that prevents you from gaining momentum. Perhaps your daily life is super busy and writing falls to the bottom of the to-do list. It’s natural, in that instance, to feel disconnected from your ideas and lose steam.

The good news is carving out specific blocks of time to write — and do nothing else — will help. (We know, easier said than done.)

Going through a physiological, motivational, cognitive, or behavioral block?

You’re not alone. And don’t worry, there are proven strategies you can use to overcome them and write on.

Return to "Cracking the Code of Writer’s Block."

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I’ve spent years writing while secretly fearing that a single misplaced word would expose me — not just as a bad writer, but as a fraud.

My background is originally in photography, and I see it there, too. A photographer I know recently posted a before-and-after comparison of their editing from 2018 versus now, asking if we also saw changes in our own work over the years.

Naturally, we should. If our work is the same, years apart, have we really grown as artists?

So why is that the growing, the process of it, the daily grind of it, is so painful?

So why is that the growing, the process of it, the daily grind of it, is so painful?

The Haunting

Hitting “publish” on an essay or a blog always stirs up insecurity — the overthinking, the over-editing. The fear that someone will call me out for not being a real writer.

I initially hesitated to make writing part of my freelance work. My background is in photography and design. Writing was something I gravitated toward, but I had no degree to validate it. No official stamp of approval.

Like many writers, I started with zero confidence in my voice — agonizing over edits, drowning in research, second-guessing every word.

I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.

I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.

If my words weren’t my own, they couldn’t be wrong. Ghostwriting meant safety — no risk, no vulnerability, just words without ownership.

I still remember the feeling of scrolling to the bottom of an article I had written and seeing someone else’s name, their face beside words that had once been mine.

The truth is, I always wanted to write. As a kid, I imagined it. Yet, I found myself handing over my work, letting someone else own it.

I told myself it didn’t matter. It was work. Getting paid to write should be enough.

But here’s the thing: I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.

I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.

The Disappearing Act

This was true when I was writing under my own name, too. The more I worried about getting it right, the less I sounded like me.

I worried. I worried about how long an essay was (“people will be bored”), finding endless examples as proof of my research (“no way my own opinion is valid on its own”), the title I gave a piece (“it has to be a hook”), or editing out personal touches (“better to be safe than be seen”).

I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting. Advice meant to help only locked me in. It created a sentence rewritten to sound smarter, an opinion softened to sound safer, a paragraph reshaped to sound acceptable.

I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting.

But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.

It took deliberate effort to break this habit. I’m not perfect, but here’s what I know after a year of intentionally letting my writing sound like me:

My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.

But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.

The Resurrection

The drive for acceptance is a slippery slope — one we don’t always realize we’re sliding down. It’s present in the small choices that pull us away from artistic integrity: checking how others did it first, tweaking our work to fit a mold, hesitating before saying what we actually mean.

And let’s be honest — this isn’t just about writing. It bleeds into everything.

It’s there when we stay silent in the face of wrongdoing, when we hold back our true way of being, when we choose work that feels “respectable,” whatever that means. It’s in every “yes” we say when we really want to say “no.”

If your self-expression is rooted in a need for acceptance, are you creating for yourself — or for others? Does your work help you explore your thoughts, your life? Does it add depth, energy, and meaning?

My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.

I get it. We’re social creatures. Isolation isn’t the answer. Ignoring societal norms won’t make us better writers. Often, the most meaningful work is born from responding to or resisting those norms.

But knowing yourself well enough to recognize when acceptance is shaping your work brings clarity.

Am I doing this to be part of a community, to build connections, to learn and grow?

Or am I doing this to meet someone else’s expectations, dulling my voice just to fit in?

The Revival

Here’s what I know as I look back at my writing: I’m grateful for the years spent learning, for the times I sought acceptance with curiosity. But I’m in a different phase now.

I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.

I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.

It’s our differences that drive growth. I want to nurture these connections, to be challenged by difference, to keep writing in a way that feels like me. The me who isn’t afraid to show what I think and care about.

So, I ask you, as I ask myself now:

If no one was watching, if no one could judge, what would you write?

If no one was watching, if no one could judge, what would you write?

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