Is Writer's Block Real?

Sophie Campbell
January 20, 2025 | 3 min read

Just as writers talk about the muse suddenly striking them with inspiration, "writer’s block" can also strike them down in an instant and last anywhere from hours to months, or even years.

But is writer’s block real? Or is it just a writer-specific term for procrastination, lack of focus, or freezing under pressure? Or is it akin to Schrödinger's cat, where the answer to both questions is "yes" and "no"?

Arguments for Writer's Block

“I tell my students there is such a thing as ‘writer’s block,’ and they should respect it. You shouldn’t write through it. It’s blocked because it ought to be blocked.” These are the words of Toni Morrison, author of Beloved.

In an interview with Lit Hub, Morrison also said, that when reading a book, she could always tell when the author had written through a block. She was alluding to the need to address, not charge past, the root cause of the issue. Maybe writer’s block is something to be respected. After all, it’s hard to argue with a Pulitzer and Nobel Prize-winning author.

Morrison also said, that when reading a book, she could always tell when the author had written through a block. She was alluding to the need to address, not charge past, the root cause of the issue.

Carmen Maria Machado, author of Her Body and Other Parties, believes writer’s block is real too. In an interview with Volume 1 Brooklyn, she said, “Reading is the way you can prevent writer’s block or get over writer’s block. You can’t keep writing if you’re not filling your gas tank with whatever you want to read.” Perhaps writer’s block is merely the result of a lack of stimulation and creative ideas. For some, it could be the root cause that Morrison hinted at.

And consider Franz Kafka, the literary equivalent of the surrealist Salvador Dali, who suffered deeply from writer’s block.

“The end of writing. When will it take me up again? ... Again tried to write, virtually useless ... Complete standstill. Unending torments.” The author of The Metamorphosis wrote many diary entries like this.

When a writer revered as a visionary struggled to put pen to paper, surely this is proof enough that writer’s block is real? But the jury is still out.

Arguments Against Writer’s Block

Another Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist to weigh in is Elizabeth Strout. In an interview with The Washington Post, Strout said, “I have never had writer’s block. My writer’s block takes the form of writing badly, which is much more preferable.”

For many, writer’s block can be attributed to a fear of failure, a lack of momentum, or perfectionism. (Take it from Margaret Atwood: “If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word.”) Some writers feel blocked when writing a messy first draft. But Strout suggests you should continue writing badly until the right words come.

For many, writer’s block can be attributed to a fear of failure, a lack of momentum, or perfectionism.

Patrick Rothfuss, author of the Kingkiller Chronicle universe, takes a strong stance on the argument. “It does not exist. We’ll state it flatly,” he said in an interview with Syfy. “No plumber ever gets to call in to work, and they’re like ‘Jake, I have plumber’s block.’”

Even career writers claim that writer’s block doesn’t exist when you’re relying on your words to pay the bills. (Amy Alkon said, “I earn a living as a syndicated columnist and author, there’s no room for writer’s block.”)

If you’re a creative writer without a deadline from an editor looming overhead, the onus is on you alone. No one else is going to make you write. Self-motivation waxes and wanes — and that’s where so-called writer’s block has the opportunity to creep in.

Writer’s Block vs. the People: Closing Argument

At Freewrite, our stance is that no, writer’s block is not a paralyzing, incurable affliction. But yes, there are forces working against you. From distracting, attention-sucking technology, to competing priorities, to your own brain.

No, writer’s block is not a paralyzing, incurable affliction. But yes, there are forces working against you.

No matter how you dress it up, writing is tough. But the good news is there are tried-and-tested ways to prevent and banish "writer’s block."

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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