For a while now, I’ve been telling myself that I have writer’s block.
I have stories waiting for me. Characters whose lives I haven’t finished exploring. Fictional worlds I once stepped into so easily that sometimes it felt less like I was creating them and more like I was simply writing down what I saw.
But lately, when I sit down to return to those worlds, very little happens.
The ideas are still there. The desire to finish them is still there. But the words don’t come the way they used to.
And for someone who considers herself a writer, that can be incredibly frustrating.
There is a particular kind of pressure that comes with knowing you should be writing. You open the document. You reread the last few pages. You stare at the blinking cursor and wait for something—anything—to happen.
Sometimes it does.
Sometimes it doesn’t.
For months, I’ve been calling that writer’s block.
But recently, I started wondering if that description is entirely accurate.
Because the truth is, I have been writing.
Just not fiction.
The Words Went Somewhere Else
Lately, most of my writing has become much more personal.
I’ve been reflecting. Remembering. Examining experiences from different points in my life and trying to understand them from the perspective of the woman I am today.
I’m working on a personal writing project that I’m not quite ready to share much about yet. Some things need room to exist privately before they are introduced to the world.
But the process has made me realize something.
My words didn’t disappear.
They went somewhere else.
The creative part of me that normally wants to build characters, histories, families and entire worlds seems to be asking for something different right now. Instead of imagining someone else’s life, I’ve been looking more closely at my own.
And that requires a completely different kind of writing.
Fiction allows me to ask, What if?
Personal writing asks me, What happened? What did it mean? And what do I understand now that I couldn’t understand then?
Those questions have been taking up a lot of space lately.
Maybe there simply isn’t much room left for imaginary worlds right now.
I’m Learning Not to Force It
My first instinct was to fight the block.
I thought I needed more discipline. Maybe I needed a writing schedule. Maybe I needed to outline more. Maybe I needed to sit in front of the computer until the characters finally started talking to me again.
But creativity doesn’t always respond well to force.
Sometimes the harder I try to make myself write something, the further away the words seem to move.
So I’ve been trying something different.
I’ve been writing what wants to be written.
Right now, that happens to be personal.
That doesn’t mean I’m abandoning fiction. I still love the stories I’ve created, and I still intend to return to them.
But maybe I don’t need to drag myself back before I’m ready.
Maybe there are seasons in a writer’s life just like there are seasons everywhere else.
There are seasons for creating.
Seasons for imagining.
Seasons for observing.
Seasons for remembering.
And perhaps there are seasons when we need to understand our own stories before we can return to telling someone else’s.
Maybe Writer’s Block Isn’t Always a Block
I’ve started thinking differently about the phrase writer’s block.
We usually talk about it as though something has gone wrong—as though the creative machinery has stopped working and needs to be repaired.
But what if sometimes the problem isn’t that we’ve stopped creating?
What if our creativity has simply changed direction?
I thought I wasn’t writing because I wasn’t producing fiction.
Meanwhile, I’ve filled pages with thoughts, memories, questions and reflections.
That counts.
Blog posts count.
Journal entries count.
Half-finished paragraphs count.
The notes typed into a phone at an inconvenient hour because a thought suddenly appeared count.
Writing something that no one else may ever read counts.
Not every word has to become a book.
Not every creative season has to produce something we can point to and say, Look what I made.
Sometimes writing is simply how we make sense of ourselves.
I’m Still a Writer
I don’t know when my fictional characters will start talking to me again.
Maybe next week.
Maybe next month.
Maybe one morning I’ll wake up with a scene so clear in my mind that I’ll have to run to my computer before I lose it.
I hope so.
I miss them.
But I’m trying not to treat their silence as evidence that something is wrong with me as a writer.
For now, there are other words asking for my attention.
More personal ones.
And I think I’m finally willing to follow them wherever they need to go.
Maybe I’m experiencing writer’s block.
Or maybe I’ve been looking at it all wrong.
Maybe I’m not blocked at all.
Maybe I’m just writing something else.
Haven Harvest Living 