From Edie: Sarah Sally Hamer helps us understand Why writers procrastinate at the blank page. With her help, discover the mental games, creative resistance, and practical ways writers can calm distraction and return to joyful, focused writing.
Why Writers Procrastinate at the Blank Page—and How to Quiet the Mental Chaos
by Sarah Sally Hamer @SarahSallyHamer
Oh the games our minds play when writers sit in from of a blank screen.
Are you one of those lucky writers who turn on the computer and focus on the brilliant words that pour from your fingertips? Or are you more like me and the moment you sit down to write, your mind transforms into a hyperactive game show host who has just chugged three espressos and discovered the joy of chaos? You’ve set your time for writing, you have a project in mind and, all of a sudden, your fingers hover over the keyboard and your mind leaps onto an imaginary stage, confetti cannons firing, shouting, “WELCOME TO TONIGHT’S EPISODE OF ANYTHING BUT WRITING!”
Suddenly everything is urgent.
Everything is fascinating. Everything, absolutely everything, is more important than the sentence you were about to write. You must check the weather immediately, even though you’re indoors and not planning to leave the house. You must reorganize your pens by “vibes.” You must research medieval plumbing because, obviously, your entire creative future depends on it. The mind is not trying to sabotage you; it simply has the attention span of a golden retriever who just spotted a squirrel wearing a hat.
Meanwhile, the part of you that actually wanted to write is sitting there like a long‑suffering babysitter who has seen this show before. Flutters start in your chest. That brand-new fancy office chair becomes the most uncomfortable place you’ve ever sat. And, it seems that inspiration is in the fridge where the good snacks live.
What’s really going on?
Everyone tells stories. From our early childhood, our imagination is working overtime to figure out our place in this world. We use story to build those understandings and to make sense out of the chaos (even in wonderful and stable families). Without story, we’d have no culture, no comprehension, and no connection to the things around us. So, even if we never write anything down, we still have the basis of story in our life. But writers take that a step farther and create imaginary places, ones that can explain that world by stepping back from reality into fantasy.
Because of this deep correlation to our own lives, writing is vulnerable. Writing is exposure. Writing is stepping into a room where you don’t know the rules yet, and the mind would very much prefer a room with snacks and clear instructions.
So our mind starts inventing games.
Elaborate ones. The “Let’s Clean the Entire House Before We Write a Single Word” game. The “Let’s Reread Old Emails and Cringe at Ourselves” game. The “Maybe We Should Move to Portugal” game. These games are not logical, but they are extremely persuasive. The mind presents them with the earnest pride of a child offering you a macaroni necklace. You have to admit, the enthusiasm is adorable.
Meanwhile, our writing soul is in the corner, patiently waiting, interested in truth, not games. It’s interested in the thing you were about to write before the mind started juggling flaming torches. The soul doesn’t rush. It doesn’t panic. It doesn’t care about medieval plumbing. It waits for you the way a lighthouse waits for a ship — steady, gentle, quietly luminous.
And here’s the part the mind forgets every single time: once you actually begin, once you slip past the threshold of resistance and into the warm, humming current of the work, the mind relaxes. It stops insisting you alphabetize your spices. It remembers that it actually likes the puzzle and rhythm of writing, the way a sentence can feel like a tiny miracle when it finally clicks. The mind is not the enemy; it is simply dramatic. It needs reassurance. It needs a snack. It needs a gentle reminder that the page is not a battlefield but a playground.
Almost all of us know how to relax, whether we practice doing it or not.
Here’s a list for the ones who don’t know as well as a reminder for those who do:
- Breathe. Deeply. For ten minutes or so before you turn on the computer.
- Support your spine.
- Close your eyes.
- Remind yourself you’re a great writer. (Because you are!)
- Give yourself a break.
Because the sentence is always waiting. That’s the beautiful, maddening, miraculous thing about writing. No matter how many games the mind invents, no matter how many detours you take, the work remains patient. It doesn’t scold. It doesn’t sulk. It simply waits for you to return.
So the next time your mind tries to convince you that you must urgently research the migratory patterns of geese before you can possibly write another word, smile at it. Thank it for its enthusiasm. Let your body settle. Let your soul hum. And slip quietly back to the page. The carnival will calm down. The game shows will fade. And you will find, as you always do, that the writing was there all along, waiting for you to remember that you are capable, that you are brave, and that you are, despite the mind’s best efforts, absolutely a writer.
What do you do when the chaos begins?
TWEETABLE
A teacher of memoir, beginning and advanced creative fiction writing, and screenwriting at Louisiana State University in Shreveport for over twenty years, she also teaches online at both margielawson.com and nostresswriting.com and blogs for writersinthestormblog.com/ as well as her monthly blog for The Write Conversation. Sally is a free-lance editor and book coach at Mind Potential, with many of her students and clients becoming successful, award-winning authors.
You can find her at sally@mindpotential.org
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