Why “Just Write” For an Author is Terrible Advice

I tried to "just write." All I got were cul-de-sacs.

By: Dak Kopec

I don’t know how many times I’ve been tired, burnt out, or simply didn’t want to write, only to be told that I should just write anyway. This advice shows up everywhere. It’s said at least once during most writing workshops, it dominates the comment sections of social media, pops up in productivity threads, and arrives neatly packaged in well-meaning pep talks from my loving neighbors. The message is almost always the same and delivered with a dose of tough love and good intentions: Don’t fall out of the groove. Just write every day, and inspiration will follow.

Yeah. Right.

For me, that logic rarely holds true. When I force myself to “just write,” I usually end up stuck in a never-ending spiral of rambling thoughts that turn into paragraphs that circle the same ideas without landing anywhere meaningful. My editor calls these cul-de-sacs. He says he can tell when I forced myself to write because I go off into left field but end up nowhere; ergo, a cul-de-sac. There’s movement, sure, but not in any meaningful direction, just circles of blah blah blah.

Now, to be fair, I’m not all writers, and I only speak for myself. Some people truly need to write every day because that serves as a kind of jump-start for them. The act of writing itself unlocks momentum, and inspiration follows. But for others, especially writers juggling caregiving, full-time jobs, health concerns, chronic stress, trauma, or simply the realities of adult life, this advice can do more harm than good.

So why would I push back against age-old advice so many people swear by?

Because my adult circumstances drain my time and my mental bandwidth, that horrid voice in my head, you know the one, it’s the one that tells me I’m not good enough, that I lack dedication, that I’m a failure. And when I do force myself to write, the result is usually… rubbish unfit for the human eye.

Truly. If you ever peeked into my iCloud storage, you’d find thousands of unpublished words. Futile attempts at poetry. Rants about the injustices of the world. Pages soaked in melancholy. No matter how many times I try to resurrect them, bringing those words to fruition feels nearly impossible.

The problem is that writing isn’t a neutral task.

It demands cognitive energy, emotional availability, and psychological safety. “Just write” assumes those things are always on standby, as if writers exist in a vacuum, untouched by fear, exhaustion, or competing emotional demands. Fear alone can derail writing for weeks, sometimes months. And when it hits me, it doesn’t whisper. It shuts everything down.

For the past nine months, I’ve been fortunate enough to survive on what I call “chicken work.” Reviewing copy editor comments. Checking layouts. Approving covers. Necessary tasks, yes, but they don’t require me to create from scratch. Writing a new novel or a scholarly book, though? That’s where I hit dead ends and loop back on myself, over and over.

Then there’s fatigue. The quiet reaper of creativity.

Most of us are doing too much and convincing ourselves we can’t slow down. I know that the demands of my job and welcoming a new puppy into the family have drained my time in ways I didn’t fully anticipate. These aren’t excuses; they’re realities. So no, I don’t think I have writer’s block. I think I’m dealing with cognitive depletion and exhaustion. After all, the brain is a muscle, and overuse doesn’t make it stronger; it makes it less capable of focus.

Some of us are aware this is happening, and others know when it’s happening.

Why?

Because our writing starts to scatter in multiple directions, leading us nowhere. Our cohesion disappears, and irritability creeps in, often spilling over into our relationships with our life partners. Or we give up altogether… as if that’s ever really an option for a writer. Writing is an art, but it’s also something many of us feel compelled to do, even when it hurts. The danger comes when we mistake exhaustion for resistance. If we label it as laziness or lack of discipline, then shame takes over.

I’m coming off two books right now. One is Possessing Parker Beyond Truth, which was intended to be the final book in the Broken Boys Beyond Friendships trilogy. However, as it turns out, I’m not done. There’s another story that needs telling, one that explains what happens to all the characters. The second book, set for release in the coming months, is titled A Western Approach to Trauma-Informed Design: From the Parking Lot to Meeting Spaces. Both of these books required immense emotional and intellectual investment.

So the question becomes unavoidable: how do I jump-start the next phase? How do I write that final novel, and how do I begin writing the disabilities book I promised one of my publishers?

For me, the answer isn’t “just write.” It’s creating the conditions that allow me to think. That starts with assigning intentional blocks of time dedicated solely to writing. Then comes finding a space where concentration is actually possible and ensuring the environment supports creativity rather than draining it. For me, that means absolute silence and complete solitude.

Once the environment is set, expectations matter. Some writers focus on word counts. Others measure progress by the completion of scenes. I work within time. Usually sixty minutes, give or take fifteen, so I can complete a full thought, even if it’s imperfect.

Knowing what works is only half the equation. Understanding what doesn’t work is just as important.

Right now, I’m sitting with several unanswered questions that will ripple through my future. I’m at multiple crossroads, without control over which direction I’ll ultimately go. That uncertainty is my biggest barrier. For someone else, it might be a new family member. For others, it could be the quiet work of confronting personal demons. These barriers don’t cancel out creativity, but they absolutely shape how and when it shows up.

When we acknowledge and concede to external forces that suck our energy, only then can we begin the real work of being honest with ourselves. Sometimes, the most radical act for a writer isn’t forcing words onto the page, but building the conditions that make those words possible in the first place. With this mindset, it’s no longer about whether we’re writing enough, but about whether we are listening closely enough to what our minds and bodies are asking for. In a productivity-driven culture, we are told to push through, just write, but wisdom suggests something quieter: pause, assess, and respond with care. Writing does not disappear when we step back to rebuild our capacity; it waits. And when the conditions are right, the words arrive not because we forced them to, but because we finally made space for them to be heard.