Raise your hand if this has ever happened to you–you’re working on a new story or novel. It’s going good–the keyboard is on fire! You’re moving from sentence to paragraph at a nice, brisk pace, the story is chugging along, you’re having a grand old time, and then–

You stop. Maybe it’s time to move to a new scene or chapter. Maybe it’s right in the middle of a paragraph. But for whatever reason, you’re not sure what comes next.

You might know what needs to happen next, but for whatever reason, it’s not coming out. Maybe something about the scene you’re in feels wrong. Or you can’t figure out how to transition. Or you’re feeling like you have to force the words out; they’re pained, tortured, not coming so freely anymore. Whatever the reason, you’re just not feeling it.

So, okay, you think. Put it away for tonight. You’ll go do something else and come back tomorrow reinvigorated and get right back on-track. You’re pacing yourself.

So you come back tomorrow, and…what’s this? Oh, no. You’re staring at a blinking cursor. You’ve re-read the last few paragraphs, and can’t pick the thread back up. You eke out a few words, but your mind immediately wanders. You’re still not feeling it.

You’ve hit writer’s block, baby.

Whether it lasts a day, a week, or months, I think most of us experience some degree of writer’s block at one point or another. If it goes on too long, eventually you get to the point where even thinking about writing is discouraging, which creates a death-spiral that makes it that much harder to get back into it.

There are a lot of tricks and advice for breaking through writer’s block. A lot depends on what kind of writer you are and what you’re working on. A lot of the time, simply shifting focus to a different project for a while helps. Stuck on your novel? Switch to a short story, or a different novel, to get some momentum going. That might be all you need.

But what if you don’t want to do that? What if you have a deadline (either self-imposed or external)? What if your current project is the only one that’s really, truly lighting a fire in you? What if you only work on one project at a time?

Well, my friends, today I’m going to share the secret that is all but guaranteed to ANNIHILATE writer’s block, every time.

First, a note of warning: what I’m about to say applies mainly to fiction. It is applicable to some forms of non-fiction, especially forms that don’t need to be written chronologically, but definitely intended for use when writing fiction. Your mileage elsewhere may vary.

Right, now let’s get to it. The secret to getting past writer’s block is to…WRITE! It’s that easy! Wow! You’re welcome!

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Okay, I’ll be serious. This is going to be another one of those pieces of advice that sounds trite and obvious, but really requires putting into practice to “get it.”

The real trick is to not try to break through writer’s block, but to go around it. That’s basically what the “work on another project” advice is intended to do, but that advice has the problem of, uh, not helping you get your current project done any faster.

Writing is a habit. Yes, it’s also other things, like art and craft and skill, but it is undoubtedly a habit. This means that you need to train yourself to do it–if you only write when the Inspiration Fairy visits, you’re going to have a bad time. The more and better you train yourself, the less often writer’s block will happen. Your brain will become exceptional at shifting into “writing mode” when you want or need it to, and you will find that “pacing yourself” is much easier.

Here’s the thing about training–not everything you produce needs to be publishable-quality, or even intended for publication. When learning or practicing an instrument, you don’t expect every note you play to be performance-worthy, right? If you want to become a master painter or illustrator, then you will need to create thousands of doodles and scratch paintings that are never intended to be seen by anybody in order to hone your abilities and train yourself to make those kinds of art.

Writing is like that. If you get hung up on thoughts like, “Aahhh, I don’t like how that sentence flows!” or “This scene isn’t working, I need to just start over!” and let them stop you from writing, then guess what? You’re not going to get any better.

The way to get unstuck is to practice the 3 S’s (that I just made up and arbitrarily gave alliterative names to): Stop, See, Stitch.

Stop

At its most basic, the “trick” is to hit “Enter” or “Return” a few times and start a new scene. But there’s a lot more that goes into it if you want to guarantee (or close to it) success at actually swerving around writer’s block.

But wait! I hear you say. I can’t just start a new scene! I haven’t finished this one!

Silence, fool! You know not of what you speak!

You absolutely can just stop in the middle of a scene and start a new one. Worry about stitching them together later. It’s fine.

Did you think they shoot movies in chronological order? Design video game levels that way? Okay, so why should books need to be written that way?

So, stop writing the part you got stuck on. Just stop. It’s okay. Trying to force it is just making the problem worse. Let it go.

See

Okay, here’s the next part. You may have a clear idea of what scene to move on to, especially if your story has been strictly outlined. It’s probably okay to do that, but focus on the fact that you (likely) do not have a transition into whatever scene you’re moving to. If it’s the start of a brand new chapter or section, you don’t necessarily need one, but you still don’t have the context of the end of the preceding section.

At this point, you should not be focused on transitions or even on “setting the scene.” What we’re trying to do here is to throw ourselves directly into the writing at its most immediate, visceral level.

What you’re going to do is start writing about whatever you “see.” When I say “see,” I don’t necessarily mean visually right in front of you (assuming you’re a seeing person), although you can look around your environment to get an idea. But what you’re really trying to do is to see with your “mind’s eye.”

This can take practice, but the more you do it, the easier it’ll come. And don’t give me that aphantasia bullshit. I don’t care what you call it or how you conceptualize it–you are able to imagine things in your mind, whether you think about them in terms of words or images or whatever. If you couldn’t, then you literally could not be a fiction writer.

So when I talk about “seeing,” that’s the metaphor for this kind of focused imagination that we are all capable of that most people are familiar with. If it doesn’t work for you for whatever reason, then know that I’m talking about “imagining.”

The reason I’m using “seeing” (and you should try to train yourself to think of it that way, if you can) is that you must approach this exercise as a passive participant, as an observer. Becoming bogged down in trying to think, plan, analyze, is exactly why you have writer’s block. Let all of that go, and focus your mind’s eye on something you can “see.” Preferably an object or animal, not a character or person.

It might be an apple. A pen. A book. A tidal wave. A snake slithering across the desert.

Where is it? What does it look like? Color, shape. Then zoom in. If it’s an apple, does it have spots or bruises? Is the pen pristine, or is there dried ink on the tip? Is the book well-loved, with a creased spine, or brand-new and unopened? How high is the wave, and where is it headed? Is the snake going towards you, or away?

Improv skills can be helpful here. Yes, and…will rarely steer you wrong. Follow every thread, every train of thought. Spots on the apple? What about a worm? Snake slithering towards you? What does it see? Maybe you’re “seeing” through the eyes of its prey.

Next, expand the scene. Something needs to happen. Preferably, this is where a character comes in.

If it’s a person, then latch onto a detail about them. Don’t overthink this–you’re observing, not creating. You’ve uncovered a story moment and you’re recording what you’ve found. Maybe they have hairy knuckles. Maybe their clothes have a big mustard stain. Maybe they’re wheezing.

Be specific. Don’t say “her fingers move unnaturally,” say “her fingers vibrate,” or “her fingers twitch,” or “her fingers writhe around like tentacles.” You’re “seeing” and recording what you “see,” not narrating a story. Tone, voice, diction, forget about all of that right now. If it comes naturally, then fine, but every single brain cell spent thinking about it is a brain cell you can’t devote to “seeing.” Describe everything objectively.

Now link them together with a verb. The person you’ve found is doing something to or with the object you started with. It’s not a matter of if–they are! Make sure you catch it! Don’t miss the action!

Describe what they’re doing. Their hairy fingers grip the apple, their thumb pressing into a bruise. There’s a crunch as they take a bite.

The snake slithers towards a mouse hole, when a heavy leather boot stomps onto its back. Inside the boot is a foot attached to a man wearing a black Stetson, thumbs hooked around his belt buckle.

The black oak tree has a thick round knot; bugs appear and vanish in its holes and crevices. A silvery axe-blade hacks into the knot, and the sweaty, angry man holding the axe screams until he’s hoarse, dropping to his knees and leaving the axe embedded in the knot.

Look at that. You’re writing.

Stitch

Keep going. Keep the action moving. Keep “seeing.” As you go, you should find yourself eventually moving from passive to active participant in the process, nudging the story in the direction you need it to go. Maybe you’ve realized that the person you’re “seeing” is really a character in your story (or a brand-new character who’s now a part of it). Maybe an established character enters the scene a few sentences or paragraphs later. Maybe you realize the where is a place you’ve been to before, or planned to go to at some point.

Write until you finish the scene, or until you can “see” no more. If you need to, start the process over to “see” again, then go do that. Otherwise, jump back to where you originally got stuck, and begin the stitch.

Your job now is to connect your unfinished scene with the new one you created. Don’t limit yourself to crude “plot” connections–connect it thematically, or on the level of setting. You might need several more links before you can connect the original, blocked scene to the new one on a plot level; if that’s the case, then figure out the next link, and write to there.

Obviously I can’t actually “guarantee” anything, but I’d bet your writer’s block is cured, at least for now.

You may have some work to do, either now or later, during editing, to make the new scene you uncovered fit within your book. Hell, it may not end up fitting within your book. Don’t see that as a waste–see it as valuable writing practice that made you better, the equivalent of noodling around on the guitar or piano, coming up with half a dozen riffs that you end up throwing out before finding the right one for a new song.

How many of us, when faced with writer’s block while deep (or maybe even not that deep) into a story, have had the urge to put it on the back-burner and start an entirely new story? My own folder full of dozens of “novel beginnings” that amount to a few pages each testifies to my own weakness in this area.

While the spark of inspiration is valuable, so is the stamina to see a writing project through to the end. We all get ideas for new stories; many (perhaps most) of us rarely if ever get to experience the joy and fulfillment of placing that last period (much less sending a final draft over to the typesetter).

This method–stop, see, stitch–fulfills that need for newness in us, while training us to stick with the same story. Your new scene might introduce a new character or setting. It may give you new insights (or allow you to see new character traits) about existing characters. I’ve used this method to create thousands of words that I later end up cutting from the manuscript, but that help me understand my own characters so much better that it still enriches the final project.

Examples from my work

This exact method helped me get to the finish line of Seed of the Black Oak at two important points.

The first was during the story’s midpoint time-skip, which you won’t end up seeing in the final book because I rewrote the thing to alternate between the timelines instead of having a big time skip in the middle. But the first draft was written in chronological order, and after the first half, I got stuck bad for a couple of weeks at least.

When I finally got fed up, I turned to my tried-and-true S-S-S method. I stopped with the chapter openings I’d been stuck on thus far. I stopped thinking about my MC, for the moment. I closed my eyes, and I “saw.”

I “saw” a glass orb with a little imperfection in it–a little air bubble. I think I was thinking of these little decorative baubles my mom used to keep around the house when I was a kid, that had these swirling color ribbons in them. Since my world was a fantasy world, I repurposed those swirling color ribbons as arcane images–this was now a seeing stone. I saw moonlight above it–two moons, because every good fantasy world needs at least two moons.

A hand gripped it–powerful, vigorous, but very slightly trembling. A man gazed into the stone under the moonlight. I “saw” nothing, but I knew what he saw–images of himself as a powerful ruler.

A deformed, unnatural creature slunk into the metaphorical “frame.” It had arms and legs like a very tiny human, but its body was a fleshy lump. It called the man with the seeing stone “master.”

This scene ended up becoming the very first scene of my book. It only took a few paragraphs for me to have the protagonist enter the scene, and from there, the flood of ideas had me off to the races…

…for a while, at least. I got stuck again a few chapters later, as the (re)introductory scenes ended and it was time to start bringing characters and plot threads back together. Epi (my protagonist) was going home, where everyone she’d ever known thought she was dead. What the hell was supposed to happen when she got there?

I had some false starts, but this time remembered much quicker to use the method. This time I saw a pot or cauldron of boiling stew (probably rabbit, but creamy, with orange carrots and green leeks) in the center of a dim room. Some kind of tavern, perhaps, but I focused on the bubbling of the stew. Then I heard music–a bard (the first notes of “The Dragonborn Comes” almost certainly entered my mind here). I looked around and saw a woman sitting in the corner, silently observing, her face still but her eyes darting around the room, her ears catching snippets of conversation, her face caked in ghostly silver paint.

That’s Epi, I thought. There’s no reason it had to be Epi; I just saw a woman with silver face-paint, a disguise, silently observing like I was. But why not have it be Epi?

And why not have the “tavern wench” be Raeba, Epi’s childhood friend who thinks she’s dead?

The scene took shape from there. There was action (I even incorporated the stew!) and Epi was back in the thick of the almighty plot.

That was the last time I struggled with anything like writer’s block on Seed. I still had about 40,000 words to write, but they were some of the easiest 40,000 words of my life. They practically flew by.

So the next time you’re stuck on a long fiction project, remember the S’s:

1.) Stop–stop what you’re doing

2.) See–see a new scene, and write it

3.) Stitch–put them together

I promise this will almost certainly work for you. Next time you have cause to try it, please let me know how it went in the comments!