I didn’t write for three days.
Not because I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t. Every time I opened scrivener, my brain stalled out somewhere between dread and dust. I told myself it was just tiredness. Or distraction. Or maybe that old whisper again, the one that says, “If you were really meant to do this, it wouldn’t feel this hard.” But that voice is wrong. And if you’ve heard it too, I want you to know: it lies.
When I wrote Act 3 of my first draft, Isolda reprimanded me. That’s not right. You will need to fix that. As I moved closer to fixing those bigger plot points in my beat sheet, the procrastination from the fear of messing it up again crept back. It started as just a slow dimming. A quiet numbness. A sense that I could not do Isolda’s story the justice it deserved. I kept plugging along, my anxiety growing as my daily word counts felt forced and frustrating. Then, I hit the wall.
And when you’re trying to build something such as an author platform, a book series, a whole imaginary world? When the ideas flow and world building deep dives excite? Burnout feels like betrayal. Like dropping the torch you promised to carry.
I had been pouring so much into every piece of the process lately: the beat sheet, blog posts, newsletters, social media, new readers, even launching my first short story (The Recall) on Ream. I was proud. And I was also... completely fried.
Over the next three days I’d just barely make it through my day job and caring for the household, kids and animals. Even spending the evenings out watching the barn cats deep in their evening crazies didn’t replenish me as it so easily could before. When it came to my usual writing time, I couldn’t even bring myself to open my laptop. The guilt came and went. When it was at it’s worse, I’d remind myself to give myself grace.
On the fourth day, I didn’t even think about writing during the day. Instead, I followed my own advice that I often give my friends, to follow my bliss. I decided to use an old vase and do a silly little dinosaur terrarium diorama in it for my kitchen window sill. No expectations, just something fun for me to do. The whole project took less than twenty minutes; soil, stones, a little forked stick with fake plant leaves hot glued on to look like a little tree, and of course some fake moss along with two resident dinosaurs. That twenty minutes of cutesy creativity though? It replenished my whole creative soul.
That fourth evening, after bidding the barn cats goodnight, I turned on the instrumental music. I sat down and opened my laptop. Not because I felt ready, but because something inside me missed the story more than it feared the blankness.
And slowly... the spark returned, as if it had never left. The words flowed with ease. I rewrote a choppy section of a scene, adding more depth and dialogue. A lost thread found its way back. And for the first time in days, I remembered that the story doesn’t abandon me. Sometimes, it just waits.
So if you’ve been in that place, friend…the foggy, quiet place where burnout feels louder than creativity, I see you. You haven’t lost your fire. You aren’t failing because you don’t feel into it as much. You might actually need to step back for a bit. A real, true break.
And here’s what I’m learning to believe: A pause is not the end. Burnout is a sign of effort, not failure. Our creativity is a garden that needs to be tended with both work and rest. And finally, you don’t owe anyone constant productivity. Not even yourself.
We’re allowed to ebb. To rest. To fall quiet and come back. And when we do return, it’s with deeper roots and a stronger voice.
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