Writer’s block. The big, bad monster that haunts every writer’s nightmares. Or so we’re told. It’s this mythical beast, this eldritch horror, this ancient curse whispered about in coffee shops and Twitter threads. “Oh, I have writer’s block,” someone says, and everyone nods solemnly like they’ve just announced they’ve been diagnosed with a terminal condition.
But let’s get real for a second: writer’s block is a lie. It’s a fake-ass boogeyman. It’s not a disease. It’s not a thing that happens to you. It’s just you, trying to avoid putting words on the page because writing is hard and scary and sometimes it makes you want to scream up the blackened sky.
So let’s call it what it is:
An excuse. A big ol’ steaming pile of nope. And now that we’ve ripped the mask off this so-called “writer’s block,” let me hand you three big, gnarly tools to smash it into oblivion.
- Stop Worshipping at the Altar of Perfection
Here’s the truth no one wants to admit.
Your writing doesn’t have to be good. It doesn’t even have to be okay. It just has to exist.
Perfection is the enemy of progress. You’re sitting there, staring at the page, thinking, “This has to be my magnum opus, my Great American Novel, my masterpiece.” Guess what? It won’t be. It can’t be. Because first drafts are trash. They’re supposed to be trash. They’re supposed to be messy and chaotic, like a toddler hopped up on Kool-Aid who just discovered finger painting.
So give yourself permission to write the worst sentence ever written. Write like you’re scraping words off the bottom of your brain-pan with a rusty spatula. Write like your keyboard is on fire and you’re too panicked to care about grammar. Just write. You can fix it later. You can’t fix nothing.
Or, to quote every writer ever: you can’t edit a blank page.
- Write Something Stupid (No, Seriously)
Writer’s block thrives on seriousness. It feeds on your belief that your work has to be Important™ and Meaningful™ and Capital-W Writing™.
You need to starve that bastard. You need to write something so absurd, so ridiculous, so completely stupid that writer’s block just gives up and goes home.
Here’s a fun exercise: write the most embarrassing scene you can think of. Write about a wizard who only casts spells by farting. Write about a detective whose crime-solving partner is a talking piece of toast. Write about a pirate crew made entirely of disgruntled cats.
Actually I’m gonna do it right now… and I’ll leave it at the P.S. at the bottom of the email.
You think I’m joking? I’m not. The point isn’t to write something great or even good. The point is to shake loose the cobwebs in your brain. To remind yourself that writing is supposed to be fun. Once you unlock that part of your brain, the words will start flowing again.
And hey, who knows? Maybe your talking toast detective will turn into a bestseller. Stranger things have happened.
- Put Your Ass in the Chair and Write Anyway
Ah, the simplest and most painful truth of all…
The cure for writer’s block is just… writing. Even when it sucks. Even when it hurts. Even when you’d rather do literally anything else, like clean your fridge or alphabetise your spice rack or Google “do turtles dream.”
Here’s how you do it. Set a timer for 15 minutes. That’s it. Fifteen minutes. You can write anything. You can write nonsense. You can write “I hate writing” over and over again. You can write a grocery list for a character that doesn’t exist. The only rule is you have to keep writing until the timer runs out.
And here’s the magic. Once you start, it gets easier. Momentum builds. Words beget words. Nine times out of ten, you’ll keep going after the timer dings. And if you don’t? That’s fine too. You still wrote something, and that’s better than nothing.
Because writing is like a muscle. You don’t get stronger by sitting around waiting for inspiration to strike. You get stronger by doing the work, even when it’s hard.
The Bottom Line. Writer’s Block Is Just Fear With a Fancy Name
That’s all it is, really. Fear. Fear of failure. Fear of imperfection. Fear that your ideas are trash and your writing is worse. And you know what? Maybe your ideas are trash. Maybe your writing is worse. But trash can be recycled. Bad writing can be revised. You can’t fix what doesn’t exist.
So stop overthinking it. Stop giving this mythical “writer’s block” power over you. Sit your ass down. Write the words. Write badly. Write boldly. Write like nobody’s watching, because honestly? They aren’t.
Now go. Get to work. And if you’re still stuck, well… maybe your talking toast detective can help.
Stephen Walker
P.S. I can’t believe I wrote this so strap in and good luck and I’ll totally get it if you unsubscribe…
P.P.S. I think this is the longest email I’ve ever written, so I think I deserve some cake.
The Tragic Tale of Tootlebum the Flatulent Wizard
Once, in the far-off land of Windwhistle Hollow, there lived a wizard named Tootlebum. His name wasn’t exactly earned. It wasn’t like he wanted to be called that, but when your main magical ability involves ripping ungodly farts to summon fireballs or teleport goats, the name kind of sticks.
Tootlebum’s magic was, in a word, unique. Other wizards had wands, incantations, or enchanted staves. But not Tootlebum. Oh no. He had his… pipes. A simple clench of the cheeks, a resonant pfffffft, and voilà—magic happened. Fireballs, lightning bolts, floating teacups, you name it. The potency of the spell depended entirely on the quality of the fart. Silent-but-deadly types? Minor hexes. Loud and wet ones? Catastrophic destruction.
And let’s not even get started on the time he ate three bowls of cabbage stew and accidentally summoned a tornado. That was… awkward.
The Rise of a Hero
Despite his unorthodox methods, Tootlebum was a hero. Villagers called on him whenever danger loomed. Dragons? Farted into oblivion. Bandits? Sent hurtling into the sky on a cloud of sulfuric vengeance. A particularly stubborn infestation of enchanted gophers? Blasted straight to the ninth circle of hell with a fart so powerful it cracked the local tavern’s windows.
But Tootlebum had a problem. You see, magic takes a toll. Other wizards drained their mana or their life force or whatever mystical junk they had to pay with. Tootlebum? He drained his gut. Every spell meant one less fart in the tank. And while he could refuel with beans, lentils, and the occasional cursed chili pepper, there was only so much his body could take.
But Tootlebum didn’t care. He was a hero, damn it. If the world needed saving, he’d squeeze out every last toot to make it happen.
The Day of Reckoning
It all came to a head on a stormy Tuesday. A dark sorcerer named Malgrog the Malevolent (because of course that was his name) descended upon Windwhistle Hollow with an army of shadow beasts. The villagers screamed, the sky darkened, and Malgrog laughed like he’d just gotten a coupon for 50% off Evil at the local villain store.
Tootlebum knew he had to act. He scarfed down a pot of baked beans, chased it with a gallon of prune juice, and waddled into battle like a man on a mission. The first fart sent a fireball roaring into Malgrog’s minions. The second unleashed a thunderclap so loud it sent shadow beasts scattering. The third was a gale-force wind that knocked Malgrog himself off his feet.
But the sorcerer wasn’t defeated yet. “You think your farts can stop me, wizard?” Malgrog sneered, summoning a massive shadow dragon. The beast roared, its maw glowing with dark energy.
Tootlebum clenched. Hard. He could feel the storm brewing deep within. This was going to be the fart to end all farts. The kind of fart that would go down in legend. The kind of fart that would shake the heavens and make the gods themselves weep.
And then… BOOOOOOOOOOOM.
The explosion was magnificent. A mushroom cloud of magical flatulence erupted over Windwhistle Hollow, obliterating Malgrog, the shadow dragon, and half the nearby forest. The villagers cheered. The evil was defeated. Tootlebum had saved the day.
But as the smoke cleared, Tootlebum was nowhere to be found. All that remained was a faint smell of sulfur and a single, lonely sock.
The Legend Lives On
Tootlebum’s sacrifice became the stuff of legend. The villagers built a statue in his honor—a giant bronze buttocks perched on a pedestal, eternally clenched in heroic defiance. Bards sang songs of his bravery (“The Ballad of the Blasting Wizard” was a particular hit).
And though Tootlebum was gone, his legacy endured. Every time the wind blew through Windwhistle Hollow, carrying with it a faint, familiar pffffft, the villagers would smile, knowing their flatulent hero was still watching over them.
And Malgrog? Well, let’s just say being defeated by a fart explosion was definitely not the legacy he wanted.
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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom