I should probably start by noting that I don’t believe in writer’s block. I absolutely believe that there may be reasons that a writer doesn’t write, and some of them may be quite valid (as opposed to, say, making up crap to cover the fact that they’re just lazy). After a devastating experience in a writers workshop during my junior year in college, I didn’t write fiction for twenty-five years, apart from a couple of tiny efforts that I quickly abandoned. In my case, it wasn’t a block–it was pure fear, and I knew it. The fear didn’t begin to melt until someone whose writing I admired offered genuine and enthusiastic praise for a story I’d written. Turned out that just as some arrogant, ignorant students could shut me down with their withering comments, someone I respected could lead me back out into the sunshine.

This is not to say that I have a constant flow of confidence and I always find writing easy. I can still get jammed up, unable to come up with anything worth the effort of tapping keys. Like most writers, I have a hard drive full of false starts and outtakes, pieces that seemed to have promise until I grabbed them out of the air, crushed them in my hand, and smashed them onto the page. I expect that many writers have had similar experiences. A story is never so beautiful or perfect as the moment before we begin to put words to it.

Some people say that if you’re stuck—the words won’t come, the idea bank is empty, echoes reverberate in your brain—the answer is to fight through it. Butt in chair, hands on keyboard, and don’t get up until you’ve written. The fact that what you write may be utter dreck is beside the point. Especially if you’re a professional, waiting for inspiration is a luxury. Write the damned story, even if it sucks. You can’t edit a blank page.