For years I believed that writer’s block was the enemy. Something to fight with discipline, with schedules, with the violence of sitting in front of the blank page even if nothing came out.

I was wrong.

Blockage, when it’s not disguised laziness, is a symptom that something isn’t ready. The unconscious knows that narrative twist doesn’t work, that this character feels forced, that the scene is going in the wrong direction. The conscious mind insists on moving forward; the other mind, the one that actually writes, refuses.

I’ve learned to listen to it. When I can’t write, I do something else: draw, read, walk. And almost always, in that space of apparent unproductivity, the solution appears on its own.

This entry is a reminder for my future self: don’t punish yourself. The well is also part of the river.