Finding Inspiration When You Have Writer’s Block

Last Updated on November 12, 2024 by Michael

Ever tried solving writer’s block by interrogating your ficus or shouting life advice at your toaster? When you’re desperate for inspiration, even debating existential questions with a goldfish or staging a dramatic breakup with your desk starts sounding like genius. Here’s your guide to tackling the blank page through some truly ridiculous—yet strangely effective—methods that might just get those creative gears turning again.

Talking To Your Houseplants About Their Awful Life Choices

Alright, it’s 2 a.m. and you’re staring at that blinking cursor like it owes you money. It’s time to have a heart-to-leaf with your houseplants. I’m talking about a real intervention here, where you question why the ficus decided to be a ficus and whether it regrets not growing into a career-minded shrub instead. Pretend the houseplant has failed to meet its goals and needs a motivational pep talk. Tell it it’s been lazy, leaning towards the sunlight instead of hustling, and see how that makes you feel.

Something magical happens when you start scolding foliage. You begin to project your frustrations onto the poor chlorophyll-laden thing, but at least you’re making words. Even if it’s, “Listen here, Larry the Philodendron, it’s time you stopped living in that damn terracotta pot and start spreading your roots!” Now you’re rolling. You’re venting. You’re ranting. Boom—words on the page.

And Larry? Larry is going to be fine. Larry always comes back stronger. He’s tough, unlike that character you wrote who can’t decide between joining a cult or starting a coffee shop. Get tough like Larry. Tell Larry you’re disappointed, and maybe you’ll find that your fictional characters deserve the same wake-up call. Houseplants make for an excellent audience. Unlike the general public, they don’t judge your madness—they just keep photosynthesizing and pretending not to listen.

If this doesn’t inspire you, try talking to your toaster instead. The toaster knows things. Like how to burn your bread with spiteful precision. Look it in the eye and ask it why it must always ruin your mornings. Bet it’s got some deep-seated issues.

Dress Up Like A Historical Figure And Narrate Your Life Like A Documentary

Why get stuck in your own head when you can get stuck in someone else’s? Nothing screams inspiration like dressing up as Napoleon and narrating your trip to the grocery store like it’s a strategic military conquest. Suddenly, the cereal aisle is the battlefield of Waterloo, and you’re making strategic alliances with boxes of cornflakes. You march forward, determined to defeat the monstrous price tags, only to meet your mortal enemy: discount coupons.

You’ll be amazed at how the mundanity of your day transforms into a rich narrative. Every pedestrian becomes a secret spy. Every cashier is a traitor to the empire. And don’t stop at Napoleon—maybe today you’re Cleopatra. You make dramatic declarations at the deli counter: “I shall take this pound of Swiss cheese to the glorious palace and offer it as tribute!” It’s dramatic. It’s unnecessary. But it’s also content.

By pretending to be an important historical figure, you temporarily relinquish the baggage of your present self. You’re not Dave who can’t finish a single short story—you’re Alexander the Great, and no sentence fragment is going to stop you. Remember that you can’t have writer’s block if your protagonist is wearing a toga and conquering the salad bar.

Shout At Inanimate Objects About Their Responsibilities In Life

Has the lamp in your living room been pulling its weight lately? Seriously, all it does is stand there, all smug, and refuses to change its bulb unless you physically intervene. You’ve got bills to pay, a story to write, and here’s this lamp doing… absolutely nothing. Go ahead, lay into it.

Lamps have too much attitude for what little they actually contribute. Who do they think they are, anyway? Now you’re cooking. Suddenly, your desk is part of the conspiracy. The desk is in on it too, with its self-righteous posture, just holding your junk and silently judging your lack of productivity. Every drawer’s like, “Oh look, another abandoned project idea”—well, screw you, drawer. Maybe if it wasn’t for the drawer’s smug energy, you’d finish something.

And let’s not even get started on the fridge. The fridge, standing there like some monumental wasteland of expired hopes and cold, refrigerated dreams. You open it for inspiration, and what do you get? Not even a coherent plot twist. Just half a jar of salsa and a sense of existential dread. Berate it. Maybe even write about it.

The fridge can’t hide from its shortcomings, and neither can you. But at least now you’ve got a dialogue going, even if it’s with household appliances. Writer’s block doesn’t stand a chance against the fridge that’s too ashamed to admit it’s got leftover takeout from 2019.

Start An Underground Competitive Paper Tearing League

Forget NaNoWriMo or any of those ‘fancy’ structured writing challenges. If you’re struggling to write, maybe it’s because you haven’t embraced the art of chaos. And nothing quite says chaos like starting an underground competitive paper-tearing league. Invite the neighbors, get a scoreboard, and tear some paper like it insulted your mother.

You’ll be surprised how ripping things to shreds can be inspirational. No, it’s not that pretentious metaphor of ‘tearing down barriers’—it’s literally just tearing paper and finding joy in destruction. Each ripped sheet represents a missed deadline, a rejected draft, a story that simply won’t work. But it’s also something more: each piece is something you can conquer, even if it’s only 8.5 by 11 inches.

There’s camaraderie in the league too. A shared bond among people who just really enjoy tearing things apart. Let’s be honest, sometimes writing feels like building a house of cards in a windstorm—fragile and doomed. But tearing paper? That’s something you can do. It’s freeing, almost spiritual, like writing in reverse. And when you finally sit down to write again, you’ll find there’s something rejuvenating about accepting that sometimes creativity is just shredding nonsense.

Cook A Meal But Replace One Ingredient With Something Completely Unrelated

Who said writer’s block couldn’t taste like questionable decisions? It’s time to cook a meal, but here’s the catch: one ingredient needs to be replaced by something that has absolutely no business being in there. We’re talking spaghetti and meatballs… except you replace the meatballs with marbles. Or pancakes with a secret ingredient—those little green army men that somehow keep showing up around your house even though you’re in your 30s.

The idea isn’t to make something edible. Honestly, do NOT eat this. The point is to disrupt your usual, tired routine and laugh at the absurdity of it. It’s about coming up with the weirdest substitutions imaginable, all while talking aloud like you’re the star chef of some deranged cooking show. “And here we have my famous lasagna, made with only the finest lasagna noodles, ricotta, and 17 USB sticks from the junk drawer.”

When you’re engaging in this culinary chaos, you’re unearthing an important truth about writing: sometimes you need to add something wild just to see what happens. You don’t need to make it work; you just need to experiment. It’s like you’re reminding your creativity that there are no rules—not even for lasagna.

And who knows, maybe the mashed potato and nail polish casserole will inspire a new character, one who insists on serving ‘questionably avant-garde’ meals at dinner parties. Inspiration can be weird, it can be totally useless, but sometimes it’s also precisely what you needed.

Convince A Pigeon To Write Your Manuscript For You

Ever just look at a pigeon and think, “This guy’s got it all figured out”? They’re not out here worrying about plot development or character arcs—they’re just looking for snacks and judging your life choices from their power line throne. If you’re stuck, maybe it’s time to let the pigeons do the work for once.

Head to the park and find the most well-dressed pigeon. It’ll be the one with the iridescent neck feathers, clearly showing signs of literary genius. Approach it with your manuscript and some bread crumbs. Hand the pigeon the draft, and tell it to edit mercilessly.

Of course, pigeons can’t write, but they sure can poop, and sometimes that’s the level of feedback you need. If the pigeon rejects the draft, maybe it’s a sign. Maybe what you’ve written is just bird-level garbage, and that’s okay. Because now you have the courage to start over.

There’s also something poetic about consulting an animal whose life is as simple as eating crumbs and bothering tourists. If a pigeon can get by with so little concern, then maybe you can write without worrying whether every word is a masterpiece. Lower the stakes. Let the pigeon be your literary muse.

Just don’t actually let the pigeon type. They’re notorious for terrible grammar and worse work ethic.

Host A Spelling Bee For Words That Don’t Exist

Alright, writer’s block has you down. Why not just make stuff up? Host a spelling bee, but for words that absolutely do not exist. Invite your most delusional friends over, put on a blazer to look official, and create words that sound vaguely like they belong in a language but definitely don’t. Like, “Flomkrindle,” or “Snorzletop.” Contestants have to spell it and define it.

“Flomkrindle” might mean “a sandwich made entirely of spite.” Or maybe it’s an adjective describing someone who has the energy of a very small but very angry raccoon. Suddenly, you’re laughing at the absurdity, and the words are flowing again. It’s creativity without the pressure of making any sense at all.

The beauty of a nonsense spelling bee is that it reminds you that words are, at the end of the day, just weird noises we agreed have meaning. Language isn’t some grand, unbreakable code. It’s a series of grunts that someone decided should represent something like “love” or “sandwich” or “failure.” Making up words takes away the seriousness of writing and lets you play again.

Plus, who knows—maybe that word you just made up is exactly what you needed for your story. Maybe the protagonist is feeling “glornful”—a mix between melancholy and absolute confusion. Maybe she’s about to go “snorzletop” on her coworkers because they’re being difficult. The possibilities are endless, especially when you stop caring if it makes any damn sense.

Write A Letter To Your Toaster About Your Deepest Regrets

Forget journaling; it’s overdone. Instead, take the time to write a deeply emotional letter to your toaster. Start with the simple regrets—burning that slice of sourdough, perhaps—but let it spiral into the darker territories. The times you didn’t speak up for yourself, the time you said something mean to a stranger in traffic, the failed aspirations from childhood.

The toaster is the perfect recipient for these emotions because it has absolutely no empathy, and that’s somehow comforting. The toaster’s cold indifference is exactly what you need. It’s not going to try and make you feel better. It’s not going to say, “Hey, it’s okay.” It’s just going to sit there, metal and indifferent, which is exactly how you’re feeling when you’re blocked.

Once you’ve poured out your heart, give it a dramatic ending, maybe even with a threat: “If you burn my bagel one more time, I swear you’ll be replaced by a smart toaster, and don’t think I won’t do it.” Pour your frustrations into that letter. Suddenly, you’re writing. The words are coming from somewhere raw and real.

And just like that, you’re back in the game, even if the game involves sobbing at a small appliance.

Pretend You’re In A Heist Movie, But The Prize Is A Decent Plot

Put on some sunglasses and turn on a jazzy soundtrack—you’re officially in heist mode. Except instead of stealing the crown jewels, you’re trying to heist a plot for your story. The stakes are high. The security system is a blank Word document, and your crew of misfits consists of that one idea you had at 3 a.m. that doesn’t make sense, and the half-baked character concept from 2017.

Now, start planning the heist. The plot’s behind multiple layers of complex security. You need distractions—enter “plot twist” disguised as the maintenance guy. You need a way past the laser sensors—call in your sneaky “foreshadowing” to slink beneath them.

Suddenly, writing becomes a game of trickery. You’re trying to pull off the ultimate heist—a coherent story—and there’s excitement in that challenge. Maybe the story doesn’t need to make perfect sense; maybe it just needs to feel like you’re outsmarting the obstacles in front of you. Your character is “the driver,” and the “MacGuffin” is whatever motivation they need to keep going.

A heist is all about momentum. Once you start planning it out, the pieces fall into place. Before you know it, you’re back to writing without even realizing you cracked the safe.

Debate The Meaning Of Life With Your Goldfish

Alright, writer’s block is an existential kind of pain. What better way to embrace the void than to debate the meaning of life with your goldfish, Greg? The thing about Greg is, he’s got very few life experiences, but somehow he’s always judging you with those big eyes, floating there like a tiny orange philosopher.

Start by asking Greg if he’s satisfied with his life in that tiny glass bowl. What’s it like being a goldfish? Does he dream of something more, or is he simply content to swim in circles? The best thing about Greg is that he never responds, which makes you realize that maybe the meaning of life isn’t found in answers—it’s in the questions.

Suddenly, you’re getting philosophical. You’re writing dialogue. You’re deep into a conversation about the futility of existence, and Greg is offering the silent rebuttal of the ages. He’s a better muse than most people give him credit for.

Once you’ve gone as far as you can with Greg, it’s time to immortalize him in your story. Maybe there’s a character who’s a lot like Greg—apathetic, mysterious, and probably doesn’t know the meaning of life but acts like he does. Suddenly, that writer’s block has turned into a surprisingly reflective conversation, and it only took a fish with the memory span of five seconds.

Stage A Soap Opera Break-Up With Your Writing Desk

Sometimes you need to let it all out. If your relationship with your writing desk has gone stale, maybe it’s time for a dramatic breakup. You’ve given it years of your life, and what’s it given you? Back pain and a drawer that doesn’t close properly? Unacceptable.

Tell your desk you need space—you need someone who supports you and doesn’t leave coffee rings on your soul. Maybe you yell, maybe you cry, maybe you knock over a lamp in the heat of the moment. You want passion! You want fulfillment! And this relationship? It’s a dead-end street.

And as you go through the motions of breaking up with an inanimate piece of furniture, something stirs in you—the kind of over-the-top drama that’s been missing from your writing. Use it. Write down every ridiculous thing you shout at the desk: “You were supposed to be my creative sanctuary, but all you do is hold old Starbucks receipts!” Use the heartbreak to fuel the angst in your work.

When it’s all over, you might sit down again, slightly embarrassed. You’re back at the desk, but now it’s different. You’ve let the emotions out, and you’ve found words you didn’t think were there. Maybe it’s not such a bad relationship after all.

Start A Conspiracy Theory About Your Own Story

When in doubt, a good conspiracy theory never fails to get the creative juices flowing. Here’s the plan: you’re going to accuse your own story of having ulterior motives. Grab some red string, tack it onto the wall, and start connecting dots. Why did the protagonist go to the hardware store? Is the hardware store run by a shadow government? Is the shadow government actually a group of time-traveling geese?

You’ll find yourself getting absurdly into it. Make wild accusations about your characters’ motivations. “She didn’t actually love him, she was a double agent for the squirrels!” Before you know it, your story is full of intrigue. The conspiracies add layers that you didn’t know it needed.

The conspiracy theory exercise makes you think about your own writing in a different way. It’s not about making sense—it’s about finding a way to see what you’re working on from a different angle. Maybe the story didn’t need a shadow government of geese, but the exercise made you realize that something was missing.

And if you decide to leave the conspiracy in, hey, at least you’ve got a plot twist that no one will see coming.