Your brain is lying to you about writing. Here’s how to lie back.
There’s a version of you that wants to write. Like, really wants to write. Has the idea, has the characters, maybe even has the opening line bouncing around somewhere in the back of your skull.
And then there’s the other version of you. The one who opens a blank document and suddenly remembers they need to reorganize their sock drawer.
Both of those people are you. And the second one is winning.
Here’s the thing nobody tells you about writing consistently: it’s not really a discipline problem. It’s a brain problem. Your brain is wired to avoid effort and seek comfort, and staring at a blank page feels like neither of those things. So we have to get sneaky. We have to psych ourselves into it.
I mean that literally.
Trick 1: Pretend it’s a school assignment.
Not your novel. Not your magnum opus. Just… a school assignment. Something low stakes that a past version of you knocked out in an evening because it was due tomorrow. That framing removes the weight of this matters and replaces it with just get it done. Turns out your brain doesn’t know the difference. Use that.
Trick 2: Lie to yourself about how much you have to write.
Tell yourself you only have to write one sentence. That’s it. One sentence and you’re free.
I’m serious. One sentence counts. You’re allowed to stop.
But here’s what usually happens: you write the one sentence, and the next sentence is right there, and the one after that is already forming, and suddenly you’ve written a whole scene without your brain realizing it had been tricked into doing work. This is called the Ulysses Pact, you make the decision before the moment of temptation, so willpower doesn’t even have to show up. It’s already done.
Trick 3: Set a timer and go.
Pick a length, start with ten minutes , and for that window, you write as fast as you can. No editing, no second-guessing, no stopping to look up whether medieval knights actually wore that kind of armor. Just words, as fast as possible, until the timer goes off.
Writers call this a sprint. You can call it whatever you want. The point is that it works, because it swaps the question from is this good? to can I keep going until the beep? That’s a much easier question to answer.
Trick 4: Reframe the whole thing.
You don’t have to write. You get to write. That’s not a cute motivational poster sentiment, it’s actually a different psychological posture. Self-Determination Theory tells us that when we connect a task to something we genuinely care about, we sustain it way longer than when we’re just forcing ourselves through it.
So before you open the document, ask yourself: why does this story matter to me? Not to the world. To you. Write that down somewhere. Then open the document.
And if that doesn’t work, try the flip side: I don’t have to write today. Just sit with what that actually means. Think about the story that doesn’t get told. The character who stays stuck. Sometimes the reverse psychology hits harder than the pep talk.
Trick 5: Make it a group project.
There’s a psychological phenomenon called the Köhler Effect, basically, people work harder when they’re part of a group than when they’re alone. Something about not wanting to be the weak link kicks in, and suddenly you’re showing up.
Find a writing buddy. Join a community. Tell someone out loud what you’re going to write this week. Declare a deadline publicly. It feels uncomfortable for about thirty seconds, and then it becomes the thing that gets you to the page on days when nothing else does.
Trick 6: Break it into pieces so small they’re almost embarrassing.
Three chapters feels impossible. One scene is manageable. One paragraph is doable. One sentence is, well, you already know.
Chunking isn’t just a productivity hack. It’s cognitive mercy. Your brain can only hold so much before it decides the task is too big and checks out. So give it something it can actually hold. Stack small wins on top of each other until, one day, you look back and realize you’ve built something.
Here’s the honest truth underneath all of this: the story you want to write is not going to write itself. Inspiration is real but it’s unreliable, and waiting for it is just a more poetic form of avoidance.
But your brain? Your brain can be worked with. It can be tricked, nudged, bribed, and gently deceived into doing the thing it claims it wants to do.
One sentence. Ten minutes. One scene.
Then do it again tomorrow.
Andrew M. Friday 