I recently joked with someone who was lamenting their “writer’s block.” They said they kept getting stuck on whatever they were working on… and then immediately starting something new instead.
I couldn’t help myself.
“That doesn’t sound so much like writer’s block,” I said, “as writer’s ADHD.” (I made that up—but I do think it’s a real thing. Something we often mistake for writer’s block, but isn’t. And I don’t mean to diminish real ADHD in any way, which is of course something else entirely.)
Because here’s the key distinction: if you’re genuinely blocked, you can’t write. You feel drained, blank, foggy. Sitting down at the page feels like trying to lift something far heavier than you are. But if you’re happily spinning up new ideas, drafting opening paragraphs, chasing new premises—then you’re not blocked at all. You’re writing just fine.
You’re just avoiding the hard part.
The shiny and new is intoxicating. Beginnings are generous. They forgive rough edges. They promise infinite possibility. Middles and endings, by contrast, demand decisions. They force commitment. They expose the gap between what we imagined and what we can actually execute on the page.
That gap is uncomfortable. So we dodge it.
The good news is that “writer’s ADHD” is often easier to work with than true block, because it means you still have creative energy. You’re not tired or empty—you’re just bored, frustrated, or momentarily disenchanted with the project in front of you.
Which means traditional “block” advice—rest more, step away, refill the well—may actually make things worse.
Instead, the solution is usually to re-inject enthusiasm into the project you’ve stalled on.
One powerful way to do that is to stop writing serially.
If the paragraph you’re on feels like a chore, ask yourself: is there another part of the story you’re more excited to write right now? The climax. The ending. A confrontation you’ve been postponing. A piece of dialogue you’ve been hearing clearly in your head but haven’t earned yet.
Go write that.
Out of order writing isn’t cheating—it’s leverage. It lets you follow energy instead of waiting for discipline alone to carry you. You can always stitch things together later. In fact, writing high-energy scenes early often clarifies what the quieter connective tissue needs to do.
Another tactic is micro-revision. If forward momentum feels impossible, sharpen something instead. Heighten the imagery. Tighten a conversation. Give a scene a clearer emotional turn. You’re still working on the story, still inhabiting its world, still keeping the pen moving.
And that matters.
For me, at least, once I’m within the last ten percent of a piece, finishing becomes easier—even if that final stretch is the least interesting. At that point, the finish line itself generates momentum. There’s relief in sight. Closure.
So if you find yourself constantly abandoning projects for new ones, don’t beat yourself up—and don’t misdiagnose the problem. You’re not blocked. You’re distractible. You’re drawn to novelty. You’re human.
Try writing out of sequence. Follow excitement, not chronology. Keep the keys tapping.
Sometimes finishing isn’t about forcing yourself through resistance—it’s about taking a smarter path around it.
