This is where I try to convince you that writer's block isn't your enemy. It's just trying to protect you.

That might sound strange if you've spent years cursing the blank page, hating yourself for procrastinating, or wondering if you even deserve to call yourself a writer. (Welcome to the group chat, Imposter Syndrome!) Most advice on this topic suggests taking an inspired walk while listening to your bookish playlist. They'll give tips to ignore your Inner Critic. Then, they'll neatly detail how to out-discipline your resistance through strict craft application.

"Did you try setting a writing timer?" "Buy my plotting template!" "Change fonts. That helped me."

And these tips and tricks might work when you're feeling a little stuck. They can help you get past a small hurdle and learn a new way to approach the art of writing.

However, when you're really stuck, and I'm talking stuck-stuck, an inspired playlist isn't going to cut it, and no amount of plotting in the world is going to get the words flowing. If you've been there, then you know exactly what I'm talking about. The white-knuckled frustration with yourself. The overwhelm of feeling like a fraud, or worse, a disappointment. The way your will to write flees the scene faster than the suspect in a cozy mystery. The shame that accompanies having to announce to your audience that your publication date has been moved, again, and how sorry you are about it.

When you reach this point, you've gone for more walks than you can count, listened to endless podcasts on how to "bust through" writer's block, and you've done everything short of exploring time travel. Your anxiety or depression (or both) is at an all time high, and you can't see a way out.

Let me offer you another way.

What if instead of trying to push past that resistance with tips and tricks, we talk to it?

Yes, what I'm suggesting is that you talk...to yourself.

No, I'm not joking.

I want you to view each "part" of you as having a point of view. They believe it's their job to protect you. Not to destroy you.

And what are they protecting, you might ask?

Great question. And it's one I want you to pose directly to them, when the time comes. But for now, it's enough to understand that they are protecting other parts of you. Your pain. Your identity. The way others view you.

These hurting, usually younger parts are called Exiles. We'll explore them more deeply in Part III, but for now it's important to understand that, much like you instinctively cradle your hand when your carpal tunnel flares, your Protectors do whatever it takes to stop emotional pain. When carpal tunnel acts up, you might see a doctor, rest your wrist, wear a splint, even adjust the way you live to prevent further injury.

Your Protectors do the same thing with psychological pain: if something threatens to hurt you, they step in. And if the threat feels big enough? They'll shut down the entire writing operation to keep you safe.

Side note for all my neuroscience loving besties: Your brain can't tell the difference between physical and psychological pain. It processes both the same way. Which is why when you're sad, you feel it in your body. And why you do everything you can to avoid it.

For a writer, that might look like working until midnight for seven days straight to meet a deadline you've been avoiding (leading to burnout), or freezing the moment you feel worthless, and holding your words hostage until you feel safe again (leading to writer's block). These are just a few examples, I'm sure you have more.

Protectors can be so good at their job, sometimes, they leap into action preemptively, stopping you from feeling the pain at all. This is called numbing.

These parts want to help, just like the sexy firefighter in your latest novel. They show up, hose in hand, ready to put out the fire that nearly destroyed your main character's family bakery. Dramatic? Yes. Helpful? Also yes. Do they also create a giant, watery mess over the kitchen floor that you now have to deal with? Unfortunately, yes.

* * *

By this point, you might be getting a little frustrated by these so-called Protectors for causing your writer's block. Let me offer a counterpoint: When they're not forced into extreme roles (in other words, not holding your words hostage), these Protective parts are very helpful. They serve to keep you on track with word counts. They challenge you to grow. They manage your day.

But what do we do as writers? We pick at our old wounds just to bleed onto the page. We inject pieces of ourselves into our characters. We weave in societal issues—racism, homophobia, ableism, addiction—layering them over our own scars. And while this practice leads to amazing stories that make others feel seen and shines a light on important issues, it also pokes at old wounds with the sharp end of a pen.

And your Protectors don't like that.

What I really want you to understand is that writer's block is an act of protection. Your parts step in because they don't want you to risk rejection, ridicule, or failure. Especially when you've exposed your pain in writing for others to rate and review. When the success of those words is tied to self-worth and monetary compensation. The stakes become so high, stopping the process becomes the only way they can keep you from harm.

* * *

This book invites you to rethink the very idea of "block." Instead of asking, How do I beat this? we'll ask, What is this part trying to do for me? From that place, something shifts: healing writer's block (and creating in general) becomes less about battling yourself and more about building trust with the parts of you that show up when you pick up the pen.