On Writing When You’re Tired

A sustainable writing practice includes rest. Here’s how to keep moving without burning out.

On Writing When You’re Tired

You don’t need to feel inspired. You don’t even need to feel ready.

But some days, even opening your manuscript feels like too much. You’re tired. You’ve been thinking all day. Working. Parenting. Planning. Trying. It’s enough to make the act of writing — which once felt light and natural — feel like another line item on the to-do list.

That doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong. It means you’re human.

Writing when you’re tired looks different than writing when you’re energized. And that’s okay. A sustainable creative practice includes both.

Here’s how to stay close to your work on the days when you’re not at your best — and why that still counts.

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Lower your bar. Really.

Many authors set internal expectations they can’t meet daily: a certain word count, a stretch of deep focus, a perfect line. When you’re tired, the goal should shift. Ask yourself: What would “showing up” look like if it only needed to take five minutes?

Here are things that count:

• Reading over a paragraph you already wrote.

• Editing a few lines.

• Drafting a sentence — even a bad one.

• Writing a single scene beat.

• Opening the document and doing nothing but noticing what’s there.

One line is still progress. Momentum is built in the smallest movements.

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Try writing something easier.

Not everything you write has to go into your book. In fact, stepping sideways can help restore creative flow when your energy is low.

If your brain is too tired for chapter five, try one of these:

• Draft an Instagram caption related to your book.

• List out five keywords for your book’s marketing.

• Write a quick “letter to your reader.”

• Jot a short paragraph you might use in your bio.

  
  The goal is not perfection — it’s proximity. Stay close to the work in a way that feels manageable.

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Use your phone. Don’t overthink it.

Typing on your laptop might feel like too much. Try dictating into your Notes app instead. Record a voice memo. Capture a passing idea and come back to it later.

This is especially helpful for capturing thoughts that feel fleeting. You don’t need structure — just presence.

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Know when not to write.

Sometimes the best way to protect your writing practice is to rest.

Burnout isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet, subtle. It shows up as avoidance or guilt. If that’s what you’re feeling, a nap, a walk, or a night off might do more for your writing than pushing through.

Sustainable authorship means giving yourself permission to pause. You’re not lazy. You’re building something that will take time — and time includes rest.

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You’re Still A Writer

If you’re tired and still reading this, that says something. You care. You want to keep going. That matters.

You don’t need to prove anything. You don’t need to create at full capacity every day. Some days, all you need to do is stay near the work.

The rest will come.

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And Now a Fiction Break

Matter and Memory

By Liz Dubelman

Ellis woke hungover to the acrid smell of burning toast. The prospect of five more days of Shiva kept her horizontal until she heard Jenny's arrival.

Dressing for Shiva presented endless complications. Jewish law imposed such restrictions—mirrors covered, makeup forbidden. Showering was permitted provided you derived no pleasure from it. The rules multiplied endlessly. No cooking, no cleaning. Ellis and her family depended on others for meals, which meant an endless parade of delicatessen offerings.

Jenny had arranged for attorneys to "stop by." Surely consulting lawyers violated mourning protocols? Ellis could hear everyone congregating in the kitchen. She couldn't endure another day recounting their bizarre tragedy to strangers.

The visitors would express profound condolences to Phoebe, then inevitably confess some grotesque Lester anecdote to Ellis. Like the revelation that Lester maintained files documenting personal tragedies befalling people he despised—files that eventually required multiple cabinets. Phoebe explained that Lester used these records as instant antidepressants, reviewing them whenever melancholy struck. This behavior redefined schadenfreude entirely.

Perhaps she should have delivered a different eulogy—something conveying, "I'm struggling too, please don't speak to me."

Even the rabbi shared inappropriate stories. "Your father adored women," he'd confided. "Every High Holy Day, he'd comment on their clothing, their bearing. I enjoyed listening to him speak, though there was one occasion when he—" The rabbi paused, bobbing his head and gesturing vaguely. "Well, it became too colorful even for my tastes." Ellis felt mortified, though she was developing immunity to the sensation.

Family Dysfunction

She dressed and joined her fractured family for coffee. "What about our thin-tailed friend?" she whispered to Ben in passing. Ben nodded affirmatively like some mob enforcer. Ellis had no idea what his gesture meant. Jenny was explaining the attorneys' impending visit to Phoebe.

"You need to understand your legal position," Jenny insisted. "These weren't normal circumstances."

"I was married to that man for forty years—nothing was ever normal. He died while married to me, and that's final."

A small fire erupted in the toaster oven. The entire family spotted it simultaneously. Phoebe lunged for the toaster door while Ben doused the flames with his coffee.

"I don't understand this appliance," Phoebe muttered. "It did the same thing thirty minutes ago."

Then why repeat the experiment? Ellis thought.

"You're forbidden from cooking," Jenny said, as if that explained the malfunctioning toaster.

"Five more days," Ellis said aloud.

"What?" Jenny demanded sharply.

"Nothing," Ellis backtracked. "I misspoke." I just need to survive the passage of time, she thought privately.

The Theory of Redistributed Madness

Ellis had always known that when Lester died, she'd observe the complete seven-day mourning period. Some families abbreviated the ritual, but Lester would have demanded full treatment. As Friday's sunset marked their fourth day, the Sabbath provided reprieve—no visitors until Sunday.

Before Lester's death, Ellis had considered Shiva beneficial. Families would mourn collectively, then achieve closure. When she'd previously imagined Lester's demise—which happened frequently—she'd believed the ritual might benefit her dysfunctional family. They'd use their shared time and collective history to decode this complicated man and properly lay his memory to rest. Their enlightenment would strengthen family bonds and restore sanity.

She'd forgotten she belonged to a deeply disturbed family. They wouldn't provide support or insight. They sat glumly, barely communicating. Visitors arrived and painfully refreshed Ellis's traumatic memories. The Shiva resembled a morose complaint session—Rashomon with pastrami on rye.

This was when Ellis first developed her theory that madness, like matter, exists in finite quantities within families. When one member recovers or dies, that insanity simply redistributes among survivors. Ellis anticipated ample opportunity to test and prove this hypothesis.

Archaeological Discoveries

Sleeping in Lester's bed didn't disturb Ellis. He was dead, and she didn't believe in ghosts beyond those haunting her psyche. She undressed and donned one of his T-shirts—the Father's Day gift she'd purchased on sale from the Gap's website. Lester had been short and stocky; the periwinkle shirt hung loosely on Ellis's petite frame.

She entered Lester's closet and swept aside hanging clothes to reveal a three-drawer filing cabinet. Ellis knew its location from adolescence, when Lester stored cash envelopes there. She'd regularly pilfered small amounts for marijuana purchases without guilt—he'd driven her to theft through his erratic behavior. Who needed that kind of father?

She inhaled deeply and opened the top drawer. Since Phoebe had served divorce papers four years earlier, Lester's room received minimal cleaning. Phoebe paid the housekeeper but refused to include Lester's space, while Lester claimed poverty in court documents, avoiding cleaning expenses. Occasionally, he'd slip the woman twenty dollars to change sheets and straighten up when Phoebe attended book group.

Ellis's allergies often triggered asthma. Now, in this neglected closet, every breath proved hazardous. Thick, undisturbed dust invaded her lungs directly.

The files varied—some yellowed with age, others pristine. Labels ranged from thick black marker to neat typed stickers. Ellis browsed randomly: STUDIO, DIVORCE, EQUIPMENT, INSURANCE, SARAH LAWRENCE...

That final folder stopped her cold. Why would Lester maintain files on Ellis's college? He hadn't attended graduation or ever visited campus.

She extracted the folder and settled on the bed. The first document was her college application essay. Reading it triggered mild embarrassment—full of adolescent indecision and angst. Truth was, little had changed for Ellis over twenty years. Despite its brevity, the essay was honest. She'd typed it on an IBM Selectric, and she could feel the raised letter impressions on the page's reverse.

Something was wrong. This wasn't a photocopy of a sentimental father's keepsake. This was the original.

The next document was a copy—an essay bearing Ellis's name that she'd never written or seen. This version was goal-oriented, discussing her "years of community service" and "academic excellence aspirations." She placed this essay face-down atop her authentic one and examined the next document.

A letter from Lester to Dr. Merriam Burrows, Sarah Lawrence's president. It focused primarily on Lester's achievements and successes. While avoiding explicit quid pro quo language, he clearly implied substantial donations in exchange for his daughter's admission.

The remaining correspondence documented Dr. Burrows's attempts to collect Lester's promised contributions. Initial letters invited campus visits. Later, Dr. Burrows offered to visit Lester personally. The correspondence grew increasingly aggressive. The final letter revealed Dr. Burrows's obvious insult at being snubbed and swindled.

Ellis gasped involuntarily. Her chest constricted with dust and emotion. Simply breathing became laborious. She reclined, conserving energy, contemplating Lester's twisted paternal logic—how he'd viewed himself as a superhero father. Ellis tried forgiving him now that he was dead, but forgiveness made breathing even harder.

As sleep approached, one thought surfaced: Now I can never seek public office. This realization made her giggle, which worsened her asthma. She'd spend Saturday hospitalized, and it would be Lester's fault. Still causing chaos from the grave.

Final Rituals

At every Shiva's conclusion, the rabbi recites Kaddish before a minyan—ten Jewish men. By then, visitors had dwindled to almost nothing, but the rabbi anticipated this, bringing several strangers who departed after sandwiches and drinks, leaving the family alone.

One final ritual remained to complete the Shiva process. The rabbi instructed mourners to walk around the block—symbolically taking first steps back into the world while escorting the deceased's soul from the house. Ellis thought whoever created this tradition didn't know her father. Lester wouldn't be escorted anywhere and wouldn't surrender easily.

His presence would linger long after they completed their ceremonial walk.