You have all these ideas for your chapter, and they’re sitting in your head like a prisoner.
If you haven’t wrecked the cell and freed those babies by using what was mentioned here, then you need to run to that post first and come back.
But if you did and still struggle, we’re facing a new kind of problem.
How intriguing.
You can’t explain the ideas, can’t lay them out, because you’re not convinced enough of your narrative.
You write a few phrases, and you sit here chewing at your soul just ‘cause you already done it.
You spend hours only to end up with half a page.
How…
Progressive of you.
I wouldn’t say sitting here is a waste of time, but you know what is?
The self-destructing attempt to conquer an entire chapter in one single sitting.
That kind of intensity only burns your edges.
Why in the hell are you trying to finish a massive task without a single breath of air?
It’s mind-clawing.
The only thing that isn’t a waste of time is setting a definitive word count for the day.
I stand with you, as I’m not only a non-fiction writer, but also a fiction one.
So, let me ask you this one question…
Why are you doubting?
Is it because you’re a beginner? Can’t write? Don’t feel confident in your work?
Could be…
But is it because you’re facing a process block?
That’s a thing, and we’re going to demolish this pretentious vulgarity.
…
I’m dramatic.
Are you actually making it?
Every writer believes that the day they’re “doing well” will feel like a celebration.
That they will wake up one morning and suddenly their prose will be undeniable, their ideas will be clear, and the publishing world will welcome them with open arms.
But the reality is far quieter.
You will know you’re doing well because of what you do every day.
And your progress is measured in small, consistent actions that no one sees.
You’re doing well when…
You’ve stopped waiting for permission
You’ve learned that a writer’s work isn’t tied to inspiration. It’s a job.
You show up at your desk on the good days and the bad ones, and you do the work.
The sign that you’re doing well is that you no longer wait for a bolt of lightning to strike. You’ve accepted that the moment a story starts is the moment you decide to write it.
The quality of your day is no longer decided by how you feel.
Your mistakes are evolving
When you first start, your work is littered with big, obvious flaws: A bland protagonist, a plot that goes nowhere, a dialogue that makes you cringe.
But as you continue to write, your mistakes become more sophisticated.
They become subtle flaws in pacing or a minor inconsistency in a character’s motivation.
This is a good thing.
It means you’ve conquered the simple problems and are now wrestling with the difficult ones.
The fact that you can spot your old mistakes in the work of other beginners is proof of your own development.
You think about it when you’re not writing
When the thoughts of your story start to follow you into the car, into the shower, or into a conversation with a friend. You’re watching a movie, and you’re not just enjoying it; you’re taking notes on how it builds suspense.
You’re having a conversation, and you’re mentally dissecting the other person’s mannerisms for your next character.
This isn’t a distraction; it’s a sign that your mind has been fully rewired to see the world as a source of material.
And this is the moment your writing has moved from a hobby to a part of your mind.
But some days, you’re not up for it and you can’t get…
Why you can’t write
You believe you can’t write and that you lack confidence.
All of a sudden, you feel lost.
But those things aren’t the problem; they are the symptoms of the problem.
The problem is a process block.
It’s the feeling of standing in front of an empty page without a map, a guide, or one move planned.
You’re waiting for inspiration when you should be executing a plan.
The feeling of “I can’t write” is a direct result of three missing components:
No blueprint: You’re trying to build a masterpiece without a blueprint. You have an idea in your head, but you have not broken it down into a clear, step-by-step plan. You feel lost because you don’t know where to place the first stone.
No toolkit: You have a vague sense of what a story should feel like, but you lack the specific tools to build it. You don’t know how to consciously control pacing, how to create tension with subtext, or how to develop a character with action. You’re trying to fight a war without a weapon.
No repeatable system: You’re relying on luck and inspiration, so you sit down to write only when you feel like it. You don’t have a reliable process that you can trust to deliver results, and you assume the problem is with you—your talent and confidence.
Writing is not a magical talent.
It’s a skill built on a repeatable process.
You feel that way because you don’t have a reliable process to go from an idea in your head to a tangible story on the page.
The goal of this guide is not to teach you how to be talented. But it’s near it.
I’m going to give you the process you need to demolish that feeling of being lost and never feel like you can’t write again.
Because you will always know what your next move will be.
Quantity over quality
The desire to write a book is a thrilling thing, but it’s a trap.
If you try to write a whole book on your first attempt, you will likely get stuck and lose confidence.
You can’t analyze a process you have not yet experienced.
You don’t start by learning all the rules.
You start by doing the work.
And the goal of your first attempt is to learn what it takes to finish a book.
You cannot improve what does not exist.
Your mission is to learn how to go from a blank page to a finished story.
This requires you to focus on quantity first.
You’re trying to write something you can analyze.
So…
1. Write a short story or a novella
Don’t start with a full-length novel.
A novel is a multi-year commitment, and a beginner needs momentum.
Start with a short story (under 7,500 words) or a novella (20,000-40,000 words).
This gives you enough space to practice plot and character without being overwhelmed.
2. Finish the first draft
Your primary objective is to complete the first draft.
It doesn’t matter how bad it is; it will be bad. So let it be bad.
Write the whole thing from start to finish without going back to edit.
Get the story on the page.
This action will give you more confidence than a hundred hours of reading about plot.
3. Analyze your work
Once you have a completed draft, you have a physical object you can learn from.
Now you read.
You read your own work with a critical eye.
This is when you learn about plot, character, and pacing.
You will see firsthand where your plot is weak, where your characters are inconsistent, and where the story gets boring.
You now have a tangible reference for all the theory you read about.
The truth is that you can read a thousand books on plot, but you will not understand it until you have tried to build one yourself.
And the most common and destructive cliche in writing advice is to “learn everything” first.
This leads to analysis paralysis.
The only way to learn is to do.
So your first move is to write, your second is to analyze, and your third is to write again with a new set of tools.
But what happens when you don’t believe in your outline?
Why is it that you can’t be led to…
The conviction
You may be a pantser who wants to give outlining a shot.
Or you’re a plotter who struggles to stick with the plan.
You keep changing it, replacing it, deleting it…
Stuck in a loop to find that perfect background…
Not convinced enough, and not committed to the one central premise that makes it worth telling.
The issue here is that you’re not rooted in your story’s idea.
When you try to walk backwards, going from laying out the background to the main idea of your story or the main event of your story, you will find yourself erasing what you wrote and rewriting the whole page.
You’re not satisfied, and you’re convinced you’re protecting the story.
But you’re only ruining it, twisting the characters, and destroying the end.
It leads to disastrous results.
And so, you want to walk right, starting from your idea, to the characters or events, to the world…
Or the way you want to go about it.
The reason you change your mind is that your idea is not yet a belief.
So, the first step is your idea, because we want that conviction, which will lead to the creation of your characters and how you want the story to end up.
A story is not a collection of scenes.
It’s a question that you set out to answer.
And you must choose your hill to die on.
You’re going to use this rule to decide if your story has a core conviction.
The rule of one
If you cannot sell your entire narrative to yourself in a sentence, you don’t have an idea you believe in.
The point isn’t to write a logline for a movie trailer.
The point is to strip away all the characters, plot points, and world-building and find that one central question that your story is asking.
Is your story about a man who wants to find a way to get back to his past?
Or is it about the impossible choice between living with a ghost and building a new life?
Is your story about a thief trying to steal a crown?
Or is it about the unwritten code of honor among thieves?
The first is a plot. The second is a conviction.
The first is a road map. The second is the destination.
Once you have that single sentence that you believe in, every other decision you make—the characters you create, the scenes you write, the world you build—will be in service of answering that single question.
And you will no longer have a reason to change your mind.
From idea to scene
An outline is not a cage.
Quite the contrary, it’s a map.
You may feel that outlining will stifle your creativity, but the truth is the opposite.
A map gives you the freedom to explore the territory without the constant fear of being lost.
Your process begins long before you write a single scene, and it starts with asking the right questions.
1. The foundation
Before you think about plots, you need to understand the fundamental pillars of your story. These are the details you should work out before anything else.
Character
Don’t just define what your character wants.
Define what they need.
What’s their core wound or flaw?
What’s the lie they believe about themselves or the world?
What’s the secret desire they’re afraid to admit?
Your story is the journey of your character moving from the lie to the truth.
World
Your world is a dynamic force that acts on your characters.
What are the key rules of your world?
More importantly, how do those rules create conflict?
Theme
The theme is the central argument or philosophical question your story is exploring.
And your plot should be a series of events that answer this question.
Is your story about love conquering all or about the destruction it leaves behind?
2. Plotting the pillars
Once you have your core foundation, you can begin to apply a narrative structure.
Don’t get overwhelmed by the details. This is just a basic roadmap.
The one-sentence rule: For your major plot points (e.g., the beginning, the inciting incident, the midpoint, the climax, and the end), write a single sentence that describes what happens. Don’t write a paragraph.
Connect the plot to the character: Now, for each of those key plot points, add a single sentence that describes how your character has changed. This ensures your plot and character arc are moving forward together.
3. The scene-by-scene
You have a solid framework and a series of checkpoints that you must hit to get to the end. Now you can begin writing the scenes.
The scene equation
Every scene in your story must have a clear goal, a conflict, and a specific outcome.
For each scene in your outline, ask: “What does my character want in this scene? What stands in their way? What is the result?”
The index card method
Use index cards or a digital equivalent to outline each scene.
On each card, you will write a short summary of the goal, conflict, and outcome.
You can then add specific notes about characters, events, and foreshadowing that you want to include.
These cards are flexible; you can rearrange them, add new ones, and remove old ones as your plan changes.
4. The supporting cast
In this stage, you can see the gaps after the blueprint is laid.
You know where your characters need help or where they need opposition.
This is how you decide what other characters you should add and what their role should be. And every new character you add must serve a purpose.
The mentor: Who teaches your character the skills they need to survive the next act?
The ally: Who helps them get past a major obstacle or provides emotional support?
The obstacle: Who stands in their way at a crucial moment? This could be a villain or a simple conflict.
Look at your outline.
For each major scene, ask yourself what kind of character is needed to make the scene happen.
A stranger, a rival, a friend?
The outline will tell you what you need.
Write before you publish
This one is tricky.
Forget the noise about writing in public first to gather data. That approach has a purpose, but it’s not for every writer.
The constant pressure of a public audience can be a powerful tool, but it can also be a lethal one.
You must choose your path wisely.
Because both methods have a different set of risks and rewards, the one you choose will determine your success.
The chapter bank method
This is the most disciplined approach.
You write a series of chapters or scenes ahead of your publication schedule.
You have a “bank” of finished work ready to go, and you publish from it.
This is how the majority of successful writers operate.
The benefit: This method gives you control. You’re not at the mercy of inspiration or a busy week. You can edit for continuity, refine characters, and tighten the plot across multiple chapters before anyone sees them. This protects you from the unpredictable and ensures consistent quality.
The risk: It requires discipline and a long view. You don’t get the immediate gratification of seeing your work go live.
The just-in-time method
This is the high-risk, high-reward approach.
You write a chapter, publish it, and then immediately begin the next one.
This is a common tactic for new writers because it feels urgent and provides instant feedback.
The benefit: The pressure of a deadline can be a strong motivator, and the immediate reader feedback can give you a boost and a sense of connection to your audience.
The risk: This is a volatile and dangerous practice. When you hit a plot hole or face writer’s block—and you perhaps will—the pressure to produce something on a deadline can lead to burnout, lower quality work, or the complete abandonment of the project.
The hybrid method
The most effective approach, especially for a new writer, is to not choose one or the other.
You build a system that takes the best from both.
Start by writing a chapter bank.
Write three to five chapters, or even an entire act, before you publish the first word.
This gives you a safe buffer.
You have momentum and a cushion.
Once you have your bank, you can begin publishing on a regular schedule.
Your goal is to write at the same pace you publish.
If you publish a chapter a week, your job is to finish one new chapter that week.
This method gives you the security of a backup while providing the motivation of a deadline.
It trains you to be consistent, protects you from burnout, and allows you to always have a safety net.
The most effective system is the one that accounts for the inevitable obstacles.
Therefore, this is the framework you can use to build the routine that works for you.
Now, now…
You love writing and want to keep producing more crafted work, but you have a fear…
A fear that freezes you in place from all the “bad” feedback you’ve received.
People are laughing at you and tearing you down because that’s just how bad your writing is.
But I’m not here to laugh at you; I’m here to tell you to laugh at the undeserving and take their feedback to progress.
Because what they just gave you is part of the cheat code.
They’ve eased up your start; now, you only have to work behind the scenes to level up your status.
What a lovely turn of events.
Words that shiver
Since you have the cheat code, you need to learn how to use it.
You’re allowing the enemy’s emotional noise to override your objective; your goal is to be undeniable.
The undeserving are not critics. They’re just people with a vague emotional reaction.
A critic would point to a specific flaw in your plot. They would tell you your pacing is off or your dialogue is weak.
So, the undeserving gave you a gift, but they don’t even know it.
The freeze you feel comes from believing their emotional noise is actual feedback.
It isn’t.
1. The flawless counterattack
You don’t fight back with words.
You fight back with a masterpiece.
The shiver your words will cause is because they’re so technically sound, so flawlessly executed, that the antagonists have no way to respond.
The best revenge is a page so good they cannot find a single thing to complain about.
And their insults will mean nothing if they have nothing to attach them to.
This is how you reclaim your energy and use their mockery for their own defeat.
But…
Just because you write flawlessly doesn’t mean that you will never get hate.
You will.
It’s the sign that you’re doing something worth looking at, which has created a fan base.
So be proud, darling.
Even the hate still follows J.K. Rowling to this day.
Yet, you know her name, don’t you?
2. The method
Here is your playbook.
Dissect the insult: When someone calls your work “cringe” or “bad,” ignore it. That’s emotional noise. Instead, look for the specific feedback they provided, no matter how harsh. Did they say your dialogue was clunky? Did they complain about your pacing? These are the data points and the free lessons you’ve been given.
Identify the weakness: Now that you have a specific point of criticism, you have a clear mission. Go to your writing and identify the exact section that deals with that topic. Go to the guide on dialogue, the section on pacing, or the rules for a plot. You have a free tutor who just pointed you in the right direction.
Execute the fix: Take the knowledge you have and apply it. Rewrite the section of your story that was criticized; make it undeniable. The shiver they feel will be the moment they realize their words did not affect you, that they only made you ruthless.
And as you progress with this process, you will become more convinced in your writing.
However, you don’t need to repeat the process for every section or every chapter.
While you do it for every written work, that doesn’t mean you have to listen to everyone on a constant loop.
After this phase, you will have a clear idea of your style and what makes you feel content.
At that point, you’ll be writing for them, but you’ll also be writing for yourself.
You will have to set new standards.
Because if you dedicate your life to writing for the undeserving repeatedly, never progressing, and get stuck in a cycle where you tweak every letter, will that truly serve your purpose?
Reality check
Let’s talk about the noise that surrounds the craft.
You’ve dominated the blank page, but now you have to face the external world.
Two major traps await: the myth that you need to be an expert on everything before you write, and the lie that you need a diploma to be an author.
We’re annihilating both.
Writing novel-style can be out of this place, meaning, you don’t have to attach reality to imagination.
It could be fantasy, but this is what fiction is.
Fantasy is a subgenre of fiction, a category within it, but fiction doesn’t need to be based on fact.
However, if you’re leaning on that, then you already have the basic knowledge regarding what reality is, and if you don’t, they’re one search away.
Some people do their research when they’re elbow-deep into the story, and some of them prepare beforehand.
It doesn’t matter if you came with your gears in place; what matters is that you have a solid understanding of your story idea and how to go about it.
But what if you really want to ground your story in realism?
You’d focus on specific, concrete details.
Give your characters realistic flaws and motivations, making their actions have believable consequences, and write dialogue that sounds like how real people actually talk.
If you’re still struggling, then reference real people who are present in your life.
Analyze the people you know or have met, and get inspired by:
Extracting their characteristics, traits, and attributes
Their mindset and thinking process
Their egos and alter egos
The words they use…
Etc.
But if you don’t know lots of people…
That’s no issue.
Don’t think in struggles, but beyond the limits.
Pull up your list of favorite celebrities, content creators, actors, and so on, and do the same process: Extract.
But it’s not just about the realism research.
There’s a persistent, irrelevant debate that circles every creative.
The noise tells you that your only qualifications are the degrees you have and the connections you’ve made.
So, what’s the distinction between...
Degrees & the grind
The debate over degrees and qualifications is a distraction.
The reality is that the publishing industry doesn’t require a diploma.
It only requires a finished manuscript.
A degree in creative writing provides a structure, community, and a focused environment for practice. It’s a valuable asset and an advantage for a writer who needs that framework to get to the next level.
But it’s not a key to a locked door.
The industry is littered with the work of people who wrote without a degree.
The only proven words in this business are those on the page.
And the only qualification that has ever mattered is the work itself.
Stephen King wrote Carrie while working as a teacher.
J.K. Rowling wrote Harry Potter while on welfare.
The reality is that a degree can help, but it’s not a prerequisite for talent or success.
The modern publishing landscape has only confirmed this reality.
The self-publishing revolution means that the gatekeepers who once demanded a specific kind of background have been removed.
Your most valuable assets are your passion and your dedication.
They’re the only things that will get you through the long, difficult process of writing a novel.
And the discipline required to sit down and write every single day is a far more powerful credential than any piece of paper.
You’ve demolished every excuse not to write.
You’ve gone from feeling like an imposter to having a direct plan of attack.
And you’ve already started.
This is a game of skill, not luck.
You’ve got the first move down, but to truly dominate, you’re going to need the full system.
The same structures, tactics, and psychological hacks that built this post are what separate a writer from one who creates worlds.
All of it is waiting for you right HERE.
I’ll see you on the other side.