How to Write: The Cosy, Breakthrough Method That Actually Works

How To Write (Part One)
Tell me if this feels familiar, you’re sitting down to write. Maybe it’s early morning, or late evening. Maybe it’s stolen time between work and life.

Your hands are on the keyboard, but your mind is already somewhere else.

This has to be good. I need to finish something. I’m running out of time. What if no one reads this? What if it’s terrible?

The weight of expectation arrives before the words do.

I know that feeling. I’ve sat in that chair. And I want to tell you something that changed everything for me: learning how to write doesn’t have to feel that way.

It doesn’t have to be about proving anything or performing for an invisible audience. It doesn’t have to be about hitting word counts or racing to the finish line. How to write can be something quiet. Something intentional. Something that actually feels good.

I’m writing this as a writer who has written for most of her life.

I’ve been the aspiring author as well as the author and now I feel I’m the jaded writer who is a bit ‘meh’ about it all.
I want the excitement I had as an aspiring author and the grounded-ness I had as an author, but without the ‘meh.’
So this is a work in progress. A how to write, part one. As in, let’s try it this way and see if it works.

How Most Writers Get Stuck (And Why)

Let me start by talking about what doesn’t work when looking at how to write. Because I see this everywhere. And I used to do it too.

The hustle culture approach to writing goes something like this: write every single day. Hit your word count. Finish fast. Get published. Move on to the next book and repeat the process.

It’s all about momentum and output and proving yourself. And I get it. I really do. If you write more, surely you’ll get better faster, right?

But here’s what actually happens, or what happened to me anyhow. You set this massive expectation for yourself. You tell yourself you have to write 2,000 words today, or you’ve failed.

You can’t miss a day or you’re lazy. You have to be productive, productive, productive. And what happens? You burn out.

You start resenting the thing you loved. Writing stops being joy and starts being obligation. You procrastinate. You feel paralyzed. And ironically, you write less, not more.

The pressure to be productive kills productivity.

Then there’s perfectionism. And this one’s sneaky because it disguises itself as high standards. As caring about your craft.

But really, it’s fear dressed up in nice clothes. You want everything to be perfect before you share it. Before you even finish it. So you obsess over how to write the first paragraph excellently. You rewrite the opening scene seventeen times. You never move forward because nothing feels good enough.

The cycle goes like this. Perfectionism makes you procrastinate. You’re so afraid of writing something bad that you don’t write anything at all and the procrastination makes you doubt yourself. You wonder how to write one single word, and in the end you write nothing.

And then there’s AI.

Oh Lordy don’t get me started on AI when it comes to how to write.

I’m going to be direct about this when I say, AI creative writing is not creative writing at all. Not in any shape or form. Please don’t consult AI when looking at how to write creativley.

AI writing tools that promise to remove the friction of how to write, to make it easier, that will give you a large jumble of words on a page fast, but tell me, where’s the fun in that?

Because the friction is where writing happens. Friction is where you discover your voice. Friction is where you learn what you actually have to say and its that awkward, uncomfortable bit that makes creative writing useful.

When you outsource your writing to AI, you’re not saving time. You’re stealing something essential from yourself, and that’s the process of becoming a writer. The struggle of finding your words and the discovery of your unique voice.

You might end up with words on a page, but they won’t be yours. And they’ll feel it and you’ll know it, so please, leave AI out of this for now. AI is not anything to do with how to write creatively, so let’s not talk about it any longer.

How to Write With Permission, Not Pressure

So if that’s what doesn’t work, what does when it comes to how to write?

The opposite, actually.

Instead of pushing harder, what if you let up? Instead of trying to get it right, what if you gave yourself permission to get it wrong? Instead of writing with an imaginary audience watching over your shoulder, what if you wrote just for you?

That’s how to write. That’s a cosy writing practice, and it’s what I’m trying at the moment and it seems to be working.

Here’s what cosy writing practice is built on:

Intentionality. You know why you’re writing. Not “I have to finish a book by December.” That’s a goal, and goals come with pressure. I’m talking about your actual why. “I want to explore this character.” “I need to understand this world.” “This story won’t leave me alone.” That’s real. That’s how to write with intention.

Presence. You’re actually there when you write. You’re not thinking about what it will become, or whether it’s good enough, or if anyone will read it. You’re just there, having fun with the characters and the plot. You’re focused on what’s happening right now, not what will happen to the words once you’ve written them.

Permission. This is the big one. You give yourself permission to write badly, terribly, awfully and more importantly, slowwwwwwwly. You tell yourself that your first draft is supposed to be rough. That messy is fine and you don’t have to get it right. You just have to get it written and you’re learning how to write without boundaries.

And in practice, that looks like this.

Small time blocks. Fifteen minutes instead of three hours. Writing in your favorite corner of your house instead of a cafe that feels intimidating with who knows what watching you.

Celebrating that you showed up, not just what you produced. Connecting with why you love writing instead of why you’re scared of failing.

Two practices that will change how you write: morning pages and freewriting.

I just started the morning pages myself, actually. And I’m obsessed, I thought I would do them for a short time, but I’m continuing to do them daily and here’s why, they help me get all the rubbish out of my head.

You write three pages of longhand, stream-of-consciousness writing, first thing in the morning, before looking at your phone or any kind of screen. You just write whatever comes to mind. Julia Cameron developed this in The Artist’s Way, and decades later, people are still doing them because they work.

There’s no topic. No goal and no editing. You’re not trying to produce anything publishable. You’re just moving your pen across the page, and letting your thoughts come out.

The magic is in the permission. These pages are private. Just for you. No one else will read them, in fact, you shouldn’t even read them back! So you can be completely honest. You can complain. You can ramble, you can even write the same sentence over and over if you can’t think of anything to say.

Then there’s freewriting. Peter Elbow developed this in the 1970s, and it’s just as powerful. Set a timer for ten minutes. Write without stopping. Just like the morning pages, with no topic and no editing. If you get stuck, repeat the same word over and over until your mind catches up. The one rule is to keep your hand moving and don’t let the pen stop.

Why does this work?

Because when you can’t plan or edit, you can’t perform. You give space for your actual thoughts emerge. And by writing without a plan or pressure, you discover what you actually want to say, not what you think you should say, but what comes out without any premeditated thoughts.

And something weird happens. After a few minutes of feeling ridiculous (yes, writing the word “blank” seventeen times feels ridiculous), your mind takes off. Suddenly you have ideas. Suddenly you’re writing something real, and you won’t know it until you’re doing it.

The difference between them is simple. Morning pages are your daily quiet foundation. Your spiritual windshield wipers. (I know that sounds weird, but it’s Julia Cameron’s term and it’s perfect.) Freewriting is your creative burst. Ten minutes when you need ideas right now.

And you don’t have to choose. Many writers do both. Morning pages first thing, clearing your head. Then freewriting when you actually sit down to work on your story. Remember, when it comes to how to write creatively for you, you might do both of these or just one, everyone’s how to write is different.

What they both give you is the same thing. They both give you the permission of how to write badly. Which is paradoxically the thing that makes it possible to eventually write well.

How Your Best Ideas Actually Show Up

Here’s something I didn’t understand for a long time. I thought good ideas came from intense focus. From sitting at my desk for hours, forcing inspiration. I’d read enough about the whole, sit at the desk until something comes, but it just didn’t work for me.

That’s not how it works. Not for me anyhow, my how to write creatively ticket and my best ideas came during relaxation.

Not stress. When you’re not in fight-or-flight mode, your brain can actually be creative. Walking. Making tea. Thinking time. These aren’t distractions from writing, they’re part of how writing happens.

And when you finally sit down to write, something shifts. Most people think they have to know what they’re writing before they write it, and it is good to have a plan, some kind of way you want a scene to work out, but not all the time. There isn’t just one way of how to write, there are many and you pick which one works for you at any given time.

How to Build a Writing Practice That Actually Sticks

I wish someone had told me that when learning how to write, it’s not a case of one-size-fits-all. What works for someone writing three hours a day isn’t going to work for you if you only have fifteen minutes before work. So let me give you a real framework, when thinking of how to write, and as I said, this is part one, so jump forward to parts two and three of how to write if they feel a better fit for you.

But with all parts on how to write, whichever one you choose, do this first:

Start with your specific why, not a generic goal.

Goals are helpful, but they’re not why you show up.

Your goal might be “finish a novel by next year.” But that’s not going to get you to your desk on a Tuesday when you’re tired.

Your why is different.

It’s “I want to explore what happens when someone makes a terrible choice.” It’s “I need to understand this character’s pain.” It’s “this story has been haunting me for three years and I need to get it out.”

Your why is specific. Personal. It’s the reason you can’t not write, it’s the reason you’re reading this right now and why you know you have to write down the things in your head.

So before you do anything else, get clear on that. Write your why down, why do you want to write what you do? Why?

Then assess your actual time and space.

Be honest. How much time do you actually have? Not how much time you wish you had. How much can you realistically commit to writing practice right now?

If it’s fifteen minutes, that’s your starting point. Not three hours. Fifteen minutes. If you have a full hour, brilliant. But if you only have twenty minutes, you’re already ahead. Twenty minutes of focused writing practice beats weeks of wishing you had more time.

For space, find somewhere that feels good. It doesn’t have to be fancy. My writing corner is literally a chair and a blanket. Yours might be the kitchen table after everyone goes to bed. A bench in the park or a corner of your bedroom. Somewhere you feel okay being a little vulnerable.

And if possible, keep some kind of ritual. Tea. Lighting a candle, putting on your specific playlist in the background. Something that signals to your brain, “Now I write.” This sounds small, but your brain loves signals.

It starts to expect creative work when it sees that ritual.

Now here’s your actual writing practice: pick one method and commit for two weeks.

I’m giving you two options of how to write here because they work differently. Pick one. Do it for fourteen days. Then decide if you want to add the other. (See how to write part two, and how to write part three)

Option 1: Morning Pages

Three pages of longhand writing, first thing in the morning. And I mean first thing, before coffee, before checking your phone, before anything else. You just write whatever comes. WHATEVER COMES.

Your thoughts. Your worries. Your dreams. Random complaining. Stream of consciousness. No editing. No goal. No audience. If you can’t even read your writing, that’s great.

Do this for two weeks. I’m serious. Just three pages every morning. By week two, you’ll notice something shift.

Option 2: Freewriting Sessions

Set a timer for ten minutes. Write continuously without stopping. No topic. No editing. No wondering what the hell you’re scribbling down. If you get stuck, write the same word over and over until your brain catches up.

This is active and energizing. Morning pages are quiet and clearing. Freewriting is discovery in motion and it’s fast and quick. You learn what you think by writing it. Solutions appear and ideas will spark.

Do this for two weeks. Find your ten minutes (or fifteen, or twenty if you have it). Sit down with your timer and go.

Then do this every single day: write something.

Not the same thing. But something. Because consistency builds a writing practice. Not perfection, or pressure or expectation but consistency.

Finally, notice what you’re actually creating.

Don’t judge it. Not yet. Just notice. Are there patterns? Themes that keep showing up? Characters? Settings? Ideas that surprise you? This is where discovery happens. Not in thinking about what to write. But in the act of writing itself.

This is how you develop your voice. This is how you learn how to write what you actually have to say.

How to Overcome the Fears That Stop You

I know what you’re thinking. “This sounds nice, but what if it doesn’t work for me?” “What if I’m different?” “What if, what if, what if?”

So let me address the fears directly.

“But what if I waste time?”

Time spent writing badly is not wasted. It’s how you learn. Compare that to endless research. Endless planning. Endless consuming of writing advice and reading books that give you a tonne of advice but mean you don’t actually do anything.

That’s avoidance dressed up as preparation. That’s the real time waste.

“What if I’m not a ‘real’ writer?”

You’re a real writer the moment you write. Not when you’re published. Not when someone validates you, or an agent/ editor/ publisher says yes. You’re a real writer now.

Imposter syndrome thrives on traditional markers of success. If you have to be published to be real, of course you feel like a fraud. But flip it. If you write because you love writing, because you have stories to tell, because this matters to you, then you’re real. Right now. As you are.

“What if no one wants to read it?”

That’s not the point. Not yet. Right now, the point is you becoming a writer. You discovering your voice. You finishing something you started. Publication is a different conversation. It can happen later. It doesn’t have to be the reason you write.

What Happens When You Actually Start This Writing Practice

I want to tell you what I’ve seen happen when people commit to this. Because it’s real. It’s not magic, but it feels like it sometimes.

You write more. Not because you’re forcing yourself, but because you actually want to. Your writing practice stops feeling like an obligation and starts feeling like something you look forward to. That’s not small.

You finish things. Because you’re not stuck in the perfectionism loop, you actually move forward. You get words on the page. Messy words, yes. But they’re there. And messy words can be edited. Blank pages can’t.

You discover your voice. This is the big one. Your voice isn’t something you’re born with as a writer. It’s something you find through the act of writing. And it only shows up when you get out of your own way. When you stop trying to sound like someone else. When you write like yourself, with all your weird quirks and specific way of seeing things.

So there we have it, try it for fourteen days. Two weeks of either doing the morning pages or freewriting, or both. And it doesn’t have to be for long, just a few minutes a day to build up a writing habit that you can use as a stepping stone to building up a writing practise.