I didn’t open the doc. I didn’t write a sentence. I didn’t even move the cursor.
But I thought about writing. And that counts.
In my mind, I visualized the scene. I imagined the dialogue. I felt the characters move through space like low-budget ghosts in a brain haunted by half-finished outlines. That’s something, right?
It wasn’t procrastination. It was… mental drafting.
I stared at the ceiling and constructed an entire paragraph. Then forgot it. Then remembered one word. Then got distracted Googling whether a comma goes before “but” when the sentence is already emotionally unstable.
I thought about writing while I did the dishes.
I thought about writing while I doomscrolled past productivity reels and Korean cleaning vlogs.
I thought about writing in the shower, where all brilliant ideas go to die.
Even while trying to sleep, I can’t help but think about the different scenarios I can place my characters in.
And yeah, maybe I didn’t write it down. But my brain was working. It was busy spinning the idea like a tired hamster with artistic tendencies. It was warming up.
Because here’s the secret: thinking about writing is writing. It’s the slow part. The quiet part. The messy, invisible prelude to putting words on a page. I’ve said this before in Writing Advice That Lowkey Ruined My Life—some of the most common writing tips just aren’t built for brains like ours. And if we only measure our progress by word count, we ignore the hours we spent untangling plot threads in our heads or emotionally recovering from the last draft.
At least, that’s what I tell myself when it’s been days and I’ve yet to accomplish a page, let alone a single paragraph. (How will I ever finish a novel, I wonder?)
But I digress…
Sometimes the writing happens in a Word doc.
Sometimes it happens while you’re stress-baking brownies and whispering dialogue into the mixing bowl.
Either way, you showed up.
You thought about it.
You didn’t give up on the idea.
That counts.
(Also I did write this, so technically I win.)
Panicked halfway through. Published anyway.
—me, mentally high-fiving myself for writing about not writing
