I write 10,000 to 12,000 words on a productive day.
I’ve published 113+ books and ghostwritten 54+ more. People assume I don’t procrastinate. That’s wrong. I’ve procrastinated on projects, stalled on chapters, and avoided manuscripts that I knew were going to be difficult. I feel the pull too. The difference is that I’ve learned what causes it and how to move through it.
Calling writer procrastination a time management problem sends people shopping for planners and apps, and I think that wastes a year of their lives. It’s almost always a clarity problem, a fear problem, or a structure problem. Tim Urban’s TED Talk captures the internal experience perfectly:
I’ve seen these causes across my own writing and the writers I coach, and I cover them in more depth in the AI-Enhanced Writer’s Productivity Handbook.
Why Do Writers Procrastinate on Chapters?
This is the most common cause of writer procrastination and the one nobody talks about.
You sit down to write and nothing comes out. You check your phone. You refill your coffee. You reorganize your desk. You tell yourself you’ll start after lunch. For more, see stop listening to the gurus about your writing.
The problem is that you don’t know what the chapter is supposed to accomplish. You have a vague topic but no clear function. A chapter needs a job. It needs to move the story forward, introduce a concept, resolve a conflict, or deliver a piece of the argument. If you can’t state the chapter’s job in one sentence, you need to outline it before you write it.
When I stall on a ghostwriting project, it’s almost always because I haven’t done enough interview work on that section. Back in 2024, mine was my website: whenever there was something I didn’t want to do, I’d go play on the site, because I liked doing it a lot. I finally admitted the constant redesigns were me spinning my wheels.
The material is thin and I’m trying to write my way through a gap instead of going back to the client and asking better questions. When I stall on my own fiction, it’s because I haven’t figured out what the scene needs to accomplish. The fix is the same in both cases: stop trying to write and start figuring out what needs to be said.
Why does a whole manuscript feel too big to start?
A 50,000-word book is roughly 20 chapters, each of which is roughly 2,500 words, each of which is roughly 8 to 10 pages. When you think about the whole book, it’s paralyzing. When you think about the next 2,500 words, it’s manageable.
I don’t sit down to write a book. I sit down to write a chapter. Sometimes I sit down to write a section of a chapter. The book gets done because the chapters get done, and the chapters get done because I only think about the one in front of me.
If you’re stalling because the project feels enormous, you have a framing problem. Shrink the frame. What’s the next chapter? What’s its job? Write that. Tomorrow, do it again.
What if you’re afraid your writing will be bad?
Heard elsewhere
The inner critic is never banished, only mastered, and it’s a usable side as well as a destructive one. Richard discussed it with Chris Salem on Bonnie’s Book Party.
This kills more manuscripts than laziness ever will. It’s cruel, because it goes after the writers who care most about quality and leaves the careless ones alone. The gap between what you want the book to be and what the first draft looks like is enormous, and sitting in that gap is uncomfortable.
The perfectionism trap works by convincing you that anything less than brilliant writing is wasted effort. It feeds on comparison. You scroll through author feeds displaying book launches and glowing reviews and compare those polished results to your messy first draft. That comparison is distorted. You’re looking at someone’s final manuscript after multiple professional editing rounds and comparing it to your raw material.
First drafts are supposed to be bad. Every one of my 113+ books started as a rough draft that I wouldn’t have shown anyone. The draft isn’t the book; it’s the raw material that revision turns into the book. Professional writers regularly produce mediocre first drafts, decent second drafts, and good final drafts through systematic revision. You can’t revise a blank page.
Why does unprotected writing time kill a book?
Writing requires sustained focus. Not five minutes between meetings. Not the last hour of the day when you’re exhausted. Real blocks of uninterrupted time where you can get deep enough into the material to produce something worth keeping.
If your writing time is whatever is left after everything else, you won’t write. Everything else will always expand to fill the available space. Writing time has to be scheduled, protected, and treated as non-negotiable.
Victor Hugo knew this problem well. He agreed to write Notre-Dame de Paris for his publisher, Gosselin, then let the book slide for about a year while other work filled his days. Gosselin finally set a hard deadline of February 1831.
In September 1830 Hugo got down to it.
According to The Week, he locked his clothes away so he couldn’t go out, keeping only a large shawl to wear. His wife Adèle’s account says he bought a fresh bottle of ink for the job, too. He finished in mid-January 1831, ahead of the deadline.
I wouldn’t recommend giving up your pants. Hugo understood that writing time left unguarded gets eaten, and he guarded his so hard that leaving the house was off the table.
I write in the morning when my mind is sharpest. That’s when the 10,000-word days happen. By afternoon, the quality drops. I learned this through years of paying attention to when the work was good and when it was forced. Your peak time might be different. Find it and defend it.
Why does editing while you write stall your book?
Writing and editing are two different cognitive tasks. Writing is generative. Editing is critical. When you try to do both at the same time, you produce almost nothing because every sentence gets interrogated before the next one starts.
Write the draft. Don’t fix it while you’re writing it. Don’t reread yesterday’s chapter before starting today’s. Move forward. Get the words on the page. The editing pass comes later, after the draft exists, when you can see the whole shape of the thing and make informed decisions about what needs to change.
The writers who produce the most are the ones who have learned to separate these two modes completely. Draft mode is about volume and momentum.
For more on beating procrastination to finish your book, hear Richard on Procrastination Station. Edit mode is about precision and quality. Try to run both at once and you’ll spend a month polishing the same three pages while the rest of the book never gets written.
Should you wait until you feel ready to write?
You’ll never feel ready. The feeling of readiness doesn’t precede the work.
It follows it. You feel ready to write after you’ve been writing for twenty minutes. The resistance you feel before starting is the normal friction of beginning any difficult task, and treating it as proof you’re unprepared is how a lot of books die before chapter one.
The minimum viable progress approach works here. When a full chapter feels impossible, commit to one paragraph. When a paragraph feels like too much, commit to one sentence. These micro-commitments dissolve the resistance that builds around demanding goals. Most writers discover that once they start, natural momentum carries them past the minimum. The hard part is the first sentence.
Inspiration isn’t something I wait for. I sit down at the same time, open the same document, and start. Some days the words come easily. Some days they don’t. Both days produce pages. That’s the only thing that matters.
For a deeper treatment of these techniques, including environmental design, habit stacking, and energy auditing for peak writing performance, see the AI-Enhanced Writer’s Productivity Handbook.
When Is Procrastination a Signal?
Sometimes procrastination is telling you something useful. If you’ve been avoiding one chapter for weeks, it might be because the chapter doesn’t belong in the book. If you can’t make yourself care about a project, it might be because the project is wrong. Discipline may have nothing to do with it.
I’ve seen this with book coaching clients who stall on manuscripts that aren’t the book they want to write. They started with one concept, committed to it, and now they’re grinding against material that doesn’t excite them. The procrastination was pointing at the project direction the whole time.
If you’ve been stuck for a long time, ask yourself whether the resistance is about doing the work or about doing this specific work. Guilt and discipline are the wrong tools for the second case, and I’d tell any writer in that spot to stop grinding on a book they don’t believe in and go find the one they do.
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Frequently Asked Questions
A backlog sends me a signal too. When I have things I need to finish, they stop me from taking on anything new. I worry about the backlog, and it becomes a mental block, maybe even an almost spiritual one.
I proved this to myself in 2024. After a rebrand I was super motivated, and I went on a tear through my to-do list. I rewrote my entire LinkedIn profile and set up my business pages on Google and Bing. The Instagram account took three minutes. Moving to a new e-signature tool took seven. I finished about 50 things in three days that had sat there for a year, because I thought they’d be a lot of work. They went bang, bang, bang.
