When Writing Feels Heavy: Remember Why You Started

Is it a given that, at some point, your writing will begin to feel heavy? Is it inevitable? What does ‘heavy’ mean, anyway?

When PG Wodehouse wrote his Jeeves and Bertie Wooster novels, did any of his stories become ‘heavy’? What about Agatha Christie – are her works ‘heavy’? But what, then, if we throw, say, Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 or Charles Dickens’s Bleak House into the mix, wouldn’t we consider these as ‘heavy’ even by comparison? Or are we confusing the term ‘heavy’ for ‘complex’? What even is a ‘heavy’ (or complex) story anyway?

I don’t think we’re on the right track in thinking along those lines – purposeful pun – as the process of writing is a journey that we undertake each time we sit down to begin putting words onto paper. The metaphoric train ride to a destination that is sometimes known, often not, and which is full of excitement and anticipation from the outset. The busy station of ideas jostling for position and orderliness; the luggage of expectation brought along with us and based on prior experiences; the thrill of what is to come formulated by one’s own attitude and frame of mind; and, not least, the travelling companions with whom one can chat about hopes for what lay ahead.

You’re looking forward to visiting the many places en route, the wonderful scenery and distractions that will add to the splendour of the expedition. And, with effortless flow, the train glides out of the station. The fun has begun.

After an unspecified period of time, your interest in yet another passing beauty site – yes, another – begins to wane. You glance at your companions. Some have turned to other things to do. Some are asleep. Sometime later, the sky is darkening and it is raining and still yet another beautiful site – yes, another bloody beautiful site – tempts you to enjoy it. You find yourself somewhat tired and hungry now, and the trip is becoming irksome. But still it persists. You are pretty well fed up with all the beautiful sites that you’re now finding hard even to see. Everyone around you is asleep. There is even no-one to talk to. There’s nothing to do. You’re so bored! The journey seems interminable.

Every writer—whether a novelist, blogger, academic, or diarist—eventually arrives at the same daunting point: the job of writing suddenly feels heavy. What was once fluid and effortless becomes slow, tense, and weighted. Pages take longer to fill. Sentences lose their spark. Motivation slips. But this heaviness in writing shouldn’t be taken as a sign of failure, or of a need for abandonment. You are still on that journey, in transit, moving forward.

In early stages, writing often feels ‘light’. Ideas flow freely; curiosity guides the process. But as the project grows, the writer becomes more invested. The story becomes more layered. Expectations—your own or perceived—begin to stack up. And suddenly, what once felt easy now feels like pressure.

Writing gets ‘heavy’ for many reasons, and not all of them negative. In fact, it can signal that you’re pushing toward something meaningful. For instance, light-hearted creative beginnings may develop into tighter structured, emotional nuanced, or complicated themes. As standards rise, your internal editor gets more active. You begin to recognize what ‘better’ looks like, and suddenly what once satisfied you no longer does. That can feel like heaviness, but it’s really maturation.

Extraneous to the writing process but no less demanding is the reality of one’s life. Contrary to the beliefs of many focussed writers, poets, artists, life does go on outside of one’s art. Tiredness, stress, time scarcity, familial demands and emotional pressure all affect the creative process. Writing demands being present, fully.

And consider, you’ve invested significant time and emotion in your book, the fear of ‘messing it up’ can create a heavy pressure on the writer to get it right.

It is at this stage of the writing journey, then, that the real purpose of why you started out on it is brought to mind. Why did you start to write? What motivated you to go on this voyage in the first place? It is this remembrance of ‘why’ that will carry you through your perceived slough of despond.

So, you will need to be honest with yourself about your rationale. There are a multitude of reasons why we should desire to propel ourselves along this route: The urge to create something to be proud of; wanting to keep the mind active (particularly congruous with this aged writer); the need to tell stories; the dream of seeing one’s work published; and more (I am sure you can come up with your own ‘why’).

Whatever the reason, reconnecting with it can be a powerful agent in dissolving self‑imposed expectations and seeing the heaviness as a temporary halt in your creative growth, not a permanent buffer geared to derail your writing purpose. See it as the point of change in your work, one that requires patience, recognition and a return to the fundamentals. A refuelling and re-energising pause.

It may mean having to step off the train for a short while in order to see your world from a different perspective, but if you do take this break don’t just stop your writing. The wheels of your train must keep turning. Change your scenery, read something unrelated, go for walks. Remaining physically active can stimulate the brain to find its artistic raison d' être.

Creativity is cyclical. Remember the times of effortless outpourings, then recall the more demanding ones. The heaviness won’t last forever. And don’t be in a hurry to finish your journey, enjoy the experience of creating something marvellous. It may not be perfect – it probably won’t be – but it will be yours. It will reach its destination when it is ready to do so. You will have achieved what you set out to do and will have enjoyed getting there.

Then, after the elation of having travelled through the pain of building your work of art has dissipated, you realise you now must change trains and board the Editor Express. Now that can be a heavy vehicle.

Written by Adrian Stead, a new old writer who made his debut in the writing world in January 2026 with The Lost Sketchbook at the age of 73. A free look at its complete Prologue is available on his website, adrianstead.com. He also runs a Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/adrian.stead.58

Adrian is an Englishman by birth and an Australian by citizenship. He began novel writing after retiring from the business and finance worlds. He is a lover of the English language and its literature and is a self-confessed pedant. He lives with his artist wife, Brenda, and two cats, Pinot and Merlot. Have a guess at what else he enjoys!