Like most chronically overwhelmed creatives with a savior complex and an unhealthy relationship with office supplies, I’ve spent more time than I care to admit trying to make “the perfect writing schedule.” I’ve read the blogs. I’ve watched the YouTube videos. I’ve seen the Pinterest boards with their pastel bullet journals and delicate calligraphy.
They all promise the same thing: “Time blocking will change your life.”
So, of course, I believed them. I believed that if I could just section my day into neat, manageable squares, I would unlock the mysterious productivity cheat code everyone else seems to have mastered. I sat down with my planner and created the most beautiful, ambitious, absolutely delusional time-blocked schedule the world has ever seen.
I allotted time for writing, editing, reading, admin tasks, breaks, meal prep, self-care, and even optional creativity, whatever the hell that means. I planned my life like I was a character in a productivity novel written by someone who’s never experienced executive dysfunction.
It lasted exactly one day.
By noon, the blocks were bleeding together like watercolors left out in the rain. A thirty-minute writing sprint turned into ninety minutes of doomscrolling and existential dread. The “admin hour” was eaten alive by a ferret-related incident (RIP, USB hub). My perfectly curated system crumbled under the weight of real life, and I watched it fall apart with the detached numbness of someone who’s seen this movie before.
Here’s the problem with writing schedules, especially when time-blocked within an inch of their lives: they don’t account for you.
They assume your brain works like a machine, like it can simply power up at 10:00 AM and switch to “inspired” at 10:15 sharp. They assume nothing will go wrong, no distractions will emerge, and your mental health will remain at a consistent, optimal hum throughout the day. Which is hilarious, because I can’t even guarantee I’ll want breakfast until I’m halfway through a bag of pretzels at 2PM.
But the reality is that my writing process doesn’t show up on command. It lurks. It waits. It appears at inappropriate times, like right as I’m falling asleep or in the middle of cleaning the bathroom. And when I try to trap it in a schedule, it rebels.
Worse, I rebel.
Suddenly the writing block I was so excited about becomes another task—another square on the calendar judging me for not starting on time. And if I miss one block? The guilt spiral kicks in. I tell myself I’ve ruined the day. That I’m behind. That it’s not worth continuing because the plan is already broken. So I throw the whole schedule out and end up binge-watching a show I don’t even like, just to feel something.
So, no—writing schedules are a lie. Or at least, they’re a lie for people like me.
What works isn’t rigid time slots and optimistic optimism. What works is flexibility, rhythm, and an unholy alliance with my weird internal clock. What works is writing when the fog lifts and forgiving myself when it doesn’t. What works is building a structure that bends with me instead of trying to beat me into shape.
I still use planners. I still make lists. But now they’re loose. Adaptive. More map than prison. Some days I hit my stride in the afternoon. Some days it’s 11PM and I’m dragging myself to the keyboard like a sleep-deprived cryptid. But I get there. Eventually.
