Why Stalled Projects Feel Like Personal Failure

On my last post, we talked about the danger of tying your identity to your output, and about how fragile that makes us.

This time, I want to look at the exact moment where that fragility shatters.

It usually shows up around Chapter 3. Sometimes it hits in the middle of the Second Act. Sometimes it ambushes the first scene. But one thing is always true: every writer stalls somewhere in the drafting process. It’s inevitable.

You know the feeling. You started with fire and excitement. The idea was perfect. But then, you hit a wall. The plot tangles. The characters stop talking to you. The screen stays blank for one day, then two, then a week.

Logically, this is just a “stalled project.” It is a mechanical issue; a plot hole, a pacing problem, or maybe just exhaustion.

But emotionally? Emotionally, it feels like a catastrophe.

Because when you have tied your identity to your output, a stalled project doesn’t feel like a project failure. It feels like a personal failure.

You don’t look at the blank page and think, “I need to figure out this plot point.”

You look at the blank page and think, “See? I knew I wasn’t a real writer. I knew I couldn’t do this.”

Why do we do this? Why does a simple pause in production trigger such a massive collapse in self-worth?

The Definition of Failure

To understand this, we have to look at what failure actually is.

We tend to define failure as “not getting the result we wanted.”

• As writers, failure is not writing.
• As students, failure is not passing.
• As humans, failure is not accomplishing.

But I’ve learned something the hard way: Failure is just the perception of not being successful. Key word: Perception. And I talked about this on a previous post, so I won’t go into detail here.

And often, that perception is based on the wrong data.

I need to take you back to one of the lowest points of my academic life to explain this.

The 1.49

Before I lost my sight, before I found my way back to English, I was a nursing student.

And I wasn’t just a student; I was a good nurse.

When I was on the hospital floor for clinicals, I was in my element. I loved it. I loved the patients, the chaos, the hands-on care. I could insert a needle, change a catheter, and comfort a terrified patient with an instinct that you can’t teach. I felt competent. I felt capable.

But then, I would step into the classroom.

The moment the experience shifted from doing to testing, I fell apart. My ADHD brain couldn’t handle the rigid structure of the lectures. I knew the material (I lived it on the floor) but I couldn’t translate that wisdom onto a Scantron sheet.

And because the system measures your worth by your grades, not your care, the verdict was brutal.

I ended up on academic probation. My GPA dropped to a 1.49. Not that it was a perfect 4.0, but still.

Technically, I was failing.

And because I was young, and because I was terrified, I let that 1.49 define me. I didn’t look at it and think, “I am a good nurse who struggles with test-taking.” I looked at it and thought, “I am a failure.”

That number became my identity. It erased every successful IV I’d started. It erased every patient I’d helped. It became the only truth that mattered.

The Writer’s Grade Point Average

This is exactly what happens when we stall on a manuscript.

When you are writing well, you are on the hospital floor. You are in the flow. You feel competent.

But the moment you stall, you enter the classroom. You enter the place of judgment.

You look at your word count (which is zero). You look at your consistency (which is broken). And you grade yourself.

• Real writers write every day. (Fail.)
  
• Real writers finish what they start. (Fail.)
• Real writers don’t get stuck. (Fail.)

You give yourself a 1.49 GPA.

And just like I did, you let that grade erase everything else. You forget the brilliant Chapter 1. You forget the character voice you nailed. You forget the passion that brought you here.

You interpret the Stall (which is just a pause for problem-solving) as Proof (that you are not cut out for this).

The Reframe

Here is the truth I wish someone had told me back when I was staring at my nursing grades:

You are grading yourself on the wrong rubric.

I wasn’t a failure as a nurse; I was failing a specific type of test.

You aren’t a failure as a writer; you are just stuck on a specific plot point.

A stalled project is not a referendum on your soul. It is usually just a sign that:

1. You are tired.
2. You need to learn a new skill (like plotting or pacing).
3. Or you are trying to force a story that doesn’t want to be written that way.

Thomas Edison said, “I haven’t failed. I have just found ten thousand ways it won’t work.”

When you are stuck on Chapter 3, you haven’t failed. You have just found a way the story doesn’t go. That is progress, even if it feels like silence.

Separating the Project from the Person

This week, I want you to practice separating the Project Problem from the Person Problem.

If you aren’t writing, ask yourself: Is the story broken, or am I telling myself I’m broken?

Because if the story is broken, we can fix that. We can brainstorm. We can outline. We can skip the scene.

But if you believe you are broken, you will never fix the story. You will just stare at that 1.49 GPA and let it convince you to quit.

I didn’t fail nursing because I wasn’t capable; I failed because the system didn’t measure my specific type of brilliance. Don’t let your internal critic do the same thing to your writing.

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P.S. If you are currently staring at a stalled project and feeling that heavy blanket of failure settling in; we should talk.
My coaching program isn’t just about accountability; it’s about helping you stop grading yourself so harshly so you can actually get back to the work you love. Book a free discovery call with me on the button below. Or visit my website at https://marliteraryservices.com to learn more.