By Sabyasachi Roy
Burnout doesn’t knock. It just slips in, in a quiet manner, like the obedient nobody in a corporate setup. But somewhere down the line you start noticing. In a good, or bad, or in a neutral manner. Burnout starts like that, maybe with a feeling when you think it’s just a phase of tiredness. You blame the weather, your job, your inbox. You stop writing “for a few days,” then a few more. One morning you open the document and it looks alien—like someone else’s diary. You’re not tired. You’re emptied out.
This isn’t the cute creative block you tweet about. This is full-body shutdown. Blurry. Fried. Your brain’s a broken plug sparking in the dark.
And still, you push.
Write through it, right? Discipline. Hustle. Finish what you started.
Except the finish line keeps moving, and your legs aren’t.
Sometimes you don’t need discipline. You need sleep. Or soup.
But culture doesn’t like that. Rest looks like laziness. Permission sounds like weakness. You’re told to optimize, grind, monetize your “brand.” Rest is suspicious. Rest doesn’t sell. Yet it’s the only reason anything worth saying gets said.
You can’t pour from a dry cup. Can’t hold your reader’s hand with clenched fists.
Burnout also lies: You’ve peaked. You were never good. Everyone else is better. Fatigue masquerades as failure. You think you’re done. You’re not done—you’re just cooked.
One of the hardest things about writing while the world burns is stepping back without stepping away forever. Stepping back is temporary; stepping away is locking the door. Most of us don’t need to quit—we need to sit down and stop trying to outwrite exhaustion.
A poet I know lost their words for six months. Nothing came. They worked at a coffee shop, stared at foam, read nothing. One day someone spilled a latte, and they scribbled on a napkin: the cup always breaks before I’m ready. That was the door. The muscle remembered. It needed rest, not punishment.
You are not a daily word count or a productivity app. You’re a human brain making art while the ground shifts every week. You’re allowed to stop.
Permission is weird. Writers talk like someone else has to grant it, as if there’s a council stamping slips: Yes, you may now take three days off without hating yourself. No one’s going to give you permission. You give it to yourself: Today I won’t write, and that’s still part of the work. I’m burned out, not broken.
Make a rest plan. Schedule doing nothing—on purpose. When guilt knocks, point to your calendar: Sorry, brain’s busy.
Rest isn’t just naps and chamomile tea. Sometimes it’s loud. Music in the car. Dumb movies. Cleaning the fridge. Dancing badly. Soup that tastes like regret but smells like childhood. Whatever interrupts the loop of I should be producing something.
Because if you don’t rest, burnout affects everything—reading, listening, friendships, even how you respond to the world. You start living like a low-battery notification.
Some mistake that misery for ambition: If I’m suffering, I must be working hard enough. But burnout isn’t a badge. It’s a warning light.
Rest isn’t the opposite of writing. It’s part of writing. It gives you range and distance. Without it, your work gets thin and tinny.
You don’t need to crash to deserve a break. You’re allowed to pause before you’re on fire. Step back when you need to. The work will wait—quieter, maybe hoarse, but alive.
Coming back is strange. That voice mutters: You’re rusty. You were never good. You’re not a writer anymore. The truth? You don’t forget how to write—you forget how to start. But the words come back, maybe sideways. That’s normal.
You don’t restart your writing life. You continue it. Even after long pauses. Even after you swore you were done. The blank page doesn’t hold grudges.
Just don’t return with the same expectations. Relearn your rhythm. Write five sentences and keep one. Don’t aim for brilliance; aim for presence—one honest line from this version of you.
If old projects don’t fit anymore, let them go. That’s not failure—it’s movement. Burnout can teach you what your process can’t carry anymore. You come back slower, wiser, clearer about what matters.
Yes, fear says people moved on while you rested, but writing isn’t a queue. You didn’t lose your turn. Pausing may be why you last longer. Longevity comes from pacing, not racing.
Come back quietly, without declarations. One hour, or twenty minutes, or seven sloppy lines on a napkin—whatever you’ve got. Use it.
There was a writer who vanished after their debut novel. Four silent years, then suddenly—a small journal story, better than anything before. You could feel the silence and recovery in it.
That’s writing after burnout. Not triumphant, just real.
You may not love the work right away. That’s fine. You’re not outdoing your past self; you’re meeting your present one—quieter, sharper, less tolerant of noise, more loyal to her own sentences.
That version of you? She’s a better writer. Not because she writes more, but because she listens better.
Come back softly. Without punishment. Like the work is a friend, not a boss. There’s no right way to return—only showing up. The rest will meet you there.
Bio: Sabyasachi Roy is an academic writer, poet, artist, and photographer. His poetry has appeared in The Broken Spine, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review, Dicey Brown, The Potomac, and more. He contributes craft essays to Authors Publish and has a cover image in Sanctuary Asia. His oil paintings have been published in The Hooghly Review. You can follow his writing on Substack here.
