Writer’s block is not a sign you’re a bad writer. It’s often a sign you’re stuck trying to be a good one. When you sit staring at a blinking cursor, you’re usually trapped in the pressure cooker of “getting it right” — the perfect sentence, the perfect scene, the perfect story.
Here’s the secret: sometimes, the fastest way to get it right is to start by doing it gloriously, unapologetically wrong.
By deliberately breaking the rules, lowering the stakes, and leaning into absurdity, you can bypass your inner critic and rediscover the messy joy of creation. Below are ten “wrong” exercises to jolt your imagination back to life.
1. Write the Worst Dialogue You Can Imagine
Write a scene between two characters where the dialogue is painfully on-the-nose. Every line should directly state exactly what the character is feeling or wanting, with zero subtext.
Example:
“I am angry because you betrayed me.”
“Yes, I did betray you, and I feel bad about it.”
Why it works:
By overdoing the obvious, you take the fear out of writing “bad” dialogue. Ironically, your brain will often rebel and start sneaking in real subtext halfway through.
2. Kill Your Protagonist on Page One
Write a version of your story where your main character dies in the first scene. Now you have to hand the story over to a minor background character — the taxi driver, the neighbour, the barista.
Why it works:
This forces you to see your world from fresh eyes and develop characters you hadn’t considered. It can also shake you loose from overprotecting your lead.
3. Describe Every Action in Excruciating Detail
Instead of “She walks into the kitchen,” write every micro-step:
She lifted her left foot. She put it down. TheShe adjusted her weight. She inhaled.
Why it works:
It’s hilariously tedious — but it forces you to slow down and notice sensory details, smells, textures, and rhythms you might skip over. Later, you can trim, but you’ll have richer raw material.
4. Genre Swap Without Changing the Plot
Take your current scene and rewrite it in a totally inappropriate genre. Turn your romantic dinner into a spy thriller. Rewrite your bank heist as a slapstick comedy.
Why it works:
Shifting genres forces you to make bold creative choices and helps you see whether your scene’s core beats still land in a completely different tone.
5. Make Every Line End in a Rhyme
Yes, this is silly — but give yourself a scene where every piece of dialogue must rhyme, no matter how forced.
“I don’t know where you’ve been.”
“I’ve just been to the bin.”
Why it works:
It jolts your brain into lateral thinking. To force rhymes, you end up discovering unexpected turns of phrase or even whole new plot directions.
6. Write as if You’re Paid by the Word
Forget brevity. Go full Victorian novelist. Replace “He opened the door” with a 100-word passage about the history of the hinges.
Why it works:
You can’t be blocked if you have permission to overwrite shamelessly. Buried in the fluff will be sentences, images, or character beats worth keeping.
7. Turn Your Villain into the Hero
Write the same scene from your antagonist’s POV, portraying them as the misunderstood protagonist. Let them justify every action.
Why it works:
This deepens your understanding of their psychology and can reveal motivations you hadn’t articulated before — plus, it often makes for richer, more nuanced conflict.
8. Add a Completely Random Object
Halfway through your scene, drop in something absurd that has nothing to do with the plot — a giant inflatable swan, a live goat, a 1960s jukebox.
Why it works:
The brain loves solving problems. Introducing an out-of-place object forces your characters to react, adapt, and interact in new ways.
9. Write the Scene in Text Messages
Strip your scene to the barest essentials by writing it entirely as a text thread. Include emojis, typos, abbreviations.
Why it works:
This forces economy of language and makes you focus on the absolute core of what’s being communicated — and what’s not being said.
10. Deliberately Break a Screenwriting Rule
Pick a sacred rule — “Don’t use voiceover,” “Show, don’t tell,” “Avoid flashbacks” — and break it on purpose. Push it so far it becomes parody.
Why it works:
It reminds you that rules are tools, not chains. Sometimes, in pushing against them, you’ll discover a more original way to tell your story.
Why Wrong Works
These exercises aren’t about producing polished scenes. They’re about giving your creativity permission to play. When you’re blocked, the real enemy isn’t a lack of ideas — it’s fear. Fear of wasting time, of not living up to your standards, of other people’s opinions.
Doing it “wrong” removes the fear of failure because failure becomes the goal. And once failure is safe, ideas start flowing again.
Bonus: How to Use These Without Derailing Your Script
- Set a timer.
Spend 10–15 minutes on a “wrong” exercise, then return to your main project. - Don’t edit as you go.
Editing is for later — the goal here is output, not polish. - Look for gold in the nonsense.
You’ll be surprised how often a ridiculous exercise produces a moment, line, or twist worth keeping.
Writer’s block isn’t the end of your story. It’s just a sign you need to take the pressure off and get your hands dirty again. Sometimes the fastest route to genius is through a few gloriously stupid detours.
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Photo Credit: Bertie Watson
I founded Raindance Film Festival in 1993 because the British film industry was closed, polite, and congratulating itself while shutting new filmmakers out.
I co-founded the British Independent Film Awards in 1998 because British indie film deserved more than a shrug, a pat on the head, and a Tuesday night screening.
Raindance didn’t start as a brand. It started as a rebellion: film training without gatekeepers, a festival without permission, and a community built by filmmakers who weren’t waiting to be invited in.
Later, we took it global: Toronto, Vancouver, New York, LA, Berlin, and Brussels, because independent film doesn’t belong to one city, one class, or one accent.
I’ve produced 700+ short films and seven features, including Deadly Virtues (2014) and ALICE, which won the SXSW Grand Jury Prize (2019) not because someone “discovered” us, but because the work earned its place.
I’ve written three books used by filmmakers worldwide because too many courses taught compliance instead of survival.
In 2009, I was awarded a PhD for services to film education, ironic, given that most of my career has been about tearing down the rules that education insisted you follow.
I don’t believe in waiting for permission.I believe in making work, building systems, and forcing the industry to catch up.
Specialties: Independent Film (the real kind) · Producing · Writing · Film Education · Festivals · Breaking Broken Systems
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