In my early years of high school—whenever teens learn about Coleridge, Wordsworth, Keats, Lord Byron and Shelley. Every English class started with a stream-of-consciousness writing assignment. It was sold to us as a form of mental calisthenics—a way to clear away the cobwebs of a fusty mind. We’d write without pause for a stretch of time, capturing anything that popped into our heads. When our streams dried up we’d write, “I don’t know” or “nothing… nothing…” until our head-spigots produced a steady flow once more.

I dreaded the exercise. My stream was always dry. The deliberate introspection subjected me to my own observer effect—thoughts vanished the as I tried to look at them. I submitted many pages filled only with “nothing…nothing…”. The teacher’s advice to “Just relax, and let the words come.” seldom helped. I left that English class with the strong belief that I was incapable of writing without constraints.

There was a spring when I said I’d publish something every two weeks. When summer arrived, I had published six pieces. But each came at or after the deadlines I had set. Bleary all-nighters led to fuzzy pieces and a hangover from the writing that lasted until the next deadline. It was winter the next time I tried writing again in earnest.

The next year, I replaced publishing deadlines with a word count that I intended to reach in one hundred and twenty days. This time, I relaxed my rules. Any writing apart from notes or lists contributed to the count and the medium didn’t matter—if it was writing, I didn’t care whether it happened on keyboard or with a soldiering iron and a piece of birchwood.

During this time, I accidentally learned how to journal. When you want to write and don’t have anything specific to say, the the thing you reach for is your experiences and emotions. I found that when I started sentences with, “I feel” or “Today…” the words flowed—no more observer effect.

At first, I thought this was good—journaling was easier than writing ever had been. It seemed like at any moment an idea might will itself off the page and grab me. But, journaling never produced such fervent ideas and I found neither the patience to dig for, or the stamina to polish the less fervent ones. When it became clear that my journaling habit didn’t benefit from a chasing a desired word count, I kept journaling, but stopped trying to write.

Now, I’m trying to write again and finding that most common advice seems to also be the best: set a modest word count (250-300 words) and carve out some time each day, everyday, to write until you’ve hit that count. Feel free to write more, but make it a point to always do the minimum.

I have never listened to the advice, but figure it must be right because everything doesn’t work.