You want to write. You have an impulse, an idea, a story. You sit down. You start. It feels marvelous. It's pouring out of you! You're so happy. You can't stop. You let it out, all of it. You're in the middle of a glorious flow, inspiration, whatever. You keep going. Then it gets slower. Hey, no biggie, you're a trooper, you will work through it. It gets slower still. You start chewing on your pen (or chewing on your fingers, or on you cat's tail, or on a bottle of vodka). You sort of forgot how your story started, so you go back and reread the beginning. Or you organize it on cards, or on cats, or you use Scrivener or sticky Post-It notes or whatever method, but the problem now is that you want to change things. You're tempted to edit. However your writing process looks, you get to that fenland point. That sticky sucky place where someone poured molasses over your machinery and you shake a fist at the sky and wonder where the hell your inspiration went and what the hell you're supposed to do now. We've all been there. I've been there.

OH MY GOD, AM I BLOCKED???

Well, yes and no.