It happens to a bunch of writers—particularly those writers who are enthusiastic storytellers and seeking better ways to write those stories. (Perhaps writers like those who have attended, and are currently attending Viable Paradise. Just maybe.)
You spend years writing stories as quickly as your fingers can fly across the keyboard, thrilled with the ideas, the characters, the dialogue, the action, EVEYTHING. Every stolen moment is spent adding to the word count, and those stolen moments are absolutely necessary because the story is always right there at the edge of your thoughts. It’s ready. You’re ready. It’s all flow. You are the ruler of all story!
Then you learn a New Thing—possibly the most wonderful and accurate and encouraging New Thing any writer could dream of—and yet your stories grind to a halt. Words that once spilled effortlessly onto the page become painful little treasures to be counted one at a time as they are pushed through the keyboard. Days that used to yield thousands of fantastic, reader-believed words might now give you a few hundred painfully-awkward words that’ll need much revising. Stories that used to seem so natural and alive and perfect now sound stilted and dull and derivative. Everything is wrong.
You wonder what sort of fever-dream led you to believe you could string words together at all.