I was taught that there’s no such thing as “writer’s block” — not really at least — by my singing teacher.
It was 1981 and I was a lit major in my third year of college. SUNY Purchase was a professional art school so there was an abundance of wonderful dance, photography, painting, screenwriting, and performance classes available, and one semester I took “Singing For Non-Music Majors.”
We started every class by marching in a circle and doing our vocal warm-ups. Mi Me Ma Mo Mu. Rising in octaves. And as we passed our teacher, she would listen and give her critique.
“Don’t hold in your belly. Breathe.”
“You are not in a library. Stop whispering.”
“Resonant sound, please. Tongue position.”
When that exercise was over, we would sit down on metal folding chairs, and one by one, get up in the front of the room to sing a song we had selected. Before it was my turn – in fact, as soon as class began – my heart would pound out of control. My ears would clog as if I was underwater. Any ability to think or remain present was lost. 
The song I had chosen every class was Another Suitcase In Another Hall. But I had flubbed that up so many times the teacher eventually suggested I try a different song from Evita, Don’t Cry For Me Argentina, which, according to her, would be easier. It wasn’t, at least not for me. It didn’t matter what song I chose, because I was so in my head, thinking and overthinking every note, that I couldn’t possibly sing anything. 
At the end of our last class that semester, the teacher asked me to stay after. She patted the chair next to hers where I obediently sat. I knew this wasn’t going to be good.
“Listen, my dear,” she began in her kind, but authoritative Eastern European accent. “Don’t worry about it. You are very pretty.”
This was, of course, not a compliment. What she was saying was that I shouldn’t worry so much about not being able to sing and instead should just give up.
The following year, despite that experience, I signed up for another elective called “Singing For The Stage.” This class had a different room, a different focus and, yes, a different teacher.
On the first day we sat scattered about in a small amphitheater, while the teacher, standing below, gave us our first assignment. She told us to come to our next class prepared to do something that required concentration— but not so much that we couldn’t do something else at the same time, like sing— something so familiar it was almost second nature. “Drawing a picture,” she suggested. “Tying and untying your shoes. Doing a puzzle. Writing your name or the alphabet, over and over.”
I chose sewing as my activity and Another Suitcase In Another Hall as my song. When it was my turn, I stepped down to the center of the theater and sat crossed-legged on the floor. The piano player started the first delicate notes of the introduction. I was still terrified, but but my mind focused on aiming for that tiny eye of the needle. Soon, I wasn’t even thinking about the song, but rather about knotting the end of the thread. And very quickly, as I pulled the thread in and out, I started to sing. I let go, let my love of the music take over, and my voice got louder and stronger. I was singing. It felt good. It felt great. It felt right, and I knew it. 
I never forgot that lesson. The point is that if you’re stuck in a creative hole— whether that’s singing an Evita song in front of your class or finishing that important chapter in your novel— focusing harder, stressing, thinking, overthinking, will only dig it deeper. Instead, when you feel stuck, when your writing feels forced, or it just sucks — and you always know when it does — take a break. Stop writing for a while. Start something else. Go for a walk. Go swimming. Do something physical that requires your attention, but not so much that ideas can’t flow freely into your mind.
Perhaps the plot point you’ve been struggling with will become obvious. Maybe the inspiration you’ve been searching for will pop into your head while you are doing the dishes, taking a shower, driving down the highway, or . . . sewing. And then you can just sing.