Start with where you are.

I’m sitting at the little leaning desk in our bedroom in Brooklyn. To my left, through the window, I see the wind pushing and pulling at the new leaves of an old tree. To my right, Fish sleeps in his bed on the floor; I can tell by his breathing that he’s on the verge of a dream, the kind that makes his paws twitch and his legs kick. I love when that happens.

Here, I take a sip of my second coffee, now lukewarm. I slowly turn inward. How does this feel? Should I keep going? The answer comes back clear: Yes. I crack my knuckles and continue.

Outside, I hear birds chirping. The sound of the B69 turning right at the light down the block. The occasional cheer from a crowd at the bar nearby. Closer, I hear my breath, my fingers tapping against the keyboard, my voice reading my words aloud as I type them. I check my other senses: smell (laundry detergent), taste (coffee), touch (the chair against my back, the laptop under the heels of my palms).

A voice in my head says, This is pointless. Another says, This is the way. A third asks, What are you trying to say?

I can think of a dozen writers, marketers, and social media experts who would argue I should have thought about this before I even started writing. Margo Aaron wrote just yesterday, “If you haven’t anything to say, the perfect words can’t save you. You’re dead on arrival.”

In general, I think it’s good advice. I try to follow it most days, especially in my copywriting work.

Today is not one of those days.

Today, I felt overwhelmed by the sheer number of things I want to say. Choosing just one idea to write about felt impossible. It’s not that I didn't try; it’s just that the more I tried, the less I felt like any of them were worthwhile. I could feel myself clamming up. I knew that if I kept at it, perfectionism would win and I wouldn’t write anything.

That’s when I remembered a different piece of writing advice: Start with where you are, and the rest will follow.

I didn’t know where I was headed when I started describing the sights and sounds from my desk. I didn’t need to. I just needed to start—and trust that I’d find my way as I went. Maybe not to what I was trying to say, but to what I needed to hear.

Now I’m curious: What’s a piece of advice that helps you write when you feel overwhelmed by options?

Comment your answer below or email me.