#writer problem

writers be like ‘i want to write’ but then spend their entire day on tumblr doing nothing

She moved through the grimy press of people as if it were a dance floor of high society. She weaved past, between and under bodies, limbs and beltlines. On one such beltline, belonging to a skinny character in a sleeveless shirt stained brown, she noticed a canteen. Out of a sheath at her hip she slid a dagger, thin as a feather. It cut the canteen off its strap, leaving the man—his senses preoccupied elsewhere—a drink shorter, and none the wiser. A cutpurse childhood was a school. A school that taught how to relieve men and women of their belongings with deft, unnoticed dagger swipes. As she persisted through the labyrinths of flesh and sweat, of unwashed hair and dusty cloth, she hefted it, unstoppered, and took a whiff out of the earned canteen. Her nose caught ale and perspiration. Regardless, she ventured a swig. The taste of strong-ale permeated through her mouth, calming as fresh springwater—though she had never drunk it—in the oppressive heat of the capital's late summer. As she entered a square, she scoffed at a group of people. They clamored for access, packed around a marble construction, a fountain. It was one of many, and she had drunk its water. The memory of it turned the stomach. As such, seeking respite, she turned to walk a far less crowded alley and fell into ever-pervasive thoughts. It was known—the fountains being a recent construction—that an aristocratic benefactor took it upon himself to offer clean water to the Commons, using a newer filtration technique. She didn't trust them; she thought, not the benefactor, nor the water itself. The actions of aristocrats seldom helped the Commons in and of themselves. Their altruism was far more likely to sprout from a different seed. The foolish need for recognition from their peers. It was what puzzled her. Why seek to be recognized at all? Her life, tough as it was, had staunched and stomped those cravings. Better be unknown and alive than famous and dead. Likewise, new technology was rare to prove as a positive influence. Old and known tools remained such because they worked. Like steel, like stone. She didn't doubt the fountains would turn decrepit and abandoned once the aristocrats' attention to them waned. But while fountain water proved clean (so they told her), it was no more pleasant to drink than gutter mud. It smelled of dirt and offal and tasted of coal and rust. Behind her, a commotion was making itself clear, and turning around, she noticed the man she had robbed moments prior. He met her gaze and saw his belongings in her hands. She turned back, cursing herself, and dashed in long bounds into the alleyway. What she did trust was what she had known since she had learned how to run: her ligaments, her knees, her ankles. Despite that, and at the forefront, she trusted her steel.

Don’t you just love wanting to update something, you see the scene you’re gonna write but then you just can’t HEAR it and that’s what stops you from getting any writing done?

Someone pls force me to write this damn fic I've been thinking abt for months