A common complaint from writers:

"I have nothing to write about!"
Most every writer out there, at some point or another, will utter this complaint. My response to this is:
"I don't believe you!" (My friends love me for being so sympathetic.)
But seriously, look around you! There is always, always something you can write about if you know how to look. I'm not saying that you should necessarily write about every little mundane detail of your life (unless of course your life is exceptionally fascinating), but I am saying that there are stories, scenes, and little dramas that unfold right in front of us every day if we're paying enough attention to see them. Here are some fun examples from my own life just this past week.
Monday afternoon my cell phone rang. I answered it to hear my friend Joe say "Hi, Mary. Would you be able to cut my hair this afternoon?"
I paused and said "Um... what?"
"Oh," he said, "I have the wrong Mary, don't I?"
Write about a similar mistake and something that happens as a result.
Friday morning I was at a church working with a home-school group and glanced out the window just in time to see a kid ride past on a Rip-Stick, waving a foam sword over his head at the same time.
Write the story behind that scene.
Friday afternoon on my way home I saw a man walking down the sidewalk carrying a to-go meal in a paper bag, a gas can, and a newspaper.
Write about why he's carrying that particular combination of items.
Saturday my family's cows got out and took off at a dead run down the road--twice. Then, while baking bread, I got my hand into the stove's heating element and had to be taken to Urgent Care. That left my sixteen-year-old brother to make and bake the cinnamon rolls that I had rising at the time. They tasted fine, they were just a bit... shall we say, large and shapeless?
Write about a chain of random disasters.
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There is an amazing amount of writing material built into the world around us, waiting to be used. Granted, the microwave bursting into flames may not be the inspiration for your next novel, and the basement flooding may not win any short story awards. But they just might get your creative juices flowing again, and that is what matters. Because writers write. Other people make excuses.

When you can't take it anymore...

Let me say right off that this idea is not original with me. I got it from my friend The Traveler. She was working on a story and became extremely frustrated with her main character, so much so that she finally wrote herself into the story and killed him off.

I found that idea to be quite brilliant. So, when I recently started having issues with one of my own characters, I decided to write myself in and have it out with him. Now I didn't kill him off (after all, he is my favorite character) but I did let him know how frustrated I was with him. And wouldn't you know - it worked! After I had written the scene I felt much better. The writer's block was cured, and I went back to work. So I thought you all might enjoy reading my little conversation with Ivan.

(Setup: Ivan is the highest human authority in his country. He's in the command tent on a battlefield, waiting for the armies to position themselves.)

A sound came from Ivan’s right. He turned, and started when he saw a young woman standing next to him. How had she gotten in? He didn’t recognize her – he had never seen anyone dressed as she was. She wore pants instead of larrons, and a long-sleeved shirt with a gray and green pattern that made him dizzy when he looked closely.

“Who are you?” he asked, jumping to his feet.

She took a deep breath. “Wow. I finally get to meet you. My name is Mary – I wrote you.”

“You – what?”

“I wrote you. I’m the one telling your story.”

Ivan had no idea what this girl was talking about. “My story…?”

“You’re my favorite character, Ivan. But I have to tell you that I’m really irritated at you right now.”

Ivan was even more confused – if he had never even seen this girl, how and why should she be irritated at him? He strongly suspected that she was crazy, but she had caught his curiosity, so he ventured to ask “Why?”

“Because you won’t stop feeling sorry for yourself!” she said, startling Ivan with the volume at which she spoke.

“Quiet! I don’t know where you came from, but if anyone hears you they’ll want an explanation.”

“They won’t hear me,” the girl said wearily.

“How do you know?”

Mary shrugged. “Because I said. I can do that. I can say there’s a tree growing in your tent and there will be. See?”

This girl must have been insane. “There is no tree in here.”

Mary stared at a point behind the table. Ivan turned to look – there was a tree growing in the tent!

“How did –“

“Like I said, I’m the one telling the story here. I can do that. But the tree in the tent isn’t the point. The point is that I want to know why you won’t stop feeling sorry for yourself!”

“Feeling sorry for myself…”

“Yes, feeling sorry for yourself! Look, all this stuff that's happened isn't your fault. It was the way the story had to go, and I didn’t have any choice about it either. I don’t like it any more than you do – well, I might, but I’d have to think about it – anyway, the point is it’s not your fault. But you just keep on and on gloomifying all of these otherwise good scenes with your self-pity and I want to know why!”

“Self pity! Young lady, I—“

“Look Ivan,” the girl had softened her voice and her expression. “Look, I know you’ve been through a lot. I know about Lynessa.”

Ivan’s confusion and curiosity grew with everything the girl said. How did she know about Lynessa?

“Ivan, I know how much you loved her, and I know how much you miss her. Really. I do. But you’re not accomplishing anything by feeling sorry for yourself about it! You’re letting what’s happened to you bog you down and damage your usefulness in The Shield’s service!”

“You know of The Shield too?”

Mary nodded. “I serve Him just like you do. Only where I come from He has a different name.”

That made sense, Ivan supposed. The first thing this Mary character had said since showing up that made sense!

“Look,” Mary said, “Ivan I could stay here and talk to you for hours – there are so many things I’d love to ask you. But I’ll figure them out on my own eventually, and I’ve got to go and get on with the story. The main thing I had to say was – sit down first. You’re too much taller than me.”

Ivan was somewhat startled when he actually obeyed the order. He hadn’t intended to at all.

The girl smiled. “I love having that power. Okay, here’s what I wanted to say, and then I’ll be going:”

Ivan jumped when the girl grabbed him by his shirt collar and shook him.

“Adelphia needs you, Ivan, so stop feeling sorry for yourself! There’s a lot that has to be done in this novel before December 31 and your gloom and doom isn’t helping me get it done! I can’t meet this goal without your cooperation, so get your act together and let’s do this, alright?!”

Ivan was completely incapable of speaking.

Mary let go and smoothed out Ivan’s collar, then straightened and took a deep breath. “Good,” she said, smiling, “I think this has been a great help. Thanks for your time. I’ll see you around. Oh – and that message from Reylan on the table? – you’ll want to open that pretty quickly. It’s from the commander, about troops in the north end of the valley. Tell Gabriel ‘Hey’ for me.”

Mary was gone.

Ivan didn’t move for a minute, looking warily around in case she showed up again. But she didn’t.

Well, he thought, taking a deep breath and shaking his head, he couldn’t waste time wondering about it. After all, there was a lot to be done before December 31 … what in Reyem was December 31?