You can say to yourself, "Hey, I don't want to write today."
Throw in an excuse or two.
I'm tired. I've been working all day. I don't feel like it. My hands hurt. Whatever. There's always one that's good enough and one that's totally honest and reasonable.
And, it doesn't matter.
You could also say fuck it. I'm writing.
And then, you write. You describe anything.
It's raining out today. The ground will be soft and the weeds vulnerable. They're submissive. The ground is compliant. The rain was designed for people who like to pull weeds.
I grew up in the Central Valley of California. In the summer, it's hot and dry. Weeds. I remember lots and lots of weeds. My mom must have been too young to know about habits. If she had, she would have ensured I was out there every morning.
Pull one weed
I can imagine her saying, just pull one weed, then come back in and grab breakfast.
Pretty soon, it'd be how many weeds can you pull in 30 seconds?
Then, she could ramp it up to a minute or two. Then, just pull one square foot worth of weeds. If we had even 500 square feet of weeds ( unlikely ) they'd all be pulled within a few months. Why? It'd start to become a challenge. My endurance would improve. My ability to focus and grab the weeds just right would kick in. I'd employ a tool and gloves and lemonade. With each iteration I'd improve. My pride would swell commensurate with my skill.
I'd be the weed champion.