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I have, quite possibly, the worst case of writer's block ever. I've recently become passionate about the subject of play, but finding a way to get it onto the page has been next to impossible. I've sat down to write on a number of different days and come up with nothing but a growing stack of blank pages.

I've brainstormed and outlined, but really I want to play with the subject itself, and maybe that's part of the problem. It's hard, as an adult, to tell your brain ok, go. Now, play!

Play is the sort of thing that, when it happens naturally, seems to sneak up sort of sideways.

There are tricky ways around this vagueness, and – strangely, since play feels so anarchic in action – most of them seem to involve setting arbitrary limits.

For example: Let's be a family of ants. Kick the ball wherever you want, but don't touch it with your hands. You play the guitar and I'll play the piano. Whatever, it doesn't really matter, though usually the more different the better.

Mostly we just have to throw out the normal rules that convince us that what we're doing isn't play. You can totally say I'm turning off all the rules now, but try it and see whether that really makes you feel playful.

Changing the rules is one of those sneaky sideways things. After you agree to the change, whatever happens next is play. Today what happened is I finally wrote some words about play, and for once I don't hate them.