when i can't write...

from existential dread to surrender

Hello dear ones! Just wanna give y’all two reminders. Today, from 3-4:30pm, is our monthly DIARY CLUB meet up. The theme is AUTHENTICITY. Learn more here! And orders for this month’s CARE MAIL close on July 31st. Check it out here. xoxo

---

I’m a writer. It is how I process ideas, feelings, dreams, traumas. And, there are periods of time where I just can’t write. Sometimes, I’m in a pain flare up and physically incapable of the act of writing. Other times, I’m too deep in menty b land to string a sentence together. And a lot of the time, I’m simply just tired. The creative fire is alive inside of me, but I do not have the will to tend to it.

These periods of time feel like death. Yes, I’m being hyperbolic. And, it’s also true. Without a creative project (or 10) to tend to, I feel lost. Who am I if I’m not creating? is a question that plays on loop, followed by What if I never create again? I’m an artist — of course, I’m melodramatic.

And, when you’re a human whose livelihood comes from writing, this is not only an existentially tortuous place to be — it’s financially a big, big problem. I become desperate, almost feral. I comb through my journals looking for inspiration, flipping the pages with equal parts desperation and revulsion, convinced there’s nothing there. Then, I turn outwards. Open my phone to Instagram and scroll. I see so much creativity, so much to inspire, and still — nothing.

Eventually, I realize that there is nothing left to do but to submit. I know that I cannot be endlessly creating. At some point, I must rest. Yes, I’m a writer. And, I’m also a human being — and one who has to contend with a chronically ill body that has more limitations than others. Rest is not antithetical to creation. It’s a necessary part to surviving as a creative. And the more I resist it, the more I suffer. So, here’s what it’s looking like for me these days, because healing isn’t linear and I continue to move through this cycle.

When I can’t write (a non-exhaustive list):

• I resist, bemoan, and add suffering on top of my pain

• I search my archives, hoping to find something, anything

• I doomscroll on social media, hoping to find something, anything

• I do not find anything / I find everything and feel so overwhelmed that I shut down

• I think about every project that I could be working on right now

• I come up with entirely new projects that I have no energy or capacity to create in this moment, as a treat

• I cry, my fate decided: I shall never write again

• I write about not being able to write

• I stew in my ennui a little bit more because don’t writers love suffering???

• I decide I don’t want to be that kind of writer, that I want to choose softness over suffering

• I submit to my fate: okay, I will rest

• I read, and remember how much I love reading

• I make existential, cringey art that I love (see above)

• I start to write this list

• I go for a walk and remember that nature also has periods of rest and i am nature and so i too need rest

• I take a nap

• I make a silly little collage out of images saved on my phone (see below)

• I sit and just look at my cats

• I drink a glass of water

• I grow tired of making this list

• I debate posting this

• I breathe, I breathe, I breathe

---

❤︎ Wanna support me / this writing or just say thanks without becoming a paid subscriber? You can send a tip via Venmo, PayPal, or through my website. Every $ truly does help sustain me.

❤︎ Looking for ways to connect offline? Join my mail club: CARE MAIL is a monthly snail mail offering to support your healing. July’s theme is PLEASURE and you’ll receive a 5x7 print featuring Miss Piggy, a sticker, handwritten letter + mini-zine!

❤︎ Want some support with your writing? Check out Partial Accounts: A Guide for Writers Living With Trauma.

❤︎ My book Touch Me, I’m Sick: A Memoir in Essays is out now and you can read an excerpt in LitHub here and another in TIME Magazine.