The Anxious Writer’s Letter

The pressure to create is staggering. The clock is tickin’ and the audience is waiting. The lights are burning too hot, the pen is giving dirty looks, the empty page is a mockery.

It’s time to shine, and what do I have to show? Nothing.

Because I’m not a machine. (Nor an AI)

I can’t even begin to fathom how some writers do it, but I, cannot write daily. Cannot produce the quantity of content to stay afloat. And quality, is too often overlooked.

I write poetry about movements of echoes, and short stories where someone always dies tragically. I write about social injustice, and the lack of justice I allow my own self.

But regardless of the turmoil I’ll put myself through, I am not a machine. I cannot crank out the next hit, or even the next chapter, or EVEN the next word sometimes.

Sometimes, I just produce written silence.

The written effect of a pause, the sigh of resignation. Sometimes, I just don’t write.

I don’t always have something to say, and even more so, I don’t always want to say something.

Lips stitched shut, a pen without ink.

And I both applaud and pity the writer who can do it. Who can write daily, about anything and everything. I see you. I see you daily doing what I struggle to do even monthly.

And I know it’s not a competition.

But gosh, being a writer in this day and age is a marathon. There’s just so much out there. And who’s to even say I’m worth anyone’s time? Who says my words, my thoughts, my ideas, are worth it?

If a writer published a book and no one bothers to read it, did they even write?

So I write half eaten poems, and silly stories with way too much inner monologue. I scatter my words among friends and strangers, and hope that when the story dust settles, someone might want more.

But I see you, I see how you garner viral views and followers. I see how your content is sometimes empty, yet your wallet fattens. And I wonder, how do you have the energy? How do you have the discipline? The time?

I try to rationalize my lack of content (compared to yours) and blame it on working a full time job. I try to rationalize my lack of discipline by saying I’m busy “adulting”. But are those just excuses? Could I be doing more? Doing better?

I’d like to think so, just to keep a growing mindset and try to find some justice in myself.

But on the longer nights and even longer days, I might doubt myself completely. I might say, “what’s the point of trying?”

But,

On the sunny days, the days where my wife does my hair and I cook a magnificent dinner,

I might some find solace in the idea of maybe.

Like on Sunday mornings, when there’s a peace in each hushed movement. And the sun is taking its time exposing the world. It’s in those moments, where I might sit and allow myself to just float into the page. In that moment, anything is possible, anything could be said.

And deep inside my essence, I find the words and I find the stories. I hope you’ll find solace in them as I have.

For now though, I will keep chewing on these half baked letters and consider what I can write to you about. Maybe when I hit this writer’s block wall again, I’ll read this and write about sword fighting pens. And maybe I can set myself a comfy bed to fall back on when the anxiety of productivity strikes again.

Maybe.