What if I Never Write Again?

I don't want to let it happen.

May 12, 2025

For the past year to two years, I put on my comfiest sweatpants, wrap a blanket around my shoulders like my own personal superhero cape, and I pull my computer into my lap. I check my email. I maybe look over Substack to see what others are up to or if I have received a comment or reply to anything which always makes me more than a little thrilled. Then, I go to open up my Word document to peer over what I have been writing last.

I freeze.

My heart starts to pound in my chest. My brain starts to go haywire. I read and re-read the words that I have written last, sometimes days, sometimes weeks, sometimes even a year ago. My fingers hover over the keyboard and I feel like I could start to cry amid the panic.

No words come.

Tears, sometimes do.

I shut my computer and try to find something else to do. I bake another loaf of bread that requires my complete attention to remember to let rise after stretching and folding in perfect increments to advance the gluten production. I attempt to read— until that feels bad too, reminding me of the stories I’ve so desperately wanted to write and yet can’t because I feel like I am dying when I sit down to write.

Though I start to feel like I am dying without writing.

I decide to make muffins this time instead of bread with the frozen blueberries I have in the freezer, just to keep things interesting.

I wonder if I still can call myself a writer. Or at least, the kind of writer I want to be. Each time I open up my document or think about all the plans I had to write this year or even the next, I feel like a piece of the biggest part of my identity slowly is ripped away, piece by piece until whenever I think about writing, there is a painful void.

I wonder if I, or writing, will ever feel like how it used to. Or at least a version of it. I wonder what caused this. I wonder if it was all the disappointment. The perfectionism I put on myself to not let that disappointment happen again. Self-doubt that I will ever be able to find my readers or even be able to bread free of this terrible grief of what I know I could be.

I have tried everything from journaling, taking the time for my brain to rest, attempting to read the books I love (some of the painful reminders oddly enough of the things that made me so happy to call myself a writer once), taking long walks, complaining (too much), and even forcing the words onto the page leaving me feel weak and unhappy as I continue to be unable to find the joy or even the pleasure of seeing a some decent sentence making its way onto the page.

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I just don’t understand it. How can one day I be writing and the next (post Call You Mine, I still believe), the joy and determination feels like it is slowly be drained out of your body?

I’m not ready to give up writing. It hurts too much to think the thing that made me the most me wants to give up on me.

So, are we going to try one more time?

Because I guess, that seems like I should, and maybe I need the accountability to do it with you all as I put together some of the final tips I’ve already tried or haven’t tried yet in order to rebuild the writing life.

Ready? We’re going to…

Write badly on purpose.

Or attempt to. It’s difficult. More than you’d think.

But, give yourself permission to write nonsense, clichés, or even vent your frustration. You can call it a warm-up, a brain dump, or even just random writing—but make it something where quality does not matter.

You’re greasing the wheels via journaling or even here on Substack (paid subscribers, look out for some random short short stories perhaps in the future that may make little to no sense— or just more of my complaining ;) ).

Lower the bar. A lot.

Don’t start with writing a book or even a short story each day you manage to sit down. Start with a paragraph, a sentence, a list of thoughts, or even a single image that stays with you. Reconnecting with the act of writing is more important than the result right now.

Talk to your fear.

If you feel resistance, try writing from that feeling: “Right now, I feel like a complete disappointment and writerly fraud because…” or “I’m afraid to write because…” Let that fear become the subject for a while. It often shrinks when brought into the light, or so I am hoping. I feel like this would be a good spot to go back to tip number one and journalling.

Ritual over results.

Set a ritual. Not a goal.

Sit down at the same time each day or week, and simply open your notebook or document, even if you don’t write. It’s about building trust with yourself again.