On not writing

This has been one of those weeks where the words won’t come. Maybe it’s the heat and the humidity, maybe it’s the rough month I’ve been having, maybe it’s stress over money, and maybe it’s all of those things.

Sometimes, when I can’t write, I have to write about not being able to write to break through whatever block I’ve thrown in my own path (and it always is of my own design, unless I have a migraine, and that’s a different problem).

Not being able to write, not feeling like I’m adequately describing the story I see in my mind or the reasons I believe this or that, feels a lot like being stuck in a pressure cooker. All of those words build up and get hotter and hotter, but there’s nowhere for them to go. They’re stuck inside, and they can’t get out until I find the release valve.

When I don’t write, I start to feel stale, like week-old bread. I begin to harden, to lose my elasticity. I get irritable and discontent.

The best weeks and months are those when I get a steady pattern going: wake up at 6 a.m., eat breakfast, write for an hour or a half hour, then play with my dogs and get ready for work. It doesn’t even have to be every day. It can be three days out of five.

The worst weeks are ones like this one: too much stress over money, school, and the future, too little sleep, and hardly any writing. Weeks like this make me want to quit my job out of sheer frustration and become a full-time freelance writer—something I am capable of doing, certainly, but that doesn’t make the most sense for me right now.

Once I pick up a pen and drag it across a fresh sheet of paper—even to write about not being able to write—I remember why I love my job. Why a 9-5 actually works incredibly well for me. And most importantly, why I’ve built this life around the written word.

And then I can breathe again. Soon enough, the words flow.

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