Writing for writing's sake
Or, "how I cope with writer's block."
Sometimes my stomach twists into knots when I think about both the fact that I’ve posted my writing on here at all and, alternatively, the fact that I haven’t posted anything for months. It feels both like exposing myself and betraying myself at once. Like the freedom you feel when you’re drunk, followed by the subsequent crippling anxiety about being too free and showing too much of yourself without the masked illusion of control we all hide behind.
I don’t know what to do with that. But this week I took a page out of my younger self’s playbook — or rather, my diary covered with butterfly stickers and bubbly, gel-penned names of boys who are now men I probably couldn’t carry a single conversation with — and I wrote for the sake of writing. Eloquence became secondary; literal day-by-day shit and spirals were the only goal.
Joan Didion said she wrote to figure out what she thought and how she felt. Something about putting my writing out there on here made me forget how essential that is to my entire being. And something about remembering it/combined with the mid-30s realization that we’re all so fucking embarrassing no matter what we do or don’t do/combined with the nostalgic lyrics of Noah Kahan tugging on my heartstrings — has me open to a public display of immersion therapy no one asked for.
So, here I am metaphorically exposing myself to whoever wants to point and laugh at my naked body (brain), or maybe, just maybe, nod and “mmhmm” along with the mundane musings of another random bitch on planet Earth.
7.12.26
“I want what life was meant to be, not the cage it has become.” — Brianna Pastor
Seeking, seeking, seeking. Why do some things seem so hard? How did I become so good at finding complexity, complications, uncertainty in the simplicity of life? I woke up. I fed my body; I fed my brain; I moved through the world. I went to a party; I mingled; I acted comfortable even when I wasn’t. I had wine, but not too much. I pet dogs. I came home. I snacked, I smoked weed, I watched TV, I walked my dog. I went to sleep. I woke up to pee and take Ibuprofen. I smoked more weed. My dog curled up close to me. I slept. I began again.
Must I record this mundanity to finally see the freedom and calm I’ve created for myself? To finally revel in it instead of running towards racing thoughts that warp the most usual into the unusual, or worse, the downright abnormal? This week, I will no longer write in abstracts but in literals. I’ll make myself face the scariest truth of all — that I already feel free. That I already am free.
7.13.26
Today is both easy and hard.
Easy: because I’m lucky to work from home, with no makeup or hard pants on, in an oversized Lil Wayne t-shirt I thrifted for $5.
Hard: because I feel blase, a bit empty, a bit dead behind the eyes, and like the day got away from me somehow.
Easy: because I have the freedom to have days like this without everything going to shit.
Easy: because I’ve become better at taking care of myself even when my energy isn’t in it. In the past, I couldn’t have imagined still eating, still getting work done, still going on a long walk with my dog. I did all those things, but I DON’T want to do the dishes. I DON’T want to shower. I DON’T want to work out. And I DO have symptoms of sciatica surging through my left leg again. Am I subconsciously glad to have this reason to skip working out? I don’t know, but I know I can’t imagine, in this very moment, in this very mood, feeling “happy” about it either way.
Sometimes depression seeps into me so unexpectedly and unnervingly that I don’t notice my lack of appetite for existence dwindling until the most basic needs seem pointless or, alternatively, indulgent: “It’s Monday. Who cares if I work out? Who cares if I eat dinner? Who cares if I do the fucking dishes?” But I think, and I hope, I might find life returning to my bones and brain, and tomorrow I’ll care enough to make up for today … or maybe even to let days and moods like this off easy — a free pass that doesn’t need to be stamped or validated; a reality that doesn’t need to be assessed or overanalyzed. A human existence that doesn’t need to prove its worth to the world, and most especially to myself.
Addendum: I showered, I did the dishes, I ate dinner.
7.14.26
It’s a heat-warning type of day, and I hate that. I think I hate the heat more than the freezing. It feels oppressive, suffocating, jailing. The bitter cold might keep you in, but it feels cozy, quaint, warranted.
I worked out today, despite my malaise and potential sciatica flare-up. It makes me feel 40 to say “sciatica flare-up”…But in five years, I’ll actually be 40 and probably dreaming of fewer aches and pains. I keep trying to remember that “these are the good old days, now” quote that I forget who said.
Last night, I got emotional and weepy watching a show about women’s friendships over different phases of life and old loves from youth and simpler times. I am in current love and surrounded by, or in touch with, friendships from various phases of life. Yet, I felt an ache for how the future me may long for this moment, this reality. One where I am free to wake up slow, in a quiet home, with a young, healthy dog’s warmth beside me. One where I can take my time walking said dog and having coffee and listening to the scariest news from a place of safety and security. Where I can open my laptop and access my livelihood, then take breaks to make chilaquiles and read more.
Soon, I will go to Patrick’s for dinner and a movie. We’ll gossip and laugh together and plan more times to gossip and laugh together. I’ll come home, and it will feel nice to be greeted by my dog before we say goodnight to another day, drift off into another dimension of dreams and cellular repair; before another day that is fully mine to know what to do with.
7.17.26
I drank a whole bottle of Montepulciano last night. I find comfort in the fact that I’m saying this as a confession, something out of the norm and not a regular occurrence like it used to be. It’s now something I think about, weighing the moment, the setting, my headspace. I no longer drown in the bottle like I’m sinking into oblivion. It may seem like a stretch, but to tiptoe in and out of oblivion with intention is coming a long way for me. And today, and these days, it’s become easier to see myself as whole, even when I take a break from trying so hard; even when I give in to vices. Because I’m taking my own hand, being my own shaman into the abyss of an altered state, going on my own trip, for my own sake; writing about it for writing’s sake.
I’m no longer speeding away from myself at full throttle.
Good to see you back. Keep writing for you.
Loved the grittiness, you've inspired to think about doing something like this too. Love this - "she wrote to figure out what she thought and how she felt" - that's definitely why I write too.