I Don't Belong Here.

I haven’t been writing a lot lately.

Actually, that’s not true. I’ve been writing a butt-ton. Just this week, I’ve put nearly 8,000 words on the page—in the form of articles, newsletters, LinkedIn posts, tweets (X’s?), and Instagram captions.

It’s just that none of those words have been for me.

I’ve dreamed of being a full-time writer for my entire life, since Gary Paulson and RL Stein grabbed me by the throat and I realized that I could tell stories for a living.

Now that I’m doing it—actually getting PAID to write—I realize how fucking hard it is.

I’ve always known that writing isn’t the romantic thing it’s often portrayed as. I mean, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love the image of Hemingway strolling the banks of the Seine, jotting down ideas in his notebook that he’ll soon transform into iconic novels. But the reality is that, as Stephen King wrote in his memoir, On Writing, a lot of the time it’s more akin to digging a ditch or driving a truck. Sure I guess there’s an art to digging a good ditch, but for the most part it’s mechanical and repetitive and fucking agonizing.

I like my job. I do. I’m proud of the work I’m creating for my clients. But when you use all of your words for other people, you often go to the well for your own work and find that it’s dry.

Even when I DO force myself to put my butt in the chair and my fingers on the keys, I hate everything that comes out. It’s this weird sophomore slump thing, where I feel like nothing I write is as good as my previous stuff. The jokes aren’t funny or the writing is too stiff or nobody’s going to care.

It’s so flattering when people ask me when my next book is going to be done, but it’s also scary. What if it sucks? What if they say “it’s fine, but it’s not as good as the last one.” I mean, how did the fucking Beatles write an album after Sgt. Pepper’s?

So those are the reasons why I haven’t been writing. And when I see them written down like this, I realize how dumb they sound. Because it’s like, shut up and get over it.

One thing my writer friends have been saying to me a lot lately when I tell them about this is “it’s okay, give yourself some grace.” And I do feel a little solace in that advice, but at what point does the grace period expire? It’s been nine months since I published a blog post or newsletter. 

When does grace become something else?

All of this to say, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for letting insecurity or fear or imposter syndrome or insert psychological bullshit label here get the best of me. I want to do better.

I want to find the fun in writing again. I’m trying, I promise.

It’s really hard to try and start up the machine after letting it sit for so long. I feel like I’m an old Pontiac that sat in the driveway for five years and the engine won’t turn over.

But I guess I’ve gotta start somewhere. At least my key’s in the ignition.