Writer’s block—had me in a chokehold
Imagine not being able to do the one thing you always thought you were meant to do.
As I sit down to write this, it has been over a year since I last wrote something that wasn’t intended for a grade in my master’s degree. At one point in this dreadful period of empty creative promises, I almost let imposter syndrome win over me. I had kind of convinced myself that maybe… I’m just not a writer. Maybe I was fooling myself all along with the 40+ bylines I’d done and freelance editorial work I had been doing for years where I repeatedly immersed myself in writing — and enjoyed it too.
Thoughts are a funny thing, you know. Funny yet dangerous too. If you give into every single one, you’re done for. Because they will convince you that you are a gigantic loser with no redemption or hope whatsoever.
That’s what my worst nightmare, a phenomenon every writer dreads with their entire being, had done to me.
Writer’s block had me completely convinced that writing just isn’t for me. That all my experiences producing the written word so far in my life had been a hoax or by chance and I just wasn’t “cut up” for this. Especially, and unfortunately, for me, in the context of my creative writing pursuits. Ironically, this was the one form of writing that provided me with some level of anchoring in an otherwise chaotic, often burdensome reality.
Now, I wouldn’t entirely deem myself clinically unstable as yet for creating an entire world inside my head wherein I wasn’t fit to be a writer despite multiple experiences (and acknowledgements) proving otherwise. There were tangible reasons behind this. Countless pitches rejected or ghosted by editors, multiple bad experiences with people who just simply did not believe in the art of creatively weaving words. People who’d rather stick to what’s known rather than explore a new way of doing things.
Besides my struggles with freelancing and creative differences in the editorial field, I’d also let comparison plague me to the point of no return. Repeatedly I found myself comparing my progress with other writers, regardless of who they were, how old they were and how far along they were in their creative endeavours. I would idealise other writers and berate myself for not being like someone who may have had an obvious advantage over me (privilege or otherwise) and may have been better skilled or experienced than me. It wasn’t fair. But then again, what in life truly is?
Anxiety knows no logic or reasoning, and neither did my writer’s block. I don’t blame anyone in all this though. Especially not myself — not anymore.
In all honesty, while all of this was going on (gestures vaguely to all that was mentioned above); my mental health had been on a gradual decline post-2020 too. Having lived through the pandemic like every one of you reading this, I’d also experienced grief and loss in ways I couldn’t quite put into words. Which was ironic for me as a writer.
I’d somehow lost a part of me I used to be before this harrowing experience and that left me completely hapless. I simply couldn’t create anymore. The one thing I’d always considered my weapon of choice–words–rendered meaningless to me.
Another change I noticed in myself during this time was that I’d been reading significantly less too, be it books or articles. The same me who could finish a 450-page book at the age of 15 within a day but couldn’t read a single book for months on end? My entire being was thrown off track and I was trying to pick up the pieces while coping with academic responsibilities and disgruntling adult commitments. Doesn’t seem like a very relaxing combination, does it?
My writer’s block led to me feeling self-destructive and depressed (I have had a diagnosis in the past BTW), which in turn worsened the writer’s block and the vicious cycle just continued. Therefore, the only writing I truly got done was the written essays I somehow completed to manage a grade every semester in a sleepless daze of academic stress and frustration for my master’s.
Lucky for me, and you, I decided to take agency back at some point a couple of months back and return to therapy. I needed to get my shit together and I needed to escape this void I’d dug myself into. Thanks to externally internalised circumstances.
Am I implying therapy is the reason you’ve seen an original (and semi-creative) piece from yours truly in over a year? Absolutely. Will there be more? Highly likely.
I still don’t know what the exact point of this piece was. I did not want to justify why I was away, I know nobody cared enough to know. Yet I wanted there to be a piece (by me) talking about how exasperating writer’s block can be. So here it was. Hope you liked it. It’s okay if you didn’t.