Sometimes I Don't Know What To Say

Work words vs. magic words

my daughter, spinning

People speak of writer’s block as if it’s something inevitable. Like rhinovirus, if you hang around the Dave & Buster’s long enough, you’re bound to catch it — and there’s no pill you can take that ends your misery faster. You can rend your garments and shout at the sky, but you’ll still have to wait it out.

I’ve never believed that. When people say they’ve got writer’s block, I often say, “I’ve been a staff writer, I don’t believe in writer’s block.”

Snide? Yes. Tempting the gods? Perhaps. But you can’t have writers’ block when writing is how you pay your bills. A mechanic doesn’t get “oil change block” or “brake pad fatigue”, so how can a writer — a person who writes for a living — suddenly find herself incapable of doing her job? You’re a writer, sit down and write.

I still believe this to be true for me, at least when it comes to the type of content I’ve written as a staff writer. Need me to whip up a branded post that sells magnetic eyelashes in exactly 650 words without ever mentioning the word “magnet”? I’m on it, Boss. An SEO-focused list of 99 Ways To Show A Kid Love? Sure, let’s do this.

That kind of writing is an oil change, a tire rotation, a simple change of the cabin air filter.

But what I’ve given to you all, here? The essays about accepting my aging face and my resentment at the ways moms are expected to always be happy? Those flow into my brain like magic, I don’t even have to turn on the faucet. The words are always moving through my mind, and writing an essay is just about getting them into a document and edited into something you all can (hopefully) understand.

All of this is meant to acknowledge that I haven’t published a Substack essay in over two weeks.

I assume you haven’t noticed. I know I wouldn’t notice if one of the Substacks I follow didn’t send something, and thusly I take comfort in knowing you, dear reader, probably didn’t miss me.

But I miss it. I miss the chatter in my brain that feels like something you all might like to read, that feels like something I could share in the first place. But the stories that are flowing into my mind aren’t ones I can put here. They’re disjointed, incomplete and messy and they involve other people who don’t put their business into essays.

The thoughts running through my mind are vulnerable and honest ramblings about my fear of failing at the sorts of things that matter: motherhood, being a wife, being true to myself. They don’t have conclusions or any underlying messages.

I know there’s value in sharing all of that, in sharing life’s struggles and the inner-workings of complicated brains. I love when other people say too much, but you’d be surprised how disorienting it is to read someone’s unformed, unstructured ramblings — no matter how much you may relate to them. Just ask anyone who regularly texts with me!

So hang in there with me, on this. I’ve got a fun parenting-themed “girl power” type of article for you later this week, something easy and fun. There may even be some very exciting career-based news soon, too. And the essays will flow once again, someday, when they’re ready.

In the meantime, a song. Just for fun.