How to deal with not writer’s block …

I feel a bit trapped inside this … liminal? … space. If you’re a writer, I’m sure you’re familiar with this … feeling? It’s not writer’s block, as you can see, since I’m writing this here piece right now. If you’re not a writer, then I’m not sure why you’d care at all. And if you are a writer who is familiar with this “feeling” about which I’m currently writing, I’m sure you have your own sort of name for it. If you don’t and you don’t, it’s fine. I’m fine with being the only person who experiences this sorta thing.

It’s something entirely different from writer’s block. It’s like, you’re waiting for the thoughts on your thoughts to rise so that you can write about the risen thoughts. A lot of back-burning is happening, and so it’s inaccessible to the voice in my head. I’m waiting for a train to arrive. Just waiting.

It’s not like I’m out of ideas-that’s how I’d categorize writer’s block. For me, writer’s block is something of a myth because I’ve never worked as a writer, in the technical sense of professional writing (I do consider my writing my work, but it’s not “work” in the sense that I get paid to show up and write for someone. I also do not consider myself a writer. I categorize myself as an artist [with two degrees in the subject] whose medium of choice is words on paper, followed closely by photography, which has recently morphed into videography). Thus, this is not a writer’s block situation. Plus, if I were suffering from writer’s block, I’d simply go on a writing date with the bodybuddy/lifemate, and we’d do a bunch of speed writing sessions … like literally, two-second writing prompts … amounts of time too short for my own mind to get in the way, etc.

What it is, for me, is that I feel like I’m just waiting around for my back-burning brain to spit out a conclusion or the nutgraph. I usually become a productive reader during these periods of back-burning, and depending on the time of year, I’ll participate in activities that require the use of my hands, like crocheting, sewing, painting, etc. Right now, though, I’m just happily waiting around because I’m a bit tired these days. I forget to remind myself that I’m surviving a pandemic, that we’re all surviving a pandemic. It’s more than enough to do the bare minimum these days. There’s no need to feel as though I need to excel, that I need to be productive. I am more able to really understand the meaning of soaking up life while you’re living it-that pernicious thing called mindfulness, I suppose.

When I was a young, ambitious writer, I used to wrack my mind for things to write about, and I had the ardent goal to never really say anything at all. I kid you not; I swear on the grave of whomever is most inappropriate. I sought to write and write and write without ever actually saying anything. I practiced this. I am 10K+ hours into the practice of writing about shit without saying anything meaningful or purposeful at all, to not come to conclusions, to not express an opinion. I have no idea whether or not I was successful; I am merely revealing my intentions as a young, largely ignorant, aspiring thought provocateur. If I were a betting woman, I’d say that I was largely unsuccessful as writing is a specific kind of art that readily reveals the intelligence of the artist. The use of language, one could argue, is the ultimate test of one’s human intelligence.


Never-the-less (and honestly, I don’t ever use “nevertheless” afk because it’s pretentious, but then we [the bodybuddy/lifemate and I] looked into the Spider-Man: Into The Spider-Verse soundtrack recently [yes, we still watch the movie from time to time because it’s ephing awesome] because those moments in the movie when Miles Morales sings that song “Sunflower” by Post Malone and Swae Lee, I am filled with so much joy I giggle for hours, and after viewing the song’s video on the Tube, the lyrics gave me a new appreciation for “nevertheless,” as an element of writing), I have no point here because, like I’m trying to explain by writing about it while experiencing it (feeling like Neo in the looped, underground station), the IT of this writing is that I’m in that liminal space where I must wait for the next words to pop into my head with regards to the shit that I’ve been mulling and thinking about lately, which includes but is not limited to: my father’s emotional distance due to being a Vietnam Vet riddled with largely untreated PTSD, which is why he most likely escaped so often into exercise nad books (as opposed to booze, luckily for us), but it makes me sad that he didn’t include me in this part of his life-his reading life; why fucking James fucking-fuck-faced fucking-dick-fuck Corden is a fucking fuck but to even waste my breath is a waste of breath, so I shant; some thoughts on capitalism after reading a 700+ page tome on the Ages of Capitalism; and my thoughts on “poetry,” as I’ve recently come to realize that the simple rebranding of my “thoughts” as poetry has really given my “stats” an empirically exponential boost, etc.

So, until my brain’s ready to shit out those longer-form thoughts, I hope you enjoy my “poetry,” as I find the process (and prospect) of being poetic, very fun.

Originally published at on September 22, 2021.

time-traveling bromide / thought-thinker / word-worker / choice-architect & bamf posing as a do-gooder