Hi, I’m Sam, and I am terrible at writing.

Okay, so I wrote a book. Sure. But how often do I write each day? A few minutes? Do I even do that much? Author or not, can I even consider myself a writer if I can’t write for even a few minutes each day?

I have been reflecting a lot on my blog, and how it isn’t really a blog anymore. I started the blog as a way to keep writing, to train myself to write even if a story’s well dried up. I used to consistently write a post per week, and then I switched to every other week — I was taking too much time away from the real writing, I told myself — and now, I post maybe once a month, or when I feel like it.

And that’s just… not great.

The blog was supposed to keep me refined. In shape. And instead, it made me tired. That says more about the structure I gave for the goal, and not the actual goal. If I were to do it right, the goal would give me fuel… the idea being, if I’m not writing every day, then I’m not going to feel inspired to write every day, whether it’s blog posts, screenplays, novels, or even basic journal entries. Writing begets writing. It’s an addiction, but it is one of the few addictions that needs persistence and effort to remain addicted.

So.

Reasons I don’t write:

I don’t know what to write.
I feel like anything I have to say is too self-deprecating.
I feel like anything I have to say is not applicable to anyone else.
I have something to say, but don’t know how to say it.
I don’t know what to write.
I don’t know what to write.

These are excuses.

Too self-deprecating? That’s why rough drafts exist. I go to therapy — I know how to catch myself and correct myself. I know (most of the time) when my thoughts are just in my head and not in reality.

Not applicable? Bullshit. The entire reason, Sam, that you hit “publish” on 80% of your previous blogs was not because you felt it was applicable, but because you wanted to be honest, and if even one person connected with it, then that was an added benefit. If it’s not applicable (which it probably is), then write it anyway and stop worrying about how many people read your posts.

You don’t know how to say what you want to say? That’s literally how art works. You try to say what you want to say, and sometimes that message is properly conveyed, and if it isn’t, then people will still interpret it to fit their needs. We always do. We are creatures of meaning… If it doesn’t make sense, we’ll make sense of it. So perhaps we’ll make a different sense than the original intentions, but who the hell cares? We’re reacting, and we’re engaging.

You don’t know what to write?

Ah. Here’s the tricky one.

I always have fallback stories that I can work on when I get stuck and don’t know what to write, but that doesn’t always help if the thing I get stuck on is that story, or all the stories. And if I intend to just write something, even if it’s not a story, if I just want to train myself to put something on proverbial paper, then I have to get past the idea that I don’t have anything to write about. My life is not that interesting, she says, feeling tangentially like a Michel Gondry character. Which sparks a little hope, right? We always have something to talk about, even if we don’t think it’s worth the effort.

So, I sit here, making a list of things that have caught my attention, “wasted” my time, engaged me, and otherwise given me fuel in the past few months.

DIY house projects.
Moss, and all the facts I can uncover about it.
Looking at past work and making note of personal growth and areas to work on.
Making clothing, and discovering my personal fashion potential.
Personal finances.
Perspectives.
Character arcs in Netflix shows.
My cat.
Sustainability and ecological autonomy.
Studying the amount of time it takes for society to learn a thing and then apply it, and being hopeful for the future, even if there’s not much hope for the current day. And realizing and accepting my pessimism.

These are things that interest me, and that, if I really wanted to, I could write about. That I should write about. So why not? Why do I not write about these things? The answer to that is that I am lazy, and I have fallen out of addiction to writing, and it has made my life less fulfilled.

(Again, I realize and accept my pessimism. And with that acceptance, I counter with a goal to do something about it, and change my behavior, and strive to renew my addiction, and feel fulfilled once more. And yes, I’m ending this post with a parenthetical.)