I am experiencing writer’s block right now, but more than that: I want to write, I make time to write, I sit down to write, and instead of nothing coming out, a whole bunch of crap comes out, pages and pages of it, and I don’t transcribe it from notebook to disk because it’s That Bad.

I have read books that are supposed to help me with this, like Bird by Bird, On Writing, The War of Art, and Writing from the Inside Out. I even started to re-read The Art of Fiction. I’ve meditated, I’ve exercised, I’ve gotten up early, I’ve stayed up late, I’ve stuck to a routine, I’ve been flexible. It boils down to this: I cannot finish a story. I cannot end something. I do not have a logical place for it to go, a path, a direction, a feeling, a genre.

I keep wondering if I should be writing another genre entirely, in order to say what I want to say, or if I should quit, because I really don’t know what it is I want to say. I just love to write. Is that ever enough? Does a writer need an overarching message that she wants to communicate to the world?

I believe this is an existential crisis. No worries; I’ll be back to normal shortly. Wait: this is normal. Aw, hell.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.