Writer's Block at the End of the World

What is there to say when there's too much happening?

Vibes. Via Pinterest.

There’s a lot happening. The state of both the U.S—and the world at large—is overwhelming at best and devastating at worst. My email inbox is nothing but bad news sprinkled in with the occasional local election that’s gone the way I want. Democracy is disintegrating before our eyes as the country leans deeper and deeper into fascism. There are so many awful things transpiring that it’s hard to keep up and even harder to feel like you’re doing your part to try to combat the overwhelming evil swallowing up our days.

No one asked me to write about our current political climate. In fact, I don’t think anyone wants that. I once penned a pseudo-think piece about Sen. Bernie Sanders during his second presidential bid and contributed to the Trinity Tripod’s election issue, but that’s where my career as a pundit started and finished.

People come to me, or rather Bits & Pieces, for reviews and silly essays. I write about pickles, beer, and AMC Theaters. I talk about when I peed the bed twice in one year and the relationship between weird pets and their owners (R.I.P. Leon the Lobster.) I’m not breaking the latest news, nor am I rewriting The Power Broker. I’m pursuing a pathetic, 2020s version of “Gonzo” that would make Hunter S. Thompson shake his head in disappointment. I love to do what my uncle calls, “making shit up.”

Yet, I’ve run out of shit to say. I have no creativity. I’ve picked at my brain for any take on the entertainment world: the Oscars, new musical releases, the latest season of Yellowjackets, etc.. I’m not asking my brain to conjure profound ideas about global catastrophies, I’m merely asking to write something. If I want to be a critic, don’t I need an opinion?

Maybe, I can blame movie studios. This year has had slim pickings for good movies, but it’s well known that January and February are notorious times for slumps. I should’ve anticipated this. Maybe, I can blame the algorithms for not pushing new music my way, but a stack of fresh press releases in my email say otherwise. I should be listening, but I’m not. Maybe, no television show has sparked my interest and drawn me in quite like Succession. There remains a Kendall Roy-shaped hole in my heart, but I should be filling it.

Perhaps I’m self-aggrandizing, but I think I can write a decent sentence or two. Sometimes, I’d dare to say I cook with gas. Right now? I’m rubbing two sticks together desperately trying to produce the tiniest of sparks. Things have gotten so desperate that I’m patting myself on the back for writing these six paragraphs.

Unlike most of my Substacks, I have nothing to offer this time around. I’ve written this piece partially for my two paying subscribers to at least sort-of get their money’s worth. To those subscribers, thank you so much for having faith in me.

I find it hard to feel anything but anger, sadness, and dismay. When devastation is all around, why bother writing something that feels so deeply unserious? I should be writing about fixing the housing crisis or repairing international relations, but the trivial is all I know. Silliness is the sharpest tool in my arsenal, but right now, I’ve neither bits nor pieces to offer.

How can I define myself as a “writer,” yet having nothing to write? I proudly tote the label in my Instagram bio, but haven’t put out a Substack in months. My ideas list in my notes app is empty. If someone put a gun to my head and demanded me to name a subject I’d like to cover, I’d be dead. I spent my whole life pursuing a career that can feel impossible despite requiring nothing more than a pen. I don’t need to know complicated equations or life-saving medicine. I simply need to put an idea on paper, and I can’t even do that.

Unlike most posts, this Substack does not have a final message. I don’t have a moral or opinion to share. I merely offer this as a love letter to those suffering from writer’s block. This, too, shall pass—but when?