I Am Where Writers Quit

I am where writers quit.

Writer’s block. Metrics fatigue. The feeling when you’re zoning out after watching too much TV. Whatever you want to call it.

I started writing years ago and restarted last year. Each time I started, the shine of having a place to share my thoughts was amazing. I was always thinking of new ideas and it never stopped. No matter how tired or busy I was, I’d always make the time to write. I was always energized. It’s the closest I’ve ever felt to having a true passion.

But, after my best ideas were published, things slowed down. An article per week turned to an article per month turned to an article per year. It’s not that I didn’t have anything to say, I just couldn’t be bothered to share it. I’m starting to feel the same way again.

There’s an element of shouting into the abyss that’s hard to manage. I tell myself that “I’m writing for myself,” and that’s true, don’t get me wrong, but there’s always a part of my brain that wants more. All writers posting online care about numbers to some degree. You could easily write your thoughts in Word and keep them to yourself, but there’s an itch that, just maybe, people will relate and appreciate what’s on the page. Ironically, I don’t feel better with more subscribers—I squarely feel more self-conscious with more people reading this—but it feels validating. It’s an indication that I’m not outputting absolute garbage.

I think it’s this tension, in part, that drives writers to stop. The writing routine zaps energy, but the feeling of people validating your work is addictive. Watching the total number of subscribers tick up is fun! Unfortunately, the amount of people validating your words thin out; every writer’s fighting for the same attention spans and only a select few win over the long run. The dopamine hits of likes and comments start to feel less substantial. The initial ecstasy of hitting ‘publish’ is long gone by this point. It feels like scraping the bottom of a finished dessert, trying to find lingering morsels to prove that there’s some originality left. Things naturally fizzle out from there.

I’m at the precipice of this. I’ve already written about the big topics I wanted to cover. Interesting life stories have been shared. Some weeks feel like strained attempts to write something remotely palatable. Mundane daily things I’m dealing with now would sound more like whining than anything else.

Comparing myself to others also adds to this. I see other people writing about how writing is their reason d’être. I admire that level of dedication, but that’s far beyond the bubble of consciousness I’m in. Shaping ideas into words is something I’ve always enjoyed, but I don’t need it. If I never wrote again publicly I’d be alright. There’s also a “poor me” mentality that’s been creeping in, which is absolute poison. I see other new writers finding large audiences that resonate with their work, and everything looks amazing for them. In reality, is it really that amazing? I don’t know, but it definitely looks like it. I look at writers way further down the road than myself and part of me thinks that I could never do what they’ve done.

What’s funny is that this train of thought happens in bursts, but each time it lasts a bit longer. I never thought about these things last year. I never even thought about these things when I first started writing. I was writing for the sake of writing, and that was amazing. There were no long term visions of what Factorial Zero could be. What’s even more amusing is that I do have an audience here that’s awesome. I already have the things I once told myself would be enough, but I forgot about that after achieving them.

So, what’s next? I’ll keep my regular publishing cadence of once per week. If I have something really good, I’ll publish something extra. I’m framing the tinge of self-doubt, the existential pragmatism about spending precious hours typing away—questioning if writing is pointless given how many talented people are already out there—as natural blips on the writing journey.